Festival Kinetik, Death Audio Blow Your Brains (Part Two)
Lizard was his usual underdressed self. There are times when we probably resemble some kind of gay S&M couple. The afternoon had cleared into mildness and sunshine. Walked down the main drag for many blocks before left-turning down our street. Early, we staked out the eateries on a parallel strip one block down. Glanced over menus in the windows. At this point, we had not yet converted any US currency over to Canadian. Usine C was a converted brick warehouse in a residential district. Anxiousness overcame me as we approached the entrance and stepped inside. The interior was unimposing, not even populated by very many people. There was a coat check, a section up a few steps devoted to vendors (T-shirts, CDs, promotional stuff), a balcony overlooking a downstairs bar area, an outdoor barbeque ('Industrial' Dogs and Burgers--clever), and two clothing vendors on the second floor. Online merchant PlastikWrap was among them (the Diamond package included a discount coupon), though their wardrobe offerings struck me as a bunch of overpriced gray-and-black shirts with only tiny (and usually "stripey") alterations. At close to (or over) $100 an item, I'm not really seeking, you know, minimalism. The barbeque provided adequate sustenance, but I lost money on my Industrial Dog (a $2,00 Canadian investment covered by an American Abe Lincoln). While confusing at first, I found the use of a comma in Canadian pricing to be metaphorically and aesthetically pleasing; the comma suggests a loose, flexible, easygoing demeanor indicative of the culture at large, in direct opposition to the firm, unmoving period that marks the "buck stops here" mentality of the United States. In any case, let's move on to the bands themselves:
As with many openers, Corrupted Suburbs (spelled Suburds on the screens behind the stage) was a bundle of mediocrity that shuffled the electronics to the background in favor of a more streamlined (read: dull) rock sound; the lead singer ranted incoherently between songs, and his resemblance to Vanilla Ice didn't help my opinion of the band. Ayria, an adorable Canadian pixie, fared much better, performing a catchy blend of electronics with pop hooks (think Kidneythieves for a comparison); the groove that began in the latter part of her set continued and multiplied with Memmaker, a mass of thudding techno beats and astounding stage presence (three guys in white lab coats; two on keys, one syncing a guitar to the beats) that caused the floor (myself definitely included) to erupt in an hour-long fit of frenetic dance. Terrorfakt, whose animal-cruelty-montage-over-abrasive-industrial turned me off during their Freaks United gig in 2006, fared better this time, favoring an endless, rapidly-cut montage of sociopolitical outrage to correspond with such unorthodox musical methods as taking buzz-saws to oil drums (many a spark rained down on Yours Truly), pounding said drums and even shopping carts with sledgehammers, and having some Bald Guy come out to utter redundant sentiments such as, "If you've got something to get off your chest..." while pummeling stuff with the sledge. Project Pitchfork followed, filling the shoes that Skinny Puppy had been tentatively assigned, delivering an appropriately "traditional" sound representative of the band's extensive history, though by this point, the lack of sleep coupled with the length of the trip had caught up to me, and I spent their whole set attempting not to collapse into unconsciousness. When they wrapped, I told Lizard I was going back to the hotel; he gave me verbal directions (that, of course, seemed impossible to fuck up) and I stepped outside, immediately going in the wrong direction and thus wandering around in total confusion until I decided to head back to the club and sit and wait until the last two bands wrapped. By this point in the night, my dulled senses prevented me from having much an opinion of the last few songs by Interlace. And when opening-night closers Marching Dynamics (two Americans in kabuki masks and cone-peak hats) took the stage at 2am, my mind had shut down to the point where the basic need of sleep overrode any aesthetic stimulation that might have been going on. Afterward, my crankiness dubbed MD "generic rave music," to which Lizard snippily retorted, "I consider them to be Ambient Techno." (Go figure that, during the ride home, their album sounded really good to my alert ears.)
Notable incident during the walk back: a person seated in a Plexiglas-encased bus stop along the main drag had thrown up a dinner of what appeared to be raw eggs and vodka. (S)he was still making those dry spitting sounds as we walked past.
Nightly crash in a room like an icebox. I had the bed next to the window. It was extremely comfortable.
Friday, May 15 : Phase 02.Harsh Industrial
I was awakened a little after 9am by the sounds of maids in the hallway speaking loudly (in French). Regardless of outside noise, this was pretty much the standard wake-up time for the duration of our stay. A reflexive, mocking laughter rolled out of me when Lizard's cell alarm (set to Slayer's 'Reign in Blood') would go off each morning. The 'walking tour' portion of our Montreal visit led us to Chinatown, conveniently located a mere block away from the hotel. I picked up some awful dried pineapple I didn't even bother to bring back to the States. Lizard was led into temptation by many of the merchants and restaurants, making mental bookmarks of those he'd like to revisit. We ate at a Chinese restaurant running a cheap lunch special; the food was very good. From there, we visited Old Montreal, a section of historical buildings/sites buffered by many tourist-enticing vendors and shops; we stepped inside an art gallery, passed by a row of painters, photographers, and sketch artists; stood in front of restaurants priced for politicians and celebrities; watched the filming of a Canadian television show down a random alleyway (as hard as I tried to imagine, the director looked nothing like David Cronenberg). I fell in love with some scary/weird/funny T-shirts for what I later learned was a semi-animated Online series called Tetes a Claques (the loose translation of this brings such a smile to my face) that has its origins in Montreal. I bookmarked the store for future reference, knowing one--if not more--of those shirts would be making the return trip to the States with me. Lizard bought a painting from one of the street vendors. I vowed to have a caricature done before leaving (as my personal souvenir from Montreal). Purchased a tiny jar of authentic Maple Syrup for my parents. Unless there's a gap in my memory (and there could very well be), I am fairly certain we made our way back to the hotel to take a breather before once again hiking out to Usine C.
