Danko Jones

Meeting Tad Doyle Makes Life on the Road Better

2013-05-17T12:10:03-04:00

Much has been made of life on the road. Some people like to play up how hard the road can be, like in Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead Or Alive" video, but it's hard to feel sorry for Jon and the boys when they're staying in five-star hotels and don't even tune their own guitars.

As much as I've seen the road unravel people and reduce them to shells of their former selves, I try not to romanticize the harshness it sometimes brings. Nobody back home will sympathize with your plight mainly because of what they've already seen in Bon Jovi videos. Plus, no matter how shit it can be, it's still the greatest job in the world.

After 17 years of being in a band, being surrounded by people who deem you the soundtrack to their night out every night of your life messes with your reality and screws with your head very fast. It leaves most wanting a breather. That's why a large amount of people in the music biz end up acquiring drug and alcohol habits to cope. The Rock 'n' Roll High School roll call of casualties and dropouts far outnumber its valedictorians.

One of the things that keeps the craziness at bay, at least for me, are the fleeting but memorable moments that happen every once in a while on tour; the kind of moments that stay with you for a lifetime. For some, it's seeing the sights -- the Grand Canyon, the Eiffel Tower etc. For me, it's chance meetings with people that inspired me to do this rock 'n' roll band thingy in the first place. Even if 90 per cent of the time it's with sharpie and albums in hand for a quick autograph and perhaps a hi-five, I love mentally collecting these encounters. And while touring musician casual encounters happily end with an autograph or a smartphone pic, I've recently crossed the threshold into artful dodging fanaticism -- I have a podcast.

I've had a podcast now for two years. When I'm at home my friend Nick Flanagan, stand-up comedian and former singer of Brutal Knights and Teen Crud Combo, joins me as co-host on episodes where we hold open-ended, freeform discussions with different guests. When I'm on the road, I procure podcasts on my own. The goal of the podcast is to kindle a hang out that wouldn't naturally happen in forced circumstances. Mainly, though, the grand scheme is to use it as an excuse to meet people I admire. I've had moderate to great success at this. Episodes with Henry Rollins, Duff McKagan, Scott Thompson (Kids In The Hall), Damian Abraham, Gordon Korman, Mikael Akerfeldt, George Pettit, Jason Rouse and Marty Friedman can all attest to it. But the episode with Tad Doyle was something else.

If the name is unfamiliar, Doyle fronted his eponymously-named Seattle heavy rock band from '88 to '99. While the world had a torrid love affair with other Seattle bands like Nirvana and Soundgarden, the rest of us were left scratching our head why Tad wasn't vaunted as high, if not higher. Tad remains one of the greatest bands in the history of rock and their album, 8-Way Santa is one of the greatest unsung albums of modern music. Of course, a pair of threatening lawsuits presiding over the album's release (unauthorized use of cover photo/using the word "Pepsi" in a song title referencing drunk driving) may have had something to do with 8-Way Santa stalling and the band never breaking even though they went on to put out three more albums. They were the classic example of a band too brazen and too smart to be wedged into the major label construct.

Tad was also the first band I saw "of age" and I watched them open for Primus at Lee's Palace in Toronto. I had originally attended only to watch Tad, but ended up staying to get floored by Primus, too. Tad and I even shared a quick moment of eye-contact in the now-renovated front foyer of Lee's, but I was too shy to hold his gaze and tell him how awesome I thought he was. I kept my "edge" that night, but watched Tad and Primus sandwiched between Dave Navarro and Eric Avery of Jane's Addiction, who were in town to play on the inaugural Lollapalooza tour the day after. So, in the course of 48 hours I watched Tad, Primus, Jane's Addiction, Rollins Band and the Butthole Surfers. Not bad, huh?

Time moves on and despite Tad's disbandment in '99, Doyle has kept busy with several projects like Hog Molly and Hoof but his most recent outfit, Brothers Of The Sonic Cloth, had me salivating like a rabid puppy. It's reassuring when musicians continue on an upward creative trajectory and their upcoming album tentatively titled, Empires Of Dust, has me just as enthused as I was when I discovered 8-Way Santa.

When I ventured a search on Twitter last year and found his handle -- @TadDoyle_Tad -- tweeting out into the ether yielded a surprising reply back from the man himself. It made my month, especially when he tweeted back saying he had all our albums, too.

This past March, while on tour, we had a day off in Seattle and under normal circumstances I would've only invited him out to the show, said my "hellos" and that would've been that. Now armed guilefully with a podcast, I once again used it as an excuse to hang out, captured all on episode #46. I was noticeably nervous but held my ground and true enough we continued our hang after I put the mics away. For that little kid in me, too shy to approach him all those years ago, it was momentous.

Backstage the next night at The Showbox nightclub, before I stepped on stage, Tad softly said to me, "This must feel full circle, me coming to see you after you came to see me all those years ago." Although I almost felt like bursting into tears at that moment, I kept my stoic front and played my heart out. It remains one of the greatest reasons why this hard, harsh road everyone loves and hates remains the greatest window of opportunity. I can curse it, loathe it and berate it to death, but in the end, I am its bitch.

@dankojones ROCKING Seattle. Getting an ear full of the best rock thatthe Big Red Maple Leaf to the North is serving up.Fookin 'ell eh!
— Tad Doyle (@TadDoyle_Tad) March 23, 2013

So What if Gwen Stefani Forgot the Lyrics to 'Wild Horses'?

2013-05-07T17:28:53-04:00

Much ado has been made about Gwen Stefani's lyrical flub while singing "Wild Horses" with the Rolling Stones last Friday night (May 3, 2013). Most of the comments poked fun at her mishap, telling her to rehearse etc. They're exactly the sort of comments you'd expect directed at someone largely seen by people to be some pampered "it" girl and/or a person not worthy enough to step on stage with a "Rock N' Roll Institution" such as the Stones and her slip-up more than proves their point. (See the video below).

But as someone who's had the privilege to step onstage with musicians I've admired since I was a kid, I can completely empathize with Stefani. You try singing "Wild Horses" with The Stones and see how well you fair. My guess is most people, including those who sing for a living, wouldn't even be able to cough up the word "wild" without choking on their own saliva. The fact that Stefani made it onto the stage without having a heart attack is impressive enough to me. If I was in the same position, they'd need paramedics following me until breakfast the next day, so fast would my heart be palpitating before and after.

The high chances of me screwing up in front of the Rolling Stones are not because I'm unprofessional. Trust me, I've logged my fair share of shows in front of my fair share of crowds, it's because I am fanatical for the Rolling Stones. When Mick Jagger hosted SNL last year and played songs alongside the Arcade Fire and the Foo Fighters, watching him keep up with bands much younger was impressive, but what was more impressive was the fact the Fires or Foos didn't collapse from sheer fandom playing alongside Mick Jagger. I don't even know if my hand could hold my guitar pick if Mick saddled up next to me to finish the line "couldn't drag me away."

I know this from experience.

Last fall, when Jello Biafra was in Toronto to play with his band The Guantanamo Bay School Of Medicine, he asked me to join him on stage and sing the Dead Kennedys classic, "Too Drunk To Fuck." Never one to pass up an opportunity to sing alongside the incredible Jello Biafra, whose distinct voice I've been listening to in my headphones for more than half my life, I jumped at the chance like a dog on Alpo. "Too Drunk..." was also a song that I had listened to a million times and with confident smugness believed I knew it like the "back of my hand."

I was wrong.

