2013-05-24T10:37:35-04:00 Lights http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=lights Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Lights Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3188171 2013-05-01T08:02:25-04:00 2013-05-15T18:39:47-04:00

Lights http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lights/
Like most things, music has been manipulated and formatted over time to become a money-making device. Finding the perfect balance has been a continuous contest for me over the years, to make something appealing to the public that's still deep and honest. I make electronic music for the most part. I spend time trying to find beats that energize, sounds that perk the ears, bass that makes your chest swell. I ask myself how it will come across live so show goers will have a good time, make sure sounds and frequencies are sorted appropriately so that it will fit well with all the other music of the world. It's fun, I enjoy that aspect of music creation.

But at the end of the day I always have this vision of the end of the world, when everything is gone and burned away and there is no electricity. I submit my songs to the test every time, will it still affect and give if the planet goes dark?

In March of 2011, right after the songs were written and largely finished for Siberia I spent 10 days holed up in a wintery Tobermory cottage with an acoustic guitar and a cello. I recorded each of the songs using only these tools to make sure they all translated well stripped right down to the bare bones. Things came out of the lyrics and melodies I hadn't heard before. In the two years following I got to know the naked versions more and more, changed them around, learned their live dynamics, perfected them. Jet-lagged, sleepless nights spawned arrangement ideas that my (sometimes) too logical mind might not have conjured up. And finally, last summer I began laying down what had been steeping for a year and a half.

I realized it was the most time I've ever spent with material before it was permanently recorded. Siberia's acoustic counterpart began to take on a life of its own. It suddenly became ironic, Siberia (the original) was intended to grit and grind, move and quake, rise and drop. Live shows became more and more energetic, bass got heavier, drums got crunchier. That was the point of the record; new sounds, new turf. Siberia Acoustic became so much more than just the songs stripped down. I sat down in the corner every day in the studio and sang tiredly; the intimacy of the guitar takes and vocals were intense and raw. It shook me up and moved me from the inside, it reminded me of my dad playing when I was a kid, something so simple and honest and invisibly powerful that everything around it trembles. It was why I do what I do.

It was an otherworldly experience and I'm so thankful for the alone time I had to spend on these songs. Siberia Acoustic started out as just acoustic version of Siberia but turned into an entirely separate album. I hope this is what I'll get to play at the end of the world.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2144840 2012-11-16T11:17:17-05:00 2013-01-16T05:12:01-05:00

Lights http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lights/
I was home-schooled until the age of 14 before entering the public school system. I was 14 when I first really felt insecure. I worked hard, I believed I could be anything I wanted until I was 14. I remember feeling sick when I walked into the halls of my new school. I was made fun of for trying hard, I was made fun of for being too happy. I made some friends here and there, stood around with the misfits, the awkward misunderstoods. But looking back I knew we all were.

As my family continued to move around I took each new school as an opportunity, a chance to be more of the person I wanted to be. With the loving encouragement of my family I was able to grow into myself pretty well, blocking out the banter of those I forced myself to understand didn't matter.

But that didn't change my popularity, I was always sitting against lockers doing homework, searching for a seat, or eventually just leaving any chance that I could. As a result I was generally ignored, cherished by a small group, and always hated by a few.

There were the ones who decided I was too positive -- they hated how much I smiled. They would pretend to run into me in the halls, shout names at me from their cars if we passed in the streets. Threatened me, pushed me around -- they even keyed my car for pulling up to the "wrong party." I even remember being hated by someone who just decided someone needed to hate me (who recently messaged me on Facebook to apologize...). People hated me for absolutely no reason. And that stands even to this day, it still stings every time.

Bullying comes in so many forms. Whether or not it may be physical, it's painful. Whether or not it may be for any reason at all, it still cuts deep. I receive too many letters from young fans before and after my shows filled with anguished scribbles about depression and sadness. I see girls who have shredded their own skin and have forgotten (or never learned) their own value.

I wish I could grab each one by the shoulders and shake them up and say: "Don't you know it has nothing to do with you? Do you even know how great you can be?" I'm only one person and sometimes I feel helpless, but I sure as hell understand being in a dark place, struggling with yourself. We all know the place, you just need someone to remind you about the other side, the good one. The loving one, the beautiful one, the REAL one. The one where you can be anything you want. The one that gets eclipsed by sadness sometimes.

