Canadian Moosak Slam – North by North East 2005

The brochure billed it as ‘an awesome, three night, club hopping frenzy as 31 clubs showcase over 400 of the best new artists from Canada, the USA and around the world’. The brochure neglected to mention that it would take place in a Toronto heatwave, which resulted in sweat dripping off the walls, the artists, the audiences, and even the people out smoking on the streets.

The journey is the important part of going anywhere they say. I think this saying was invented before air travel. Which is boring and uncomfortable unless you’re rich. But this time I sort of lucked out. Air Canada flight AC 857 I love you! Why? Because you gave me seat 31C. First time ever. The nice seat beside the emergency exit on the aisle. Got the screwy African bloke who demanded whiskey and shouted at the stewardesses as well. Mixed blessings. But iPods are great, you can just stare into space and pretend you can’t hear anything.

Managed to sleeo on the plane and also finally read A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami, which is an amazing meditation on power and its impact on the soul. I think. It’s so hard to know with Murakami. He did a little bit of sitting in the deep black well this time as well, a recurring motif with him.

Got the bags back, the wheel on the big one is bust, which is a big problem. Shared a taxi downtown with some nasty business man going to the Hilton, but got ten dollars off from the Sikh taxi man for rolling my eyes at the other guy’s rudeness.

A quick check-in to the hostel and then over to the Holiday Inn to start my first shift working on NXNE. I was put doing the goodie bags. Everyone was a bit stand offish at the beginning, but when we broke for pizza and coke, the ice broke as well. It is truly true that everyone feels uncomfortable at a party, and that should make you feel comfortable. Then I produced the bottle of whiskey for MC and suddenly I was in. Whisked off to the pre-festival party, which was held in an old chapel a few blocks from the hotel. Ryan and Max were deputised to look after me. Ryan is a long-haired indie kid who looks like a character in an offbeat, quirky indie movie. Predictably enough he turned out to be an actor. Max is a tall, quiet guy who runs his own internet advertising company and spent the evening trying to get me to drink shots of some weird German cough medicine. Because I’m Irish and I should, apparently. Ended up standing in the garden smoking. Same same wherever you go. Only difference is it’s much warmer over here.

The Irish band Sundogs turned up. Plastered. They were very funny. They’re in the same hostel as me.

The hostel is hot, hot, hot. No air-conditioning and really noisy fans all night so it’s very difficult to sleep. I’m sharing with five other women. The room is tiny, with six bunkbeds and oceans of bags, clothes, shoes, make up, toiletries, towels and Rough Guides strewn across the floor. There is a chair that keeps getting in the way, so someone puts it up against my bunk every night. Then I arrive in at four am and fall over it and wake everyone up. The tension is building slowly.

Artist Registration – where do they get their names from?

Working on the festival conference for three days meant access to the air-conditioned luxury of the Holiday Inn on King St. West. The other festival taking place there at the time was a Fame and Beauty conference, populated by buff, tanned, blonde, spectacularly muscular body builders. And their totebag and waterbottle-laden boyfriends. An interesting juxtaposition to the rag tag band of rappers, rockers, hip hoppers, songsters and industry heads that milled in and out of the conference panels and celebrity interviews.

I was put on Artist Registration, partnered with a chick called Bree. No resemblance personalitywise to the Housewife. She was more of a Lynette. Before she got married and had the kids. All ideas, ambition and a good sense of humour. Lots of Brees around though. Too many leaders and not enough troops. Always the way with volunteerism of course. Thruppence looking down on tuppence ha’penny as we would say in Springtown.

We opened at twelve pm and I was really surprised to see a huge queue forming which went on all day. What happened to the rock and roll lifestyle? To partying all night and sleeping all day? Is that why the rest of us get no sleep anymore. (Queenie’s had less than five hours sleep for ten nights on the trot now and she’s getting a little cranky. She left her camera on the bus today and just deleted this entire article and is writing it again.)

Anyways, the artists were mostly very polite and nice and some were just downright excited to be in Toronto. The heatwave was only gearing up at that stage. Only one or two tossers. We had a lot of fun with the names. Bands names have always mystified me anyway – where do they get them from? But in this context, where we had to ask them their band name and then find a manilla envelope containing their badges, in a pile of similarly strangely titled envelopes, the names became slightly ludicrous. I began to wonder what on earth were Tacoma Hellfarm Tragedy, or Slave to the Squareware, or Millions of Cats that turned on their Masters thinking of when they chose the above. My personal favourite was Grassy Knoll and the Magic Bullet, who weren’t even from Texas. I promised I’d go to the gig if I ever stopped laughing. They took it quite well really.

Queenie’s first meander through Canadian music: From death country to anarchist hip hop

My music festival kicked off with Elliot Brood in the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern on Queen St. West. Elliot Brood, from Toronto, call their music Death Country. If you got Jared Leto, put him in charge of the Rolling Stones, and sent them on a tour of Kentucky weddings, you’d get Elliot Brood. Kick ass they were and we all bopped like crazy even though it was only nine o’clock on a Thursday night.