That evening when I hopped on stage, I drew a blank, froze like a statue and basically looked like a jackass. I couldn't get over the fact that this song I'd been listening to for years was now being sung by me beside the guy who sang it. It was a huge moment and I blew it 'cause it just meant too much to me.

As much as I wanted to disappear into the carpet, I bravely ambled backstage after the show, meekly thanked Jello for asking me on stage and apologized for messing up the song. To my surprise and great relief, he shrugged it off relaying a similar story of him forgetting the lyrics to a Black Sabbath song when he stepped on stage with Reverend Horton Heat. It was exactly what I needed to hear and helped me elude what would've been an anxiety-filled month of reliving that humiliating moment over and over again in my head.

In fact, I think Gwen shows how genuine a Stones fan she is by flubbing the lyrics. You have to wonder how anyone can step on stage with Jagger, Richards, Watts and Wood on the first night of their world tour without being a little discombobulated. Twenty bucks says Stefani can out-sing anyone at a party when "Black And Blue" gets thrown on the stereo, too.

Gwen, don't listen to the naysayers. They're just jealous. Hell, I'm even jealous of you. You sang with The Stones and you looked great doing it, if I do say so myself. Nobody, even wild horses, as hard as they might try, can take that away from you.

Watch Danko Jones consider the difficulties of following the Rolling Stones.

There's No Such Thing as a Musical Guilty Pleasure

2013-05-04T01:05:09-04:00

Having done my fair share of interviews over the years, there are three questions I can't stand:

How do you guys write your songs?

Do you like playing festivals more or clubs more?

Do you have any guilty pleasures?

The first two questions are benign queries usually employed by music journalists to conceal their lack of research, lack of interest or lack of interview skill. Either way, it's not too troublesome. I always answer politely and get ready for the next set of vapid questions. I'm fully aware how much a privilege it is to have someone take time out of their own life to ask questions, insipid or not, about you and your life. I know I could be doing a lot worse and never take it for granted, but it's the third question that has me biting my tongue and holding my breath in order to keep from lashing out.

I detest the term "guilty pleasure."

"Guilty pleasure," when applied to music, means there's something you can only listen to in secret because is hasn't been deemed "cool" enough by self-appointed music gate-keepers. It's a term most likely coined by A&R reps at major label companies because they've always been the ones at the club who constantly look around, particularly at other A&R reps, to see if they too should like whatever's being watched. Sadly, this habit has now been adopted and embraced by scores of wannabe aficionados too spineless to stand by their own musical convictions.

When a music is tagged as a "guilty pleasure," it's viewed as socially unacceptable. It also happens to bring down the pastime of music listening to a ninth grade high school cliquish level, except it involves supposedly grown adults. People who actually feel guilty listening to certain music are the same people who picked on you in high school, screw in the missionary position with a three stroke maximum and need a laugh track when watching comedy to prompt them to guffaw. They also don't know what "guffaw" means.

Many people use one's musical tastes as a sieve for finding like-minded individuals and harshly judging others whose tastes don't correspond. It's a practice that assumes the direction in which one's ear bends is in direct correlation with one's quality of character. Of course, it only takes two minutes to realize that these rationalizations are based on some set of juvenile, made-up rules that are truthfully completely pointless.

And who is making up these rules for discerning taste? From my observations, just like in high school, style-bullies preside over what gets deemed "cool." And in the weirdest Twilight Zone episode ever, the same kind of people who used to wear varsity letterman jackets, throw footballs around and wear lacrosse shirts have now traded it all in for pork pie hats, ironic Rollie Fingers/Mr. Monopoly moustaches and calabash pipes in a desperate bid to look distinguished, but have only succeeded in looking like assholes.

You like Justin Timberlake and Kanye West while the rest of your friends listen to The Lumineers or The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? You like Nachtmystium and Watain but your buddies like The Black Keys and Fun.? You like AC/DC and Katy Perry but your co-workers like Wolf Eyes and NOFX?

Who gives a shit?

Rock 'n' roll, or whatever you want to call it, to me, has always hinged on deviance. When I start to detect a set of rules being implemented by these numbskull moderators, I knee-jerk into my true asshole self and thumb my nose at their stipulations. Over the years, our band has paid dearly for stubbornly sticking to our hard rock stylings amidst transitory musical tides, enduring the slings of johnny cum-lately hepcats everywhere. It's been a small price to pay to be able to look at yourself in the mirror each morning.

So exactly what music has been accepted in the inner sanctum du jour? It all depends on what circle you want to join. These types of condescending overlords exist in every scene, office space and social clique. You should never feel guilty about the music you like. The only people who should feel guilty are these tastemaking, gate-keeping bullies and their need to cover up their own self-doubt.

Danko Jones is a proud fan of Billy Joel, Danzig, Polvo, The Scorpions, Kylie Minogue, Ice-T, The Gories, George Michael, The Doomriders, Fugazi, Wu-Tang Clan, Manowar and Bruno Mars.

10 Lost Noise-Rock Albums From The '90s

2013-04-26T17:45:51-04:00

Growing up I had to abide by my parent's rules. Holed up in my room, I found sanctuary through music and it had to be music they disapproved of in order to feel some sense of autonomy. I found that the louder the music, the more disapproval I received from authority figures. As such, the anger emanating from these loud bands mirrored my adolescent frustration and my musical curiosity eventually drifted towards more satanic and occultist rhythms.

I still remember stealthily turning down the volume at home when Tom Araya of Slayer would get to the line "learn the sacred words of praise hell Satan" on Altar Of Sacrifice and only listening to Iron Maiden's song "Number Of The Beast" with headphones in order to avoid a household blowout with my parents.

And it was this constant danger quotient that became irresistible to me and other like-minded kids. This supposedly diabolical music remains my most favourite because it found me at a time when I was most impressionable and innocent. Only now, I turn up the volume when someone screams out "Satan" into the mic.

And as successive generations embraced this music, the way they articulated this fandom became increasingly extreme. Pastimes such as smoking pot, underage drinking, vandalism and headbanging turned into heroin usage, church burning and murder. There undoubtedly had to come a turning point where the younger generation headed in the opposite direction. Thus, the state of music we're left with today -- The Lumineers and Mumford & Sons.

Just like my mom disapproved of Ozzy Osbourne's Speak Of The Devil album cover, I am mortified by the recent succession of softer bands hogging up airtime, critical acclaim and hipster-doofus approval. Please don't misunderstand, I am fully aware the pendulum of popular culture must swing from soft to heavy and back again in order to maintain an equilibrium. I, myself, love soft music for that very reason of balance. But when did all these bands decide that dressing like the Amish Mennonites was cool?

This quaker-like style that I've coined "Pioneer-Chic" (trademark 2013) comes with its Grammy-nominated musical accompaniment and has become the soundtrack to college kids "slumming it" in hostels across Europe. By the way, "slumming it" doesn't get any better than when you dress up and pretend to be from a world where there's no such thing as modern plumbing and looking like you travel by horse and buggy.

To counter this, there has been a recent crop of bands that stand in direct audible opposition to this new folk movement, harking back to the awesomely noisy '90s. Bands like Pissed Jeans, Shining (Norway) and Metz (who I've raved about before in this space) sound like the successors to Jesus Lizard, The Melvins and The Butthole Surfers.

In order to get what I perceive to be an oncoming trend on solid, noisier ground, I submit 10 lost '90s noise albums for all to search out and let into your lives. Anything to counter the 38-million YouTube views these Pioneer-Chic (trademark 2013) bands get nowadays.

Slug The Out Sound (Matador/1995)
Full-on audio assault. Finally a band not afraid to heavy-up the bass guitar in the mix. Think Big Black, Glen Branca, Swans, The Unsane and a scratched record skipping like Chinese water torture.