All darkness passes, and all haters stumble. My dad always used to tell me to keep my eyes up, I urge you to do the same. There will always be people that hate you, but hate is only as powerful as you allow it to be. Talk to someone, pour it out, love yourself, find the things that make you believe and make you passionate, dive into them. Nothing and no one else matters. Maybe someday your haters will find that out too.



]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1971754 2012-10-18T10:00:58-04:00 2012-12-18T05:12:02-05:00

Lights http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lights/
This is when you obtain an item that sits handsomely in your home and also on the back burner of your sense of self, contributing to that interesting person that you deep down know you are. And upon that triumphant feeling of higher self-understanding this item might become the catalyst for a collection of items. And that collection might begin to define the person you become when you look in the mirror and puff your chest out like a warrior, narrowing your brow and flexing your fists every morning before you start your day. Just me? OK. Moving on.

For some people this catalyst item can be a piece of art, something that puts them at ease, matches the décor of the rest of the room, and eventually inspires them to collect more art and observe things with more precision and tact, or become a painter or go into therapy. "Cushion art" even; like that sassy lip shaped pillow. It's easy on the pockets and adds to a living space that speaks "contemporary playful" of your personality.

Eventually you start to collect more things with lips on them, and then you become the "lip guy." But it's cool because you now know everyone knows it's because you're romantic. To some it's decorative plates with stands. Depending on the image on the plate it announces to guests "I like Elvis as well as art, but with a twist because it's a plate!" Others might find their centre in beaded doorway curtains or a stack of coffee table books about electric cars. I don't know. For some, it's decorative weaponry. Sharp and often bedazzled, a pair of crossed swords above the kitchen conveys to guests "don't fuck around," and to the owner, "in another life I could use this very adeptly."

In a nutshell, I am of the latter ilk. And I know I'm not the only one who appreciates a more pointed form of decoration based on the number of people I've seen dragging replica weaponry around FanExpo and conventions of the like. The fact is, your item (whatever it may be) will fuel your intimacy with your interests and it will empower you. Books featuring electric cars can empower you to make a wiser choice on your next automobile purchase. A beaded curtain in the doorway can empower you to see through to the neighbouring room with ease. A weapon can make you understand that somewhere deep inside you, you really are a warrior. I'm not talking about owning guns. That's another kind of collection for another kind of article. I'm talking about fantastical, magically inventive, masterfully fictional weapons of another place and time.

All of that to say, 60 per cent of casual weapon collections begin with a rudimentary acquisition spurred from an often subconscious moment of living room reflection. I won't lie, that is a made up statistic. I'm not entirely sure the research has ever even been done on this thesis, but it sounds reasonable. Anyway, once that first seed of warrior-hood has been planted in your apartment above your television, it's between you and your demons to decide what comes next. And this is where that one fateful item starts to define part of who you are. My collection began with Hadhafang.

Hadhafang belonged to the Elven princess Arwen in the Lord of the Rings films (this particular weapon did not actually appear in the books, lore and design by Weta Workshop). The Sindarin inscription on the blade translates to "this blade is called Hadhafang, a noble defense against the enemy throng for a noble lady," but it was the last and omitted section of the script (due to lack of space on the final prop) that spurred my mum and dad to present this to me as a gift on my 18th birthday. "I hel en aran Gond dolen" translates to "daughter of the hidden rock."

It was the year I left home to seek whatever my future held on the other side of Middle Earth...er...Canada. I was young but I was sure, and this was the perfect sentiment to carry with me to my new territory of conquest. It was the first time I felt, in some other-dimensional way, enabled to fight the battles that were coming. And inevitably they were. Maybe not with ringwraiths and orcs, but with work and life and love (and lack thereof). Especially concerning my impending courting dance at the gates of the music industry.

So there I sat in a small, lonely apartment, staring blankly at the wall featuring Hadhafang and a giant fresco I had given it of a Wonder-Woman-esque beauty wielding a golden axe, proclaiming "zombies!!" ferociously. I needed more. I was excited to be learning what made me come to life and I wanted more of it. Plus, there was an unsightly gap over there by the little tube TV. Without disposable income for what are logically unjustifiable purchases, especially when buying from the produce aisle bargain bin in order to make ends meet, more exquisite weaponry was out of my reach. I went for a walk through China town and outside of a store that seemed to sell everything, I spotted a box titled "Broken Toys $1." I snatched a gold gun with a big bubble through which you could see its menacing mechanics. I slid a Looney across the counter and threw it in my bag. It was ravishing!