Afterwards I walked up to Bloor St. to Lee’s Palace to see The Novaks. One of the other volunteers had recommended them. Up is the correct word, as Toronto inclines gently away from Lake Ontario. You can feel it in the back of your legs as you hoof up Chinatown and what I suspect might be Irishtown (judging from the number of accents I recognised) in thirty degrees with humidity. The Novaks turned out to be dreadful. Hailing from that well known metropolis of cool, Newfoundland, they played sub-sub-Bryan Adams-inspired, parka-riddled soft rock. Queenie says, get back to The Rock where you belong, lads and listen to some Radiohead. The other volunteer thought they were cute. She had seen them before. I suspected I had been lured to the venue as some kind of chatting up sidekick/ exotic Irish conversation starter so I hoofed it back down to the Shoe to see Christine Fellows.

This Manitoba woman and her band are the Canadian version of Badly Drawn Boy. Those of you who know me know my feelings on BDB. He is to be tolerated rather than adored, although he is a talented little sod. I felt the same about Christine, although her obvious nerves did appeal to my better nature. I also bestow her the quote of the festival award:

“We’ve left our two love songs ‘till last. I hope you like them. This first one’s called Roadkill.”

Classy bird.

I was wandering down Queen, trying to decide between Marah and The Telepathic Butterflies, when I met MC Caldwell, who had hired me, and her posse heading down to Funhaus to see C’mon. C’mon are a very loud guitar band who have not much going for them except for the second coolest woman in rock as their lead guitarist. I want to be a lead guitarist. It was good fun though. We ended up the night getting pizza for the coolest woman in rock (MC) from the gourmet pizza takeaway place next to the Bovine Sex Club, before heading down to Healys to see Dope Poet Society.

Healy’s is cool. All leopard skin booths and pool tables and quirky side rooms. Dope Poet Society were political. Very political. Did you know that George Bush is the real terrorist? No? Have you been living in a box for the last five years? Yes? I was hoping for a little more sophistication, but you can’t do much in a twenty minute set, I suppose. Anyways, worth checking out for the longest dreadlocks I’ve ever seen – down to his knees they were.

My first night ended with me finding various members of Sundogs asleep in the bar of the hostel at about 3am. It had been a long, gentle downward musical slope from the heights of Elliot Brood. And my calves hurt, so I went to bed.

Friday - Sundogs melt in El Mocambo’s heat and Queenie meets Bullmoose in the Black Bull

I met various members of Sundogs (who are all very nice) in the hostel during the day and they told me they were playing El Mocambo that night (their second gig) so I promised I would go as I had missed them the night before. They were pretty good. Their songs are good and they play very well. They should stop watching U2 videos and get some moves of their own though. Afterwards, we stayed for a while and watched The Grates from Australia. Who were trying to be The Pixies. With mixed results. They had a female lead singer who hopped up and down like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo and asked all the men in the audience to come to the front in a little baby doll voice.

And they did…………………

Not being a man, I gave up on them after twenty minutes and went to the Black Bull with Sumond and Geetha. They are volunteering as well. They’ve just moved up from Texas, and are teaching Biomedical Engineering in the university here. Sumond is a professor and he is YOUNGER THAN ME. We saw Bullmoose, a Led-inspired three piece from Montreal with a singing bassist. He had an oobit as well. I love a singing bassist myself. I just adore men who can walk and chew at the same time. Geetha made me chat him up afterwards, which was a mistake because he was a bit thick, which spoiled the whole effect for me. So we nipped back down to the ‘Shoe to see The Mark Inside, who were one of those bands where all the members look younger than Queenie’s little sister and thus make her feel very old and run down.

It was very hot. I wandered outside for a smoke and ran into Sundogs, who were melting into little puddles on the pavement. I took pity on them and brought them back up to the Black Bull, as it has a patio for sitting and drinking in the outside. I introduced them to Bullmoose as well. Lucky them. The guitarist gave me a cd when he was leaving. I don’t know if it was a present or if he thought I was useful.

One of the more interesting things I’ve learned over the years is that hanging out with bands is incredibly boring. All they do is bitch about their gig, their conditions, their flights, their support act, their instruments, the blister on their thumb, blah, blah, blah. You know guys, the alternative is to give up the music and go into banking and make shit loads of money to pay for air-conditioned rooms. This is the main reason I have never followed up on my desire to be a rock chick. I have a feeling I’d end up having to keep a nail clippers handy. In case they needed their pinkies done. And I’m not that kinda chick.

We headed down to the Drake Hotel for an after-party and I had to queue to get in. Albeit only for a minute, but I got in a right snot about it. The Drake was mobbed and full of pompous staff members and made me think of The Kitchen that was, back in the ‘days of tiger money’, so I legged it and walked home down Queen St., which was still milling with punks and hip hoppers and Goths and stoners and gay couples holding hands and every type of person you never see in Dublin no matter how diverse it’s getting. Which was great.