Sweet Pea Chicks Hate Wes (Trance Syndicate/1996)
Straight from the school of Slug, I don't know much else about these guys but if you can track this gem down it won't disappoint you. That is if disappointment happens when you aren't bludgeoned in the head.

Glazed Baby Karmic Debt (Red Decibal/1994)
This three-piece put out a couple of records and then disappeared. Too bad too 'cause they were phenomenal and this record proves it -- a noise rock decree.

Crunt Crunt (Trance Syndicate/1994)
Most side projects don't come anywhere near their respective members' main gigs so I usually ignore them, but not in this case. I wish bands could come close to the ass-kicking Kat Bjelland (Babes In Toyland), Stuart Gray (Lubricated Goat) and Russel Simmins (Blues Explosion) simply threw together as an aside.

Distorted Pony Instant Winner (Trance Syndicate/1994)
From the name to the sound, this band defined what '90s noise rock came to be to me -- bludgeoning wall-of-noise guitars, smarmy vocals, bass as guitar, busy caveman-like drumming.

Love 666 American Revolution (Amphetamine Reptile/1995)
Slow a Helmet song down to a snail's pace, add anthemic singalong group vocals, make sure you sing about guns and pills and you'll be close to what Love 666 came to be -- the sound of a metallic pep rally.

Cop Shoot Cop Release (Interscope/1994)
If there can be any more certainty that the music biz is rigged, it's that Cop Shoot Cop never became bigger. Sure they were abrasive, but in my humble estimation they also had an equal amount of potential wide appeal that no one ever bothered to mine. Listen to this and see how right I am.

Grotus Slow Motion Apocalypse (Alternative Tentacles/1993)
Think of that ol' '80s/'90s term "industrial" and now mash it up with every contemporary "ism" to describe "heavy" and you'll come close to describing this proto-Rammstein, NIN-compeer.

Monorchid Who Put Out The Fire? (Touch & Go/1998)
Every person who bought a Stills album or a Jay Reatard album or an Arcade Fire album or a Lumineers album or a Marilyn Mason album should buy this. Don't ask why, just do it. Easily one of the best albums no one ever got to listen to.

Cherubs Icing (Trance Syndicate/1992)
You gotta hand it to King Coffy's label, Trance Syndicate, for its knack of finding diamonds of noise in a melodic rough. Cherubs were one its greatest finds. I describe them as "catchy Unsane." If that doesn't make sense to you, just smile and nod politely.

When Music Journalism Goes Bad

2013-04-20T09:02:37-04:00

The advent of social media has been both a boon and a blight on the music industry. While bands have been able to easily get their message/songs out to a larger crowd now, their voice just as often lost amongst the hundreds of thousands of other voices clambering for attention. In a way, it's levelled the playing field, but given way to a sea of mediocrity which will inevitably result in complete disinterest.

When it comes to critiquing these entertainers, there's a corresponding surplus of opinions being lobbed through the ether via the world of websites, YouTube channels and blogs. As more self-appointed music critics are able to get their quickly-cobbled thoughts across to a readership/viewership that scrolls and skims more than actually reads, Frank Zappa's famous quote about music journalism becomes ever so appropriate:

"Rock journalism is people who can't write interviewing people who can't talk for people who can't read."

In theory, the idea of a free-thinking, unregulated, ongoing exchange of ideas and opinions sounds like a utopian wet dream. Unfortunately, the reality of the Internet is instead a parade of dimwits impatiently falling over themselves to recite their dick jokes, type their racist comebacks and swing their anonymous gavels of uninformed judgement for all to see. No more is this prevalent than in the world of music journalism now that any sad sap can churn out their formulaic viewpoints filled with errors and lack of practical music knowledge.

Frustration of this new online world stems from the lack of any required music journalistic curriculum vitae that other maven sectors demand. For a lot of these "writers," music didn't start before Nirvana or even Arcade Fire, so shallow is the trough from which they cull. Of course, we can't be born with music history ingrained in our psyche, but a little research would go a long way. Of course this would inevitably cut into their tweeting, texting and Game Of Thrones watching.

For example, a recent stop in our hometown of Toronto on our North American tour opening for Volbeat yielded a less-than-lukewarm review of our set by Steve St. Jean. The review was so poorly written I couldn't help but distribute it to friends and colleagues as glaring proof that music journalism has been flushed down the toilet. You'd think St. Jean would've dropped more info to feign awareness of us, a band from his hometown that have been around for 17 years, rather than a slapdash description of the audience in attendance, but such is the state of music journalism in 2013. When I got up onstage with Volbeat later that night to sing "Angelfuck" by The Misfits, it was only referred to as a "cover," twisting the knife of cluelessness even further.

I have nothing against St. Jean's opinion on our band. I've been in the game long enough to know that you can't please everyone and got used to scathing reviews a long time ago, but I do take offence at the lack of research before making his opinion public on a website and in the vaunted position of rock music pundit. If St. Jean had mentioned that we played (insert song titles here) horribly, or we were nothing but a poor man's (insert band name here), or our last album (album title here) was a dismal failure, I would've doffed my cap and uttered a humble touché, but there was nothing of the kind.

In fact, I've even reprimanded other musicians when they try and fire back at music critics, even going so far as writing a letter into Toronto weekly Now magazine to defend writer Jason Richards' review of "Atlantis: Hymns For Disco" by rapper K-os when the sensitive self-described "artist" didn't take kindly to Richards' opinion. If you put it out there publicly you should be thick-skinned enough to take it on the chin as long as the review is intelligently scrutinized and disembowelled. That one was.

On the other hand, the site Steve St. Jean writes for seems to be a long-winded pretext to procure free tickets to shows via ticket giveaways to top shelf acts. In my experience, it seems to be the latest way to get into shows -- spend a couple of hours mocking up a logo, shovel some paragraphs of nonsense on some popular band in order to satiate publicists' concerns and wait for free tickets to come barrelling in. It seems a fair barter, but these sites fail to hold their end of the bargain up when halfway through their effort it's clear they don't actually know what they're talking about.

Still, there are bona fide music journalists out there, dwindling as the years pass, whose opinions I cherish and hold dear. These are the savant writers who've earned the title of authority through their encyclopaedic recall of music history and distinguish themselves further by captivating written words. The rest, however, are just sucking air trying desperately to hold off the truth that they don't know anything past the 2012 Grammy nominees. I guess by reviewing St. Jean's review of us, I have inadvertently thrown myself into this mess too, so suddenly Oscar Wilde's quote is quite apt:

"By giving us the opinions of the uneducated, journalism keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community."

I Love Big Turk And I Cannot Lie

2013-04-13T08:32:59-04:00

I will always root for the underdog. Whether it's the Super Bowl or a simple game of Monopoly, whoever's losing will always have my support. It's probably why I got into underground music growing up and quickly realized all the amazing bands were the unheard ones. The same goes for everything else in life -- 7-Up over Sprite, Battlestar Galactica over Star Wars, Coffee Time over Tim Horton's, Go-Bots over Transformers, Mary Brown's over KFC, Partridge Family over The Brady Bunch and St. Hubert's over Swiss Chalet (but not really).

And nowhere is it more consequential than the world of candy bars. Now please understand, my time with candy bars has long since passed. When the ol' metabolism started slowing down I bolted to the gym and immediately cut out the snacks. Today that means curmudgeon envy as I bitterly watch others down endless bags of chips, jellybeans, sugar wafers, ice cream and fudge. Craving sweets every day makes me immediately overcompensate by boasting about how much I don't need foolish confectionaries. But no matter how loud I am, everyone knows I'm lying.

