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M For Montreal: Day Two

11:18 a.m. · November 19, 2010 · by Andrew Winistorfer

Since I arrived in Montreal, I’ve been asked a couple times what the big difference between America and Canada, specifically Quebec and Montreal, is, and honestly, the only difference I can come up with is that no one here seems to think about Kanye West at all. Before I left to come up here, Kanye was the easy cultural discussion point in every social situation. My grocery store clerk and I talked about his Today Show thing. My co-workers and I talked about the leaked My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. And it seemed like the Prefix news feed was swallowed whole by Kanye news.

Here, no one seems to care, nonetheless talk, about Kanye. A few Canadians told me that hip-hop is something people sort of just appreciate from afar up here. They enjoy it, but they don’t interact with it much. A journalist from the Netherlands told me that indie people in his part of Europe just generally hate the guy. It makes sense, I guess. He’s a distinctly American phenomenon. Maybe the American media machine can only go so far. 

Oh, and also people speak French here. On to the night's recap:

My good feelings post-Braids were nearly drowned out by three weak bands opening last night’s first official selection showcase. Montreal’s Elephant Stone started the show, and they’re notable mostly for the fact that their lead singer/guitarist/sitarist used to tour with Brian Jonestown Massacre. He must have toured during the bad years, because I never saw him in Dig!. The tunes were OK, but without the occasional sitar solo, they’re Five for Fighting with fewer pop sensibilities.

Next up was Marco Calliari, an Italian who does French folk bolstered by horns and accordion. He was energetic, but his music mostly made me think that he was an embodiment of every unfair criticism launched at Gogol Bordello: kitschy, a joke, and on and on. There’s such a fine line between this music being ironic and it being sincere, and I honestly couldn’t figure out which side of the line to place this guy on.

After Calliari led a funeral procession out of the club to the other stage, there was a pretty standard mopey singer-songwriter set from local guy Jason Bajada, who is more or less the Canadian Jason Mraz. He’s not as cloying as that guy, but still.

After two hours of music that was thoroughly meh, on came Kingston, Ontario’s PS I Love You, the only band I expected to be awesome at M for Montreal, and they did not disappoint. The band’s tight three-minute guitar fuzz explosions translated perfectly -- probably because they’re a two piece and there isn’t much trickery going on -- and everyone I talked to said this was the highlight of the fest so far. I couldn’t agree more. From “Facelove” to “2012,” every song was a raucous power chord meltdown. The music was so powerful, in fact, the guitarist’s guitar basically imploded on the first song, as all the strings broke. Get their album, Meet Me At The Muster Station, people. It's a good one.

PS I Love You were a tough act to follow, and Montreal noise-punks Black Feelings couldn’t really top them. But their hazy, shouty, Cramps-esque punk wails are probably one album away from getting them serious coverage in Vice. They started out as sort of a sloppier version of Panda Bear’s recent malaise-filled ambiance, but then things went nutty, with a couple band members howling into microphones and a saxophonist blaring in the corner of the stage.

After the relatively confrontational Black Feelings were the uber-confrontational AIDS Wolf. I picked them as a band I was excited to see mostly on the recommendation of a friend who said they are insane live. They did not let me down in that regard; the lead singer routinely deep throats her mic and screams right into the faces of the crowd, the drummer stands up and stares blankly into the crowd when he’s not playing, looking like he’s contemplating mass murder, and the guitarist plays guitar in only the most generous definition thereof.

That said, AIDS Wolf are sort of a critic-proof band. Part of me -- the part that can’t hear today -- wants to just outright dismiss them as pure vulgar trash, but in some ways, they’re the spiritual children of No Wave bands I respect like Teenage Jesus & The Jerks. Calling them overly confrontational, as a lot of the critics I talked to did, seems to me to be missing the point. They’re only about confrontation. This isn’t music; it’s the embodiment of a giant middle finger to the audience. Basically, I really don’t like AIDS Wolf, but I support their right to chase an audience out of a room. Which they did. In droves.

My night ended with a set from Montreal’s metal goofballs supreme, Dance Laury Dance, a band that is basically Eagles of Death Metal without any irony (though their lead singer wore a shirt that said “Wolf Fucker”). These dudes act like music died in 1982, playing big, dumb metal like it’s still the music of the people. Their set was the first time I felt out of place; the Quebecois in attendance screamed along to every song and sprayed beer on the band. Me, I just wished they played more AC/DC covers, because their scream-for-scream recreation of “Highway to Hell” was the only time I’ve ever heard any AC/DC song performed live. And whatever your opinion of AC/DC, that song is just the best.

On the plus side, I had my first Gene Simmons sighting, as he was in attendance to watch the band/film his TV show. He sat in the balcony at Studio Juste Pour Rire, watching over the proceedings like a glam-rock Caligula, ready to stick his thumb down to indicate a kill at any moment. Wait. That’s probably hyperbolic. He sat in the balcony and looked sort of bored. I may have ended up on camera for his show, so there’s that to look forward to in eight months, I guess. His camera dude stepped on my foot once, so if you see a camera shake imperceptibly, that was probably me.

As for today, I venture out to see what a Polaris Prize nominated band (Hey Rosetta!) sounds like, followed up by seeing Suuns, the hotly tipped Valleys, and Montreal’s hip-hop/folk kings Random Recipe.