Saturday – Bovaries in the Bovine, Drum N Bass in the Funhaus, and MC in El Mo

Saturday I had to work another full day at the festival conference, but as it was starting to wind down administration wise it was actually quite boring and involved a lot of hanging around and chatting to my co-workers and getting the low down on all the bitching and fighting to which, being a foreigner and not looking for a job through NXNE, I was oblivious. Afterwards, I went back to the hostel for a bit of a sleep. No luck though, Jan, the weirdo Singaporean ‘entertainer’, who appeared to be living in the room while trying to get a work permit, insisted on telling me about her day. Which was very bad. I’m not quite sure why, but I think it involves her not getting a work permit and immediate wealth and fame. Or failing that, a rich boyfriend. I should get a rich boyfriend, apparently. Then I wouldn’t have to work. I tried to point out to her that there’s all kinds of work, and no such thing as a free rich boyfriend but she was having none of it.

In the absence of sleep I took another shower and headed down Queen St. in search of music. I bumped into Ryan and another volunteer and they brought me to the Bovine Sex Club to see the last song by The Clicks. Girl band. Pretty cool. I only saw one song. Then back to the gourmet pizza. I was sat outside talking to some guy they had introduced me to, called Ruksand, when I realised Ryan had disappeared. Never mind. I offered the guy a cigarette and suddenly realised he was a she. Ooops. We went over and sat in her car and had a smoke and she told me her story.

Her look gets her mistaken all the time. She was in a shop one day filling out a form and an Arab guy came in and started complaining to the shop assistant and kept calling to Sandra – Hey buddy – to get her in on the act. And then she turned round and said - Yes honey pie, yes sugar butt, yes lovekin, whaddya want pumpkin – over and over to him in a falsetto voice. The guy got such a fright he backed out of the shop in complete disarray. I don’t know how well this story translates, but I was on the floor of the car laughing as she acted it out for me. Hilarious.

Then she told me her theory on feminism, which is that it is performance. And that women have bovaries, which are a mixture of balls and ovaries. And that we are more powerful than we can imagine and just have to use our bovaries to keep men in line. I love the idea that they are bovaries, with all the connotations that brings with it.

She used to be a customs official, but she’d taken a year off to try to make it in music. She told me another performance she’d done in work, which I can't divulge.

We went back into Bovine and watched Kuma, from Seattle, which was the band of the festival for me. Why are they not signed? They’re a really good, loud five piece. The lead singer is a woman that looks like a dark-haired Debbie Harry and performed like the proud daughter of Kate Bush and Courtney Love. They looked great. They sounded great. They had a song called Matches and Gasoline. What more do you want? Check them out – http://www.kumasound.com/.

Afterwards, we floated up and down Queen St. a bit, looking for an ATM, went in the back of the Bovine to their smoking room, which is a copy of the Whelan’s room. With a roof. And air-conditioning. Finally, around one am, we headed up to Funhaus for a six hour Drum n Bass night which had a very young crowd.

It was quite evangelical. A lot of shouting about the power of you and how you are the greatest and for a while I thought I was at one of those charismatic Christian events they have in the RDS during Lent. It was strange. After a while I got bored and wandered up the strip and bumped into MC outside the Horseshoe and we went up to El Mocambo.

Everyone was there. Everyone was really drunk and they all seemed to be really upset about some row that had taken place earlier in the day. What is it about organisations? It was too hot, so I walked home again around four. Sundogs were asleep in the lounge again.

Sunday films and volunteer party

I couldn’t believe I had to get up and work on Sunday. Having said that, I whinged so much at the team leader she let me go at 2pm. So not too bad. I tried to sleep again, then headed up to El Mocambo to the volunteer party. Too hot. Grabbed my goodie bag, my free beers and my dinner and then we went and sat outside the Black Bull. Me, MC, Gwen and Paul, Geetha and Sumond, and a friend of MC’s called Karen, who spent the evening tatting her hair on the simple premise that it was better to be out, enjoying herself while tatting, than sitting at home tatting. Which is the way I view the world myself, so tatt away, girl.

I talked to Karen for most of the night. It was one of those great conversations that covered everything from women in the labour movement to politics to horoscopes to past relationships to beer. She was very interesting, although quite intense, and I couldn’t understand why until she told me she’d had a really serious brain injury a few years back and pulled herself out of a coma and survived against all the odds. I was so impressed. Apart from the intensity, which she said was due to her need to concentrate on the conversation, and which occurs in many many people who have no medical excuse for it at all, there was absolutely no sign of any difference in her manner. Human beings are miraculous creatures, aren’t they.

I was sad to say goodbye to them all, but so tired…………. Went back to the hostel of heat and fans and undiscovered Singaporean rock chicks and slept soundly, knowing I had the next day to myself.

Top festival. Will definitely do it again.

Top Acts – Kuma, Elliot Brood
Damn, I missed – The Telepathic Butterflies

Pictures should be under the title now.