And truth be told, I crave all of it every day, every minute even. When cravings start to ramp up and you start to hyper-focus on chocolate, you quickly realize there's a jungle of chocolate product out there and every dietary slip-up you inevitably plan to make shouldn't come without time-consuming rumination. Sure I can hastily auto-grab a Hershey's Milk Chocolate bar or an Oh Henry, but after the second bite I realize their over-familiar tastes have a diminishing return of satisfaction. I recognized long ago that when I need to fall off the wagon, my indiscretion should only be spent with my favourite chocolate candy bar of all-time -- Big Turk.

Big Turk is a candy bar of Turkish Delight, a gelatinous dessert from Turkey wrapped in a delicious chocolate coating and available exclusively in Canada by Nestle (originally through Smiles N' Chuckles). Introduced to me by my grade 5 teacher, it has since been my favourite candy bar. To my utter amazement, most of my friends find it revolting. More for me then. Even to this day, it is perennially found at the bottom of the candy rack and I have never ever seen anyone buying it. Still, it's never been yanked from the shelves so someone else has to be loving it, too.

And what's not to love? When the imposing turkish delight meets with the wafer-thin North American chocolatey coating, it's an irresistible cultural blend of east-meets-west and qualified successor to the Reese Peanut Butter Cup. It's like when Ahmet Ertegun signed Led Zeppelin or when Dr. Oz first appeared on The Oprah Winfrey show. Or even better, it's like having a three-way with both Mary Ann and Ginger from Gilligan's Island or when you find out Walmart has a McDonalds inside.

Big Turk is like some candy bar coelacanth, outlasting some of the greatest treats ever -- O'Ryans Sour Cream & Bacon flavoured chips, Milk Mate, Bonkers candy and Boo Berry (now relegated to seasonal production). I'm half-writing this in order to keep it a high priority on the Nestle roster just in case.

So the next time you find yourself peckish and craving a sugary treat, why not touch your toes, bend down to the bottom of the candy rack at the convenience store and try that Big Turk? You might be pleasantly surprised and may just end up insisting it be buried with you when you die.

Four Signs That Metal Is Everywhere

2013-04-05T17:04:41-04:00

Even though I play in a rock 'n' roll band, my leisure time is spent listening to things much heavier. I grew up a metal kid and it wasn't until I was exposed to all sides of punk rock did I lower my defences and start listening to more kinds of musics. Since that time my life has come full circle and, well, it's back to metal again.

Nothing has changed today from when I was a youngster listening to Satanic music. No matter how much more accepted it is, heavy metal is still ridiculed and dismissed as a type of music mainly for idiots. The irony is that for all the laughter and potshots, it endures.

That's because it's musical. One must be very adept and schooled on their respective instrument in order to play metal. Perhaps all this razzing stems from everyone else's insecurity knowing that deep down inside their rudimentary knowledge of five guitar chords combined with some indie blog critical praise is all a gigantic ruse. Most people aren't "players." Metal people are players.

And despite all this repudiation, pop culture continues to quietly appropriate from metal when it pleases, treating it like some shameful concubine. Metal's dissemination into popular culture is a quiet constant, perpetually being siphoned and dispersed into the consciousness of popular taste to the unawareness of the zombie masses.

Don't believe me? Here are four examples of heavy metal's direct influence on things you never thought were metal:

Devil Horns -- How fucking tired is this hand sign? Everyone from Nikki Minaj to George W. Bush do it. In fact, most people knee-jerk to this pose when quickly snapping an iPhone pic with friends. Hell, even I do it in photos, mainly because I don't know what else to do with my bloody hands. That, and, well, Ronnie James Dio did it too (RIP).

What most people don't realize is that the devil horn hand sign is purely Satanic. The correct way to do it is having only the forefinger and pinky finger pointed up replicating a pair of horns while the other three digits remain down symbolizing the denial of the holy trinity. Three sixes are eerily formed on one's hand while doing properly.

A lot of people think the devil horn hand includes the thumb. Sorry but no dice. I know Gene Simmons has laid claim to this version of the sign and he can very well have it. With a thumb sticking out it's merely a benign gesture of little consequence.

Just remember that the next time your hipster sister, who loves Fleet Foxes, raises a devil horn half in jest for a photo op. She's actually praising Lord Hell Satan.

Skrillex Hair -- By now, if you're even half-informed with today's celebutards then you should be familiar with this trendy hairstyle supposedly started by electronic dubstep (and former screamo) musician, Skrillex, whereby one shaves half his head of long hair. Avril Lavigne did it, so did Rhianna and Willow Smith. Even porn stars like Skin Diamond and Kagney Linn Karter have done it (don't ask me how I know that). I'm assuming they all did it to show the world their individuality.

But just in case you were wondering, Skrillex -- apparent fashion template to the stars -- copped it off Blacky, bassist from Voivod. When Voivod released their monumental prog-metal album, Killing Technology in 1987, Blacky was seen sporting this exact hairstyle on the back cover and his groundbreaking hairstyle mirrored the band's progressive sound. Jason Newsted of Metallica later followed suit, altering it slightly by shaving off both sides of his head only to be followed by James Hetfield and igniting a parade of imitators. Skrillex seems to have been one of these Blacky acolytes, too.

So yeah, sorry ladies, it seems like your cool hip 'do is nothing more than a copycat coif from the 1980's French Canadian metal scene.

Battle Jackets/Vests -- Everyone has seen the keen metalhead sporting one of these battle vests festooned with patches, front and back, on their denim jackets. What has always fascinated me is most battle vests make no distinction between what style of metal band it is just as long as it's metal. Black Metal patches are sewn seamlessly next to '80s power metal bands in an impressive show of metallic solidarity.

But when mainstream pop culture gets its slimy hands on this much beloved fan-reared item things get ugly fast. Take Chris Brown, the R&B singer/Douchebag #1, who, after physically abusing pop singer Rhianna still got to play Saturday Night Live and the B.E.T. awards afterwards. He was recently photographed wearing a leather jacket sporting patches from credible metal and punk crossover bands like D.R.I., Suicidal Tendencies, Municipal Waste and Corrosion Of Conformity. Obviously, Brown had no idea who or what he was wearing, but the photos became incredibly embarrassing for all bands involved.

Brown's jacket was actually a DNA Fashion item designed by Noel Austin. These are jackets made for people too rich to shop at Hot Topic, too lazy to make their own battle vests and too out of touch to even know what patches to choose. Austin says that it helps promote the bands whose patches he uses to adorn the jackets, but at up to $7,200 a pop I wonder if any of that money filters its way back to said bands since Austin is in essence selling their credibility, history and design for his own gain.

Let's hope Chris Brown's association ends this trend.

Iron Maiden T-Shirts -- Not nearly as bad as Chris Brown wearing a C.O.C. patch on his jacket, but equally bizarre is the new trend of Hollywood celebrity types wearing Iron Maiden T-shirts. I'll give anyone a fair shake, but there's no way Miley Cyrus, Lindsey Lohan, Drew Barrymore and Juicy J of Three 6 Mafia own a Maiden record, and if they do now it's only because one of their handlers read this piece and tried haphazardly to play catch-up. Also, $20 says most of these so-called "headbangers" think Iron Maiden is a brand and not a band.

To use an antiquated form of teen expression, what a bunch of posers.

The music biz can sometimes be nothing more than a lingering version of high school where people (i.e. adults) still judge others solely based on what music they like. OK, maybe I'm slightly guilty of this too, but after popular culture's non-stop potshots and pecking at the hem of metal's garment, it's high time someone took up the gauntlet and fired back.