[continued]
[Funny: LJ's spell-check alternative for Cronenberg is "Greenback."]
As with many openers, Corrupted Suburbs (spelled Suburds on the screens behind the stage) was a bundle of mediocrity that shuffled the electronics to the background in favor of a more streamlined (read: dull) rock sound; the lead singer ranted incoherently between songs, and his resemblance to Vanilla Ice didn't help my opinion of the band. Ayria, an adorable Canadian pixie, fared much better, performing a catchy blend of electronics with pop hooks (think Kidneythieves for a comparison); the groove that began in the latter part of her set continued and multiplied with Memmaker, a mass of thudding techno beats and astounding stage presence (three guys in white lab coats; two on keys, one syncing a guitar to the beats) that caused the floor (myself definitely included) to erupt in an hour-long fit of frenetic dance. Terrorfakt, whose animal-cruelty-montage-over-abrasive-industrial turned me off during their Freaks United gig in 2006, fared better this time, favoring an endless, rapidly-cut montage of sociopolitical outrage to correspond with such unorthodox musical methods as taking buzz-saws to oil drums (many a spark rained down on Yours Truly), pounding said drums and even shopping carts with sledgehammers, and having some Bald Guy come out to utter redundant sentiments such as, "If you've got something to get off your chest..." while pummeling stuff with the sledge. Project Pitchfork followed, filling the shoes that Skinny Puppy had been tentatively assigned, delivering an appropriately "traditional" sound representative of the band's extensive history, though by this point, the lack of sleep coupled with the length of the trip had caught up to me, and I spent their whole set attempting not to collapse into unconsciousness. When they wrapped, I told Lizard I was going back to the hotel; he gave me verbal directions (that, of course, seemed impossible to fuck up) and I stepped outside, immediately going in the wrong direction and thus wandering around in total confusion until I decided to head back to the club and sit and wait until the last two bands wrapped. By this point in the night, my dulled senses prevented me from having much an opinion of the last few songs by Interlace. And when opening-night closers Marching Dynamics (two Americans in kabuki masks and cone-peak hats) took the stage at 2am, my mind had shut down to the point where the basic need of sleep overrode any aesthetic stimulation that might have been going on. Afterward, my crankiness dubbed MD "generic rave music," to which Lizard snippily retorted, "I consider them to be Ambient Techno." (Go figure that, during the ride home, their album sounded really good to my alert ears.)
Notable incident during the walk back: a person seated in a Plexiglas-encased bus stop along the main drag had thrown up a dinner of what appeared to be raw eggs and vodka. (S)he was still making those dry spitting sounds as we walked past.
Nightly crash in a room like an icebox. I had the bed next to the window. It was extremely comfortable.
Friday, May 15 : Phase 02.Harsh Industrial
I was awakened a little after 9am by the sounds of maids in the hallway speaking loudly (in French). Regardless of outside noise, this was pretty much the standard wake-up time for the duration of our stay. A reflexive, mocking laughter rolled out of me when Lizard's cell alarm (set to Slayer's 'Reign in Blood') would go off each morning. The 'walking tour' portion of our Montreal visit led us to Chinatown, conveniently located a mere block away from the hotel. I picked up some awful dried pineapple I didn't even bother to bring back to the States. Lizard was led into temptation by many of the merchants and restaurants, making mental bookmarks of those he'd like to revisit. We ate at a Chinese restaurant running a cheap lunch special; the food was very good. From there, we visited Old Montreal, a section of historical buildings/sites buffered by many tourist-enticing vendors and shops; we stepped inside an art gallery, passed by a row of painters, photographers, and sketch artists; stood in front of restaurants priced for politicians and celebrities; watched the filming of a Canadian television show down a random alleyway (as hard as I tried to imagine, the director looked nothing like David Cronenberg). I fell in love with some scary/weird/funny T-shirts for what I later learned was a semi-animated Online series called Tetes a Claques (the loose translation of this brings such a smile to my face) that has its origins in Montreal. I bookmarked the store for future reference, knowing one--if not more--of those shirts would be making the return trip to the States with me. Lizard bought a painting from one of the street vendors. I vowed to have a caricature done before leaving (as my personal souvenir from Montreal). Purchased a tiny jar of authentic Maple Syrup for my parents. Unless there's a gap in my memory (and there could very well be), I am fairly certain we made our way back to the hotel to take a breather before once again hiking out to Usine C.
[continued]
[Funny: LJ's spell-check alternative for Cronenberg is "Greenback."]