My oldest daughter (9) has a classmate especially fond of a black AC/DC shirt -- a sweet, well-behaved kid who kisses his mother when she picks him up at the end of the day. I've seen a dozen or so kids in their mid-teens wearing "ZOZO"/Led Zep, The Doors, Pink Floyd, KISS and even Yes(!?) T-shirts.
I wrote this off as a small-town, blue-collar phenomenon, until we took the fam to Kensington Market. The first store we entered, I had to make way for an 11-year-old girl wearing a snazzy-looking Guns 'n Roses T. Behind her was her old man -- a fella my age, wearing clothes identical to mine: Dockers and a polo shirt. We gave each other the nod, but as he passed I wondered what, exactly, was going on?
I'm still not sure. Is it an over-crowded market? Too many kids burning their own rap/hip-hop records? Are today's songs too darn short, lacking in ambition and musicality? (Wup - looks like that's my knee, jerking.) I just assumed my generation would be the only one born nostalgic, that the next generation would surely produce something of cultural value and heft, but it looks instead like our kids are nostalgic for the very same era we craved. In any case, if this means the guitar solo has returned, I'm all for it.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Confessions of a Former Would-Be Stereophile
Twenty years ago, with the first few heady paycheques from my first salaried job stashed in my bank account, I enlisted the help of my friend and neighbor and went on the prowl for a home stereo. Stereo salesmen saw a dewy-skinned, nattily dressed kid of 20 walking through their front door, and salivated. I was greeted with wine and cheese; I was ushered into "The Sound Chamber"; I was the recipient of hour-length lectures on Watts-Per-Channel, OHMs and "Rate of Impedance" (when I wittily referred to it as the Rate of Im-PU-dence, I could see this High Priest of Stereophonics literally restrain himself from throwing me out -- I came bearing money, after all).
When all was said and done, I must have burned a month's worth of daylight hours in my quest for the perfect sound system. I probably heard a working day's worth of Dire Straits' "Telegraph Road", a full days' worth of Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car", two days' worth of Sting's "Englishman In New York" and three days' worth of Robbie Robertson's "Somewhere Down That Crazy River" (to this day, I can't imagine any of these songs played at a volume level short of 11, the better to maximize their fibrillation-inducing bass line). One salesman was exceedingly fond of The Judds' "Cow Cow Boogie" and played it over and over and over again. It was a change of pace at least, and I bought my stereo from him.
A couple of grand, a trunkful of boxes, and I was set for life -- or 20 years, with good behavior. And so it was. This winter my receiver finally crapped out on me. Our local tekkie fiddled with it for four months before finally admitting defeat, so I shook hands with him yesterday, then drove to the nearest stereo outlet.
This time I received no wine and cheese -- just the skunk-eye. I got right to the point and told the stereo salesman what I wanted. He asked me if I would be using said receiver for SurroundSound, and I said no. The man hadn't looked especially happy to see me to begin with, but now he looked downright peeved. He ushered me to their stock, pointed at my few options. Twenty minutes and $250 later, I walked out of the store with a receiver I hadn't bothered listening to.
There was a time when I structured a room around my stereo, when I placed my Ikea/Eames knock-off in a strategic spot between the two speakers and simply ... listened. That time has come and gone. I do like a house full of music -- music makes the dreariest tasks just a little easier -- but our television isn't large enough for me to say the words "Home Theatre" without sniggering. And even if it were, I'm still not sold on the vertigo-inducing "virtues" of SurroundSound.
I needed a receiver that worked, and I didn't need to spend a lot of time and money considering which one to take home. And I certainly didn't need a reintroduction to the world of the stereophile.
When all was said and done, I must have burned a month's worth of daylight hours in my quest for the perfect sound system. I probably heard a working day's worth of Dire Straits' "Telegraph Road", a full days' worth of Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car", two days' worth of Sting's "Englishman In New York" and three days' worth of Robbie Robertson's "Somewhere Down That Crazy River" (to this day, I can't imagine any of these songs played at a volume level short of 11, the better to maximize their fibrillation-inducing bass line). One salesman was exceedingly fond of The Judds' "Cow Cow Boogie" and played it over and over and over again. It was a change of pace at least, and I bought my stereo from him.
A couple of grand, a trunkful of boxes, and I was set for life -- or 20 years, with good behavior. And so it was. This winter my receiver finally crapped out on me. Our local tekkie fiddled with it for four months before finally admitting defeat, so I shook hands with him yesterday, then drove to the nearest stereo outlet.
This time I received no wine and cheese -- just the skunk-eye. I got right to the point and told the stereo salesman what I wanted. He asked me if I would be using said receiver for SurroundSound, and I said no. The man hadn't looked especially happy to see me to begin with, but now he looked downright peeved. He ushered me to their stock, pointed at my few options. Twenty minutes and $250 later, I walked out of the store with a receiver I hadn't bothered listening to.
There was a time when I structured a room around my stereo, when I placed my Ikea/Eames knock-off in a strategic spot between the two speakers and simply ... listened. That time has come and gone. I do like a house full of music -- music makes the dreariest tasks just a little easier -- but our television isn't large enough for me to say the words "Home Theatre" without sniggering. And even if it were, I'm still not sold on the vertigo-inducing "virtues" of SurroundSound.