I Can't Get No Restaurant Service

2013-03-28T17:41:27-04:00

Everyone is born with a certain amount of talent. The catch is you have to figure out how to harness it and make it work in your favour. How many people with the talent and potential to become championship tennis players are working in some office cubicle right now because they never bothered to pick up a tennis racquet? How many people with the ability to out-sing Pavarotti are working at a dry cleaners because they were too shy to sing outside of the shower? How many people with enough genius to find a cure for a terminal illness are librarians who dropped out of grade 12 physics 'cause they liked English Lit. better?

Conversely, as much as everyone is bequeathed with a set amount of innate talents, we're also encumbered with an equal amount of innate shortcomings. For example, over the years, my attempts at singing have garnered enough positive response from people to continue singing publicly, but on the flipside I have no sense of direction and suffer from extreme bouts of impatience. These are merely deficiencies that I can, with a little concentration and determination, compensate fore. However, I do have a flair for a certain flaw that, no matter what I do to try and fix it, never fails to hose me every time -- I can NOT get service at restaurants.

Now please don't misunderstand, this observation isn't based on anything racial. Neither am I showing up to these establishments wearing plastic grocery bags for pants and/or in bad need of deodorant. For some inexplicable reason, I'm constantly seen as wallpaper to wait staff everywhere. How many times have I sat there waiting for menus, to order drinks, to order food while other tables who came after me progress onward with their meals, from appetizers to main courses? I can't count.

It has nothing to do with who's accompanying me to the meal either. I could be by myself, with friends, or on a date and it never fails that I'm mistakenly passed over as either the carpet or the wallpaper. So over the years I've learned a few tricks to grab people's attention. A big "Helllooooo" or a loud cough works often, but that's only because you're deliberately seeking attention. Even wallpaper gets looked at if someone's graffitied "eat shit and die" on it.

I've found eyebrow gesticulation accompanied with a smile or eyeball bulge only works when the dining room is half-full. Otherwise I'm looked at inquisitively, like when someone contemplating an overwatered houseplant.

When it comes to food service, you have to be careful to not cross lines of decorum. As someone who's spent a fair amount of time in the service industry, horror stories of saliva, mucus, rheum, sneezing, coughing being used as condiments can be true if a customer pushes the wrong buttons. I'm not saying I've done it, but I may have seen it done and courteously looked the other way in a gesture of short-order solidarity.

Knowing this, I may have a tendency to be overly polite, some may say to Eddie Haskel-esque degrees. I don't condescend to wait staff, but talk to them like one would their aunt or uncle or school principal -- well-mannered to the point of being barf-worthy.

Thing is, if this being-ignored business only happened occasionally I'd be inclined to blame it on a distracted employee. But I've had this happen enough times to begin counting and I'm up to around two dozen infractions in the last two years. This is beyond happenstance now and forcing me to give myself a cold hard look.

Why am I continually being ignored without the slightest provocation? I don't dress any more or less conspicuous than the next guy. Like I mentioned, I'm overly polite and clean and wait my turn patiently. I hardly ever complain about the choice of table, cutlery, room temperature or make any unneeded demands before service starts. And when service finally begins I'm usually overly grateful. So what gives?

I've come to the conclusion that I give off a first impression that resembles a fruit bowl placed on a table -- present and accounted for, but once acknowledged immediately forgotten. Truth be told, I enjoy the snubs. It keeps the fires burning. Fading into the background has always given me the impetus to step on a stage and demand people look at me. It's just that when it happens in restaurants my stomach gets louder than me.

How I Found Home In Australia

2013-03-22T17:00:00-04:00

The goal of every band in every local music scene is to eventually sprout wings big enough to fly the coop and tour the world. The inevitable fallout is a natural disconnect from the scene that spawned you when you return with heightened prodigal son expectations. Our band began touring across the Atlantic over a decade ago, and today, trips back home are sometimes more of a visit than a return. This has led me to have gradually grown unfamiliar with my hometown.

Couple this realization with the fact that, despite my extroverted onstage self, I'm quite quiet in my personal life and over the years have slowly become a hermit in-between tours. This doesn't bode well when socializing and/or networking within the music biz where deals are often struck in rock bars and dressing rooms in the twilight hours. Successive crops of next-big-thing Toronto bands have come and gone with me hardly ever being aware they even existed. This isn't out of spite or malice, but rather a bon afide result of constant movement and exposure to deafening noise that has resulted in an inverse need for stillness and silence.

However, if you spend enough time staying away from home, eventually, home will find you. I just didn't know it would happen in Australia.

The Soundwave Festival is the biggest festival in Australia, traveling all over the continent mid-February for two weeks (February 19 to March 3). Bands on the bill are grouped together on airplanes, shuttles, hotels and hangouts are almost forced upon you. Even though hanging out isn't exactly my favourite pastime, Soundwave had me giddy like a 12 year-old school girl when I saw this year's impeccable 2013 line-up.

Whether it was chatting it up with Mike Dean (Corrosion Of Conformity/Kyuss Lives), attending the Metallica BBQ, sharing a dressing room with Kingdom Of Sorrow, sharing a bus with Sick Of It All and Madball, or sharing the stage with Duff McKagan's Loaded and Fucked Up, I was in seventh heaven; half-trying to be cool enough to hang and half-unable to contain my fandom. Even our whole crew noticed my changed disposition: I was handing out hi-fives and hugs rather than my usual grimace. It was the equivalent of the greatest summer camp a silly music fan like myself can be thrown into. I was on tour but, looking back on it now, I was also on vacation. I'm not used to vacations.

Also, this year's Soundwave line-up had a lopsided dose of bands from Toronto and I knew I'd come face to face with other Torontonians. Despite our shared hometown and mutual friends, I was nervous that I'd have nothing to say to them past a "hello" and once again get tagged as "the asshole in that band."

Strangely, I've found myself in this position on more than one occasion. It's how I became friends with Damian Abraham of Fucked Up when we hung out for a night in Holland at the Lowlands Festival, never before meeting each other in Toronto. I was convinced he hated our band, but nevertheless was enamored with his. Before I had a chance to head out to their stage to watch them play, he was already introducing himself to me and immediately assuaged any uneasiness I had.

Again in Germany, a year or two later, when our band played with Alexisonfire at another festival, I hung out with guitarist Wade MacNeil (now of Gallows). I've since become good friends with these gentlemen and it's all through the magic circumstance of being Canadians abroad starved for camaraderie. Knowing Fucked Up and Gallows were going to be on Soundwave put me at ease.

Did Soundwave's exemplary treatment and organization help? Or the beautiful +30 degree February weather beating down on a bunch of Canadians that had just come from snow and ice? Or was it the laudable assembly of bands that put everyone in a mood to mingle, including, of all people... me? I'm not sure, but I walked away from Soundwave with a bunch of incredible memories and a list of new friends from my hometown all acquired between Melbourne and Perth.

To Fucked Up, Billy Talent, Cancer Bats and Sum 41, you are an upstanding group of people. Good hangs, gentlemen. Let's continue to hang when we're somewhere between Bloor & Yonge and King & Front.

To the Soundwave Festival, thank you for the opportunity to play your beautiful country. I had one of the best times of my life, playing some of the funnest shows ever. And thanks for giving me the opportunity to meet a bunch of Torontonians.