The gun, albeit from another era, hung beside Hadhafang, proud and on the ready in case of intergalactic emergencies. In this other world, the trigger had not been snapped off by a most likely meddling customer. My insatiable desire for symmetry/inventory led me to begin spray-painting and antiquating dollar-store water guns. Before I knew it I had a growing collection of steam-punk ray guns arranged smartly on the wall. It sated my taste for arms, but only for a time. Deep down inside I knew these were just toys -- a conk on the head at best if push came to shove. My parents, merciful to my situation, presented to me on my next birthday a handsome particle displacer from Weta Workshop's Dr. Grordbort collection. It was called the Righteous Bison and weighed the same amount as a "small brown trout or two pints of Pale Ale." Soon after that I obtained a vintage Flash Gordon spark gun. My collection was becoming real and beefing up nicely. I was only just getting started.

The influence of ray guns made a very prominent mark in my life. It began to appear in all of my imagery including my first round of merch pins, my debut EP's insert art, in my promo photos, on T-shirt designs, in videos, and even as a sound effect in one of my early songs named I Owe You One. I was becoming the space vigilante of my own realm. I was happy to return home to my armoury. But Hadhafang always had the edge. She was graceful and sharp and fast. There was golden ivy woven into her wooden hilt. She was herself, beautiful and noble. I needed more of that.

On a cold, winter afternoon wandering downtown Toronto I found myself in a kitschy shop on Yonge Street featuring crystals and katanas in the front window. Towards the back there was a display case filled with fantastical daggers of all shapes and sizes. The small Asian woman behind the counter saw my eyes widen and said, "30 per cent off because you a girl!" Sold.

I walked the five frigid kilometres home with a long box. As I screwed L-shaped hooks into my wall to support a silver dagger featuring a transformer-like face with blue gems in his eyes I felt triumph. The dagger era was ushered in. My music started to take me to new places, and with each destination I tried to find something to bring home to the armoury: twin dragon daggers from the Edinburgh castle in Scotland, a swordfish tusk blade complete with clay sheath from Costa Rica, a pair of boot daggers from Germany. It was about marking the place and time taking a piece of cold, hard proof home. I was growing my edge.

Over the following years, new weapons entered my life serving as markers of the times, the lessons, and the people in it. My four-foot strong Solomon's Wisdom blade shows me wisdom is as much a weapon as a weapon itself. The royal blue Zelda Master Sword is the link between youth and adulthood, preaching never to walk too far away from whence you came. A replica from the Bleach manga named 'Zangetsu', which, in Bankai state (its unsealed spiritual form) is a massive, thick, black sword reflective in size of the bearer's spiritual strength, hangs in my apartment to remind me of the side of life that is harder to see.

The Twinblade of the Phoenix is a custom-built incarnation of what I perceive to be the most graceful weapon from a favourite game of mine, World of Warcraft, and a gift from loving members of my fanbase and guild within the world. With its wide, red wings spanning the hilt, I saw the Phoenix always rising from the ashes. The oversized, matte-black Batarang that splits into two matching daggers provided countless hours begging the question "how the hell does this come apart," made me better at puzzles, and is really badass looking. Frostmourne, another replica and gift, is a constant reminder that an insatiable thirst for power will lead to an ultimate and evil demise! (see Wrath of the Lich King lore). This list goes on. There are over 40 different weapons where I live now, each one as different and special as the last.

Today, I stand in my living room with my hands on my hips staring at the walls. I'm moving to a new place, my armoury doesn't fit here anymore. My cold hard proof is hanging on every inch of the wall and wedged in leaning stacks in the corners. I leave you with this: what often starts as an irrational desire to fill space can end up being a very rational filler of your empty spaces. Whatever your item of choice is, be it mugs from around the world or Beach Boys paraphernalia, if it interests you it's never too irrelevant or too minuscule to be meaningful. It hangs around in the background. It's your haven. Enjoy the dumb little things. They're for you to live amongst and for the real world to stay out of. And you'll never know what you might learn from them.]]>