I needed a receiver that worked, and I didn't need to spend a lot of time and money considering which one to take home. And I certainly didn't need a reintroduction to the world of the stereophile.
Friday, June 23, 2006
I'm Your Fan -- Just Don't Make Me Watch This!
I do like Leonard Cohen, but I've got to say: this does nothing for me. It resembles Dylan's birthday bash, minus the welcome dash of controversy and unpredictability. It's a big gala event that sounds like the cat's whiskers when it gets mention in the TV Guide, but after all the Big Stars and Beautiful People finish congratulating the Guest of Honour (and each other) the actual highlight ends up being the ten minutes where the Artist finally drags himself onstage, sits down on a stool and sings three songs. But hey -- I'm happy for Leonard.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The End Is Nigh
School is almost out, as evinced by our family calendar.
Want a closer look?
If you need a translation, the words in question are: "Last Day of School" "Party" and "Crokinole Day" -- the latter being of particular significance, because after considerable hectoring and cajoling the girls have agreed to play with me. It was either that, or a spelling bee (a weekly event which seems to be in the cards this summer...).
Want a closer look?
If you need a translation, the words in question are: "Last Day of School" "Party" and "Crokinole Day" -- the latter being of particular significance, because after considerable hectoring and cajoling the girls have agreed to play with me. It was either that, or a spelling bee (a weekly event which seems to be in the cards this summer...).
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Talkin' 'bout my generation
Christmas of '94: I was in the basement of the bookstore, talking music with my co-worker friend, and he said, "I'm thinking Beck might be the Dylan of our generation."
I looked at him. "Really?"
He nodded. My friend wasn't being ironic or provocative -- he was serious, so I had to give this some thought.
At the time, this observation seemed bang-on. Calling 1994 a "breakout" year for Beck would be an understatement: Beck's "Loser", from Mellow Gold was the Gen-X anthem -- our "The Times They Are A-Changin'" -- padding Beck's bank account with his first several-mil. Success bred confidence, and Beck quickly released two more CDs of older material that same year, both of them divergent from Mellow Gold as well as from each other. Lyrically, it was anyone's guess what he was up to, which put him in good standing with the Boomer Bard. Three radically different albums in one monumental year? Maybe my friend was right.
Twelve years on, the point is moot. My generation never had a Dylan, and it's just as well. We never had a Beatles, or a Stones, or a Hendrix, either. In 1994 we were still very much in awe of Bill Gates. It wasn't at all uncommon to find his picture taped to our lockers (usually the college shot of him in his savant-crouch in the hallway, a knit toque pulled down to the bridge of his beak). Just think about that for a second: Bill Gates.
Who else do we have from 1994? Kurt Cobain (and Courtney Love), of course. Douglas Coupland, Radiohead, River Phoenix. Chip Kidd and Dimebag Darrell, if you're in a catholic frame of mind. Madonna, if you're gay.
Which is why I link to a piece on Timothy Leary. The man may have been his own lethal Barnum & Bailey show, but I don't mind admitting that when it comes to lethal Barnum & Bailey shows, the 60s were colorful enough to cover several decades.
I looked at him. "Really?"
He nodded. My friend wasn't being ironic or provocative -- he was serious, so I had to give this some thought.
At the time, this observation seemed bang-on. Calling 1994 a "breakout" year for Beck would be an understatement: Beck's "Loser", from Mellow Gold was the Gen-X anthem -- our "The Times They Are A-Changin'" -- padding Beck's bank account with his first several-mil. Success bred confidence, and Beck quickly released two more CDs of older material that same year, both of them divergent from Mellow Gold as well as from each other. Lyrically, it was anyone's guess what he was up to, which put him in good standing with the Boomer Bard. Three radically different albums in one monumental year? Maybe my friend was right.
Twelve years on, the point is moot. My generation never had a Dylan, and it's just as well. We never had a Beatles, or a Stones, or a Hendrix, either. In 1994 we were still very much in awe of Bill Gates. It wasn't at all uncommon to find his picture taped to our lockers (usually the college shot of him in his savant-crouch in the hallway, a knit toque pulled down to the bridge of his beak). Just think about that for a second: Bill Gates.
Who else do we have from 1994? Kurt Cobain (and Courtney Love), of course. Douglas Coupland, Radiohead, River Phoenix. Chip Kidd and Dimebag Darrell, if you're in a catholic frame of mind. Madonna, if you're gay.
Which is why I link to a piece on Timothy Leary. The man may have been his own lethal Barnum & Bailey show, but I don't mind admitting that when it comes to lethal Barnum & Bailey shows, the 60s were colorful enough to cover several decades.
leary (sic): a. knowing, sly, wary of.
"He seems to have been blessed with an incapacity for shame, a gift for which he had many occasions to be thankful" -- Louis Menand profiles Timothy Leary for The New Yorker.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Gratuitous Hockey Post
The final 'Canes goal came as a relief, if only because I didn't want to stay up much longer. I was also a torn man: I should have been cheering for the Canadian team, but I wasn't. My daughters and my wife were, my friends and family in Edmonton were, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. I've cheered Edmonton in the past, but this year my heart just wasn't there. Carolina deserved the win, despite the fact that Carolinians didn't know what ice was until a carpetbagger from New York dropped a cube of it into their mint julip. Congratulations, Carolinian tax-payers! Enjoy the envy of Canadians (just about) everywhere!
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