Toronto Is The Best, Get Out Of My Way

2013-03-16T01:04:09-04:00

To a large part of Canada, Toronto is seen as a place filled with rude, cold-hearted, selfish people. It's a place where no pleasantries are exchanged. It's a place to live only if loneliness and rat races make you happy. Its sprawling cityscape and adjacent suburban wasteland are viewed as desecrations to the environment. It's a canker desperately trying to play catch up to New York City but failing miserably. It's a boil on the otherwise upstanding reputation of Canada.

I agree with every fiery postulation about the city. And that's why I love it and call Toronto my home.

I feel like apologizing to all the citizens of all the other provinces every time I hear a visiting person make a crack about how people in Toronto will actually scowl at you when you pass them in the streets. That was probably me out on one of my daily strolls. Sorry, but it's probably because you were in my way.

Now I realize the population density of Toronto doesn't come close to places like New Delhi, Tokyo or New York, but considering Canada is the second largest country in the world with almost 10-million square kilometres and only 34-million people to nest in it, the Greater Toronto Area's 5.5-million populace can seem to other Canadians like an overflowing animal cage. Born and raised in Toronto, I have watched the population rise and it certainly feels that way.

But we all have to live with one another and all are welcome. I'm proud of the fact that Toronto is the most multicultural city in the world per capita with no caustic racial divides past the usual civilized tension. So if people scowl and aren't the most outgoing and friendly, instead of taking it as an insult and waylaying the entire city, maybe it can be viewed as nothing more than a defensive tactic.

With Toronto's growing population, I've naturally acquired a set of new pet peeves. One of them being that I can't stand it when people stand in doorways. Doorways are meant to be passed through. When you pass through a doorway, chances are there's another person right behind ready to do the same thing. The same can be said of standing at the bottom of escalators. If you just stand there, you block everybody's path and are suddenly barring all from going forth and living the rest of their lives.

Over the years I have quietly contained my anger every time one of these self-absorbed morons obstructs my path. I usually just squeak out an "excuse me" in my politest Canadianese and the person always moves aside, sometimes apologetic, which is nice, but usually still oblivious and operating on a robotic need to avoid further confrontation.

We've all seen these dunces, absorbed in their thoughts and unable to see the people inhabiting the world around them. They are the centre of their own universe except their universe is the size of a Frisbee filled with question marks and deer in headlights.

There needs to be drastic steps taken to stop this foolish behaviour.

When someone is caught standing in any publicly used doorway, the person behind them should be allowed to legally push them in order to make them move. The push should be firm but light. Think of it as the urban version of a herding dog driving the dumb cattle over rugged topography. A push is all you need in order to allow people to keep living their vibrant lives. Holding folks back by foolishly, albeit unwittingly, blocking a doorway keeps others at a standstill and that should be punishable.

Sure, if actually implemented there will be the tendency for people to push harder than permitted. Some will take advantage of the "push allowance" and turn it into more of a "shove" or a "wallop" than the light tap that I'm suggesting, but so be it. As the overused adage goes -- "you snooze, you lose." Fights will break out, but those would be understandable transitionary repercussions and most likely temporary until we settle back into our polite Canadian dispositions.

Additionally, the push rule couldn't be applied to the elderly or small children. That could get ugly. But for everyone else... get out of people's way and make yourself scarce. In other words, "Beat It, Kid," which would become the city's new slogan.

I don't mean this to be sanctioned and enforced in any other Canadian city besides Toronto. Montreal, Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Halifax and Saskatoon can keep being the friendly and perfectly populated metropolitan areas they've always been. But in order to match the rude reputation that our fair streets of Toronto has acquired there needs to be some follow through, so I say push.

Don't push hard, just push. Poke, too.

An example of Danko's forthcoming "Sidewalk" policy:

The Music Festival for Heavy Music Lovers

2013-03-09T07:34:35-05:00

There are two kinds of people in this world -- people who listen to music and people who don't. They think they listen to music, but they really don't. These are people who listen to what's spoon-fed to them by a variety of cursory sources i.e. car radio, magazine cover, iTunes banner, billboard, movie theme song, etc. Some people will obsessively listen to one record or one band or one music genre over and over again and consider themselves music lovers. They're only music listeners in the same way someone who travels to Disneyland every summer calls themselves a world traveler.

These desultory listeners need to have this reality clarified for them because real music listeners are music lovers and they truly are a special breed. There are several tiers to this distinction. For example, when placed beside someone like Damian Abraham, singer of Fucked Up, I pale in comparison because I don't think I'd spend $1,800 on a Negative Approach single like he did. So some are more fervent than others. But at its core real music listener has a compulsion to listen to as much "good" music as possible before one dies, regardless of genre.

To me, there are only two types of music in the world -- good and bad. I like to listen to the good kind. Music is surely relative, but when one looks at the music that gets continually lauded over, be it critically or at a mainstream level, there's usually a complete dismissal of anything remotely hard or heavy. Reason being is that, to most, the brashness of heavy music is seen as vulgar and uncouth, and that's not even counting its lyrics.

I've always been stupefied by this generally accepted idea. Nobody on either side of the fence even bothers an attempt to rectify heavy music's perception as unsophisticated. Meanwhile, bands like Cult Of Luna, Shining, Sons Of Otis and dozens of others proffer servings of beautiful cacophony that are on par with any recognized and critically accepted music act.

For years I've been a very outspoken booster for all things hard and heavy while I quietly listened to music acts like The Dears, Stereolab, Broken Social Scene, Smog and Bedhead. It wasn't out of embarrassment or shame, but rather out of a futile attempt to even up what I saw as uneven attention going to softer musics. I still stand behind the notion that A Sun That Never Sets by Neurosis is just as, if not more, beautiful and rapturous as Elliot Smith's XO album, but most people haven't even heard Neurosis so it loses that debate on the ignorance vote.

There is for people like me, however, an oasis called The Roadburn Festival that represents everything that I've vaunted for years. Roadburn's a four-day annual event in Tilburg, Holland (April 18 to 21, 2013) catering to heavy music lying outside of agreed upon music boundaries. From its early beginnings as a website dedicated to stoner rock and doom in the late-'90s to evolving into an internationally attended festival of renown, Roadburn harnesses a new list of underground bands each year with little stature, but rabid followings and collectively stuffs them into the 013, a venue that can hold just over 2,000 people. Each passing year the festival sells out months in advance without fail, proving there is an audience for this music.

Unlike other esteemed festivals like Coachella, Roadburn refuses to kowtow to commercial acts, sticking to their mandate of "... creat(ing) an adventurous festival we would want to attend as music lovers," as said by co-founder and artistic director, Walter Hoeijmakers. He further reiterates, "We want Roadburn to be this festival as a tribute to the open-mindedness of the music lover."

Any sense of musical adventure would be lost if forced to crowbar triple-A acts like Red Hot Chilli Peppers or Kanye West and thankfully Roadburn knows this.

What's probably the most endearing part of the festival is their curated line-ups overseen in the past by such highly respected bands like Electric Wizard, Triptykon, Voivod and Sunn O))). It's this curating angle, as well as their clever underground band choices that earns Roadburn the cred other more commercial festivals fail to capitalize on -- the marked interest in bands as fans themselves.

Although my band is probably looked upon as too commercial by most Roadburn attendees, I'm still throwing my hat in the ring as potential curator. I love the running orders and regardless of what music I play, it doesn't stop me from listening to this music, too -- music meant to push, elate, explore, bludgeon and deafen.

If I could hold Roadburn in rapture for one night it might go like this:

Moving Sidewalks (HEADLINER)
Diamanda Galas (HEADLINER)

Jandek
Zeitkratzer (Plays Metal Machine Music) OR
Zeitkratzer with Keiji Haino
Nifelheim
Zombi
Grand Magus
Brant Bjork & The Bros
Ben Frost
Yamantaka Eye
Church Of Misery
Shining (Norge)
Sacrifice
Gentleman's Pistols
Hirax
The Doomriders
Colin Stetson
Brothers Of The Sonic Cloth
Sons Of Otis
Burning Love
Bombass
Danava
Beaver
Evil United

Danko Jones would like to watch this:

My Favourite T-Shirt Says a lot About Me

2013-03-01T17:02:47-05:00

Oh T-shirts, how I love thee! They have the ability to keep gas in the tank of a band's van and put a meal in front of them while out on the road. Aside from helping in band promotion they also act as forms of payment, peace offerings and items for barter. Often taken for granted, band T-shirts are what keep the mid-level music biz afloat.

Working in an industry that doesn't require one to wear a suit and tie or a uniform with a name tag means there sometimes needs to be other superficial ways to check credibility, status and taste. T-shirts are often that means. For example, if I saw someone wearing an Angry Birds T-shirt and was over 25 years-old, I will immediately assume that person is a fucking moron. It's kind of like avoiding anybody who is of post-graduate age and reads Harry Potter books.

However, there are certain shirts that instantly scream cred. For example, anybody who passes my transom sporting the classic "Mickey Mouse" Jesus Lizard T-shirt will undoubtedly seize my attention and attain my almost-immediate respect. If the T-shirt displays a lesser-known entity, like a vintage guitar company, small record label logo, obscure band or some cool graphic illustration, I might be liable to assume this person, despite the pedestrian choice of T-shirt/jeans ensemble, has discerning tastes as well -- a cut above the rest of the crowd.

That said, sometimes wearing the band T-shirt itself is simply not enough. Just because you wear a Metallica T-shirt, you have to be careful it has the correct logo. A "Load" era logo just doesn't carry the same weight as a "Ride The Lightning" era logo. Conversely, if, in 2013, somebody passed me on the street wearing a Kiss shirt from their 1983-1996 sans make-up era, I'll either think that person is doomed to eternal virginity or the coolest cat this side of the Kiss-quator (copyright 2013 by me, Gene).

It's a fine line to walk when considering T-shirt staples like The Ramones' iconic Presidential eagle seal and the old English Motorhead Snaggletooth emblem. Both insignias transcended their rock roots and have become pop culture mainstays to the point where even some 20-something hipsters actually think they're more brands than bands. So I'm very wary to credit someone with discerning taste upon seeing these shirts on their person. They could very well be some weekend warrior playing dress-up rocker who only knows "Enter Sandman."

And even when this stab at credibility is heartfelt, like a 19-year-old kid wearing a Slayer "Show No Mercy" baseball T-shirt, it's also hard to not suspend disbelief that they actually bought that shirt at the show way back in the day. On the other hand, Charlie Sheen "Winning" T-shirts, while gauche today could very well turn around and become a hilarious wardrobe throwdown in say, eight years. Just try containing your laughter if somebody wearing a Borat "Let's Make Sexy Time" T-shirt walked by you even today.

So with all this thought into something as common as the casual top, I proffer up my favourite T-shirt -- the Don Knotts-as-Danzig "Donzig" shirt. Now, I'm not sure if this is actual merch for a band called Don Knotts ('cause there is a band called Don Knotts from Wyoming, MI) or just another appropriation of the Glenn Danzig-fronted "Danzig" skull, itself a poaching of the skull from Marvel comic "Crystar, Crystal Warrior" issue no. 8 from 1983, but that's irrelevant. What is important is that never has a T-shirt so seamlessly blended two of my favourite things in the world -- Three's Company's Ralph Furley a.k.a. Barney Fife, and the Danzig skull. It's like the showbiz equivalent of a Reese's Pieces candy bar.

I first saw Nashville Pussy's Jeremy Thompson wearing the shirt in a band photo and badgered him about it until I retrieved its details. It took a while but I finally tracked down the makers and have since seen it sold at various online depots. Clearly, my fandom for both entities is shared.

I own and have seen every episode of Three's Company and its spin-offs The Ropers and Three's A Crowd at least five times over. Furthermore, I have just about every Glenn Danzig-related record that's ever been released and probably listened to each a minimum of 10 times, if not more. In other words, there's never been something so tailor-made for me then this Donzig shirt.

It's almost as if the T-shirt knocked on my door because I had been waiting for it. It danced on my floor and took a step that was new. Even though I was in a loveable space and needed its face it wasn't about to see my light. It did however want to find hell with me and I showed it what it was like.

In Praise of the Gourmet Burger

2013-02-23T16:59:51-05:00

Since McDonald's fast food restaurants were brought to their knees by Morgan Spurlock's "Supersize Me" documentary, patronage has dropped quite considerably. Despite people's growing aversion to the golden arches, the collective craving for a hamburger hasn't diminished. What's helped satiate the ground beef patty itch is the recent trend of the gourmet burger.

Even though they're three to four times more expensive than their Mickey Dee counterparts, most of these burgers surpass it in taste by six to eight times. For naysayers, liken it to the day you wiped your ass on 3-ply toilet paper after a lifetime of using crumbling dollar store 1-ply sheets and maybe then you can start to understand the difference. Remember also the day you tried going back to said 1-ply paper and sadly realized you couldn't. The same can be said of the day you try your first perfectly made gourmet burger.

As the hamburger becomes a more accepted item on dinner menus, the compulsion to have the "best hamburger in town" will slowly become a mark of esteem rather than a blemish to the fine dining restaurant. In Toronto, we are seeing a hamburger renaissance where patrons are willing to wait in the blistering cold and/or fork over costly sums in order to bridge the gap between their plebeian palates and their refined urbanity. Raised eyebrows be damned for I am one of these people.

Recently, I visited Marben, a fine dining restaurant in downtown Toronto that, no matter how succulent the rest of the menu is, gets introduced with a "you gotta try their burger." "John's Burger", as it's plainly named, is deliberately presented like every other burger you'd order at a greasy joint except that it will make your Top Ten list of best hamburgers you've ever eaten in your life.

If you haven't eaten food in the last hour or so, its description alone may get you frothing at the mouth - braised short ribs shredded and then mixed inside red angus meat from local Dingo Farms. It's topped with aged cheddar and a Branston pickle spread. Describing it without using F words wouldn't do it justice.

Yet, as burger sophisticated as it gets with John's Burger from Marben, and as lowest common denominator as one can get with the Big Mac, signature sandwich of the McDonald's food corporation, there's one thing they both have in common that has arguably put them a cut above the rest - no Tomatoes.

I dislike tomatoes on hamburgers. Actually, I hate tomatoes on hamburgers. Don't get me wrong, BLTs, topping salads, tomato sauce or with mozzarella, tomatoes are fantastic. However, hamburgers are no place for tomatoes. Tomatoes, usually cut cold and placed chilled on top of a steaming hot beef patty makes for the most imperfect coupling in food preparation. It's like serving hot chocolate with ice cubes. Even the revolting "Hawaiian Pizza", with its pineapple topping, doesn't come close to this edible aberration. Does the proliferation of the "tomato-as-hamburger-topping" stem from a general hankering for the vegetable-like fruit or is it just an unconscious reflex after years of indoctrination?

For some reason there is a generally accepted selection of hamburger toppings that are automatically found on a burger and rarely with customer consultation - lettuce, mustard, ketchup and tomatoes. Even cheese, despite it being proven over and over again to increase the flavour of a hamburger from bland to scrumptious, is left to the customer to choose before ordering. While onions, due to societal dictates of one's breath, are cautiously ordered after the fact.

Whether it's hard as a rock or soft as a jellyfish, the consistency of a tomato can never compliment the hamburger. When cut crisp, its hardness ends up competing with the patty to unpalatable degrees, while when cut a tad overripe will inevitably sog up the bun; turning an otherwise delicious meal into a wet ball.

If people think they're offsetting their risk of heart disease, high blood pressure and diabetes when eating greased hamburgers by stuffing them with the healthy goodness of tomatoes then they're in for one rude awakening. Hell, you can put crushed multi-vitamins in place of chocolate sprinkles on your vanilla ice cream but you're still gonna gain weight.

What's weirder still is that ketchup, in its essence, is made out of tomatoes, thus already bestowing the burger with tomato flavour. Why, after adding a subtle and beloved tomato-like paste, would you add real tomatoes? It's like drinking orange flavoured Kool-Aid after eating an orange.

I'm well aware that there are bigger problems in the world but my contempt for tomatoes in hamburgers isn't a problem, it's a minor annoyance. Minor annoyances can be easily overlooked but not easily forgotten. Sometimes minor annoyances simmer quietly for years and most of the time left unsolved. But don't think for a second that anyone is above accumulating their own list of annoyances like - people who stand in doorways, people who answer a text with an email or vice versa, people who make left turns over yellow lines, people who deliberately sprinkle their speak with ebonics to sound hip, negative online comments with spelling mistakes...

Although, those are more grievances from my own list.

Please, Don't Call Me or Yourself An "Artist"

2013-02-15T08:39:06-05:00

Can all people making music everywhere just agree to never use the word "artist" when describing themselves? It sounds easy enough to do but try telling them that. Everywhere I look in the music world I'm inundated by this suffix affixed to every person like herpes -- "recording artist," "performing artist," or in some cases just "artist," no doubt to suggest that everything they do should be considered "art," including flatulence, watching television, defecation, making a sandwich or expectorating phlegm.

And to immediately eschew any tangled debate on what art is, let's stick to the best definition of art I've ever heard, said by Frank Zappa: "Art is making something out of nothing and selling it." If anyone even attempts to oppose this statement, they're already rambling.

I can see how "artist" can be attractive for people in the music biz because it's a pretentious sounding word, meant to place the user on par with other more esteemed fine arts. However, its overusage by a line-up of people that would put an American Idol open call to shame has rendered it worthless and akin to receiving a doctorate in psychology off the internet.

When it comes to making music, I find it presumptuous to call yourself an "artist." It's akin to opening up a can of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni and calling yourself a cook. It's based on the assumption that anything anyone produces at the end of the creative process is automatically "art." However, when upholding Zappa's definition of "art," the "art" in question needs to be monetized or else you're engaged in nothing but a hobby. Without this distinction, scribbles made by any random four-year-old can and should be put on equal level with whatever the MOMA is showcasing this week.

Unfortunately, when some of these "artists" ascribe to these tenets and do end up finding recognition it merely provides an excuse for them to blather on relentlessly about their process, their feelings and their creative struggle, as if they shoulder the burden of producing their art to save the rest of us (for proof watch any moderately successful Canadian musical act on a press junket). If they could only hear how self-involved and vacuous they sound maybe they'd quiet down a bit but they'd probably only end up yammering further about how self-aware they are about how self-involved they are.

After 17 years playing music, I've been labeled an "artist" by others many times, more out of journalistic automation than any sincere intent. Still, each time I've been tagged with this word I consider it a slur. Truthfully, it's the weight I give the word that makes me renounce it was such vehemence.

To me, it's a word that takes dogged work to earn and achieve and most people in the music biz (and by most I mean 99 per cent) are overgrown children who don't deserve the title. No matter how many of these so called "artists" kick and scream against my assertions, their significance is not for them to decide.

I know naysayers will be quick to tell me I have nothing to worry about because my output is anything but "art" and I'm nowhere close to being considered an "artist." No argument here. You'd be already preaching to the choir, but don't think for a second the critically-acclaimed doleful troubadours you love so much, with their formulaic three-minute songs containing yet another combination of C, G and E chords, are any different. When stripped of their somber delivery and well-directed marketing, we can all be found trudging around in the same trough.

Don't think that this diatribe concludes by me elevating myself above this throng of wannabes either. I'm just as guilty of wanting the acclaim and honour as the next guy. For God's sake, that's the reason why I sing songs in public and wait for applause. But instead of the hackneyed "artist" moniker, I'd prefer more distinguished and less used terms like "Show-Off," "Braggart," "Blowhard" and my personal favourite, "Ham."

At least my title would be honest.

The Grammys' Biggest Fraudster Is My Biggest Hero

2013-02-10T15:32:19-05:00

By now, most people familiar with this year's Grammys are aware of Al Walser's nomination in the Best Dance Recording category for his song "I Can't Live Without You." The controversy surrounding Walser has to do with his unknown status as a dance act but, through a loophole in the Grammy voting process, legitimately, diligently and successfully lobbied online for votes. The results, some are saying, have embarrassed the Recording Academy but Grammy folk are stoically twisting the pickle to look like they encourage grassroots and a level playing field, which is riotous spin in its thinnest form.

If anything, it has shown that most voters, while attentively voting for the prestigious categories of Record Of The Year and Song Of The Year, pay little attention to, what is obviously seen as lesser categories like Best Dance Recording. The numbers speak for themselves -- Facebook and Youtube "likes" and "hits" are only in the few thousands for Walser compared to his fellow nominees like Skrillex and Swedish House Mafia which run up to the millions. So it's an easy argument when trying to prove his Grammy illegitimacy.

Naturally, his nomination ignited a shitstorm. From all sides, journalists, disgruntled dance acts and the general public voiced their disapproval. To his credit, Walser compared what he did to nothing more than what record labels already do during award season and stood his ground. As an outsider, nowhere near being Grammy-worthy, I think I can objectively state what hasn't been said enough through this whole debacle:

AL WALSER IS MY MOTHERF***ING HERO.

I will be honest, my knowledge on Electronic Dance Music is surface at best. I like a few acts but I am far from qualified to deem which one is better than the next. Upon first listen to Walser's "I Can't Live Without You" song, my skin started to wrinkle and my toes started to curl in agony.

I strongly believe that Walser's music will be the soundtrack Lucifer will be playing through Hell's sound system when I inevitably get sent down there on judgement day. It is music meant for dudes who think wearing shiny gold baseball hats sideways, Bill Cosby sweaters and acid wash jeans are cool, but Walser is still my hero.

All of us, especially the ones of us who make music for a living, would love to get nominated for a Grammy and go to the ceremony. And every year 99.999 per cent of us get shut out and left holding the bag (usually filled with potato chips on our couch) watching the beautiful people pose, hobnob and generally act entitled because they...well...kinda are since they're at The Grammys and the rest of us are not.

Only Walser had the cojones, and quite frankly the time since his career wasn't exactly taking off anywhere, to sit in front of his computer like Matthew Broderick in War Games, and crash the party. To me, it's the best prank on the industry since Shawn Fanning created Napster.

As far as I'm concerned, there's too much sunshine shone up celebrities asses on a daily basis. Al Walser is our pop culture leveler. What gets forgotten by most is that a 6th grade teacher teaching a class of kids to read is monumentally more important and beneficial to our society than whatever Beyoncé is currently doing or not doing.

Maybe Walser's nomination can remind the people who think their shit doesn't stink that it in fact does, only some, like Walser's, is more odorous.