Bidiniband - The Motherland

Bidiniband – The Motherland (Pheromone)

How angry is too angry? When you kick ass, must you also take names?

Writing political music is never easy. Precious few do it well, fewer still do so by employing specifics; those that do risk being relegated to time capsules (hello, Phil Ochs). Even the most virulent songs about Margaret Thatcher—during one of the most fertile periods in British pop music history—didn’t usually mention her by name.

But boy, is Dave Bidini ever pissed—and it’s crystal clear who’s pissing him off. Like the rest of us, he’s been living under Stephen Harper’s Conservatives for the past eight years; unlike most of the rest of us—who give Harper more votes in every election—Bidini can’t bear to withstand what he sees as the rampant destruction of the country he loves dearly. “All hail Canada,” he sings. “We’re number one in all the things the world believes we used to represent.”

The Motherland is a concept album—or maybe it’s just still unusual, even in our post-Stompin’ Tom landscape, for a Canadian artist to write an entire series of songs about the state of our nation and signs of the times. Bidini knows that he’s now an elder statesman in an industry that doesn’t favour veterans: “The world is 18, but I’m a has-been or never, nor ever, nor was.” As a result, there’s a tiny bit of grumpy grandpa at work here—except that for better or worse, Bidini writes with the bite and bile of youth, subtlety be damned. The man is 50 years old; he’s angrier about corporate agendas and environmental devastation than most 20-year-old songwriters are. And he’s probably angry about that, too. (He should be.)

His aim is true. The question is whether the songs are as strong as his intent.

“All Hail Canada” is a prime example: musically, it boasts the strongest melody here, and his band is on fire. Lyrically, it opens with two lines that sum up the entire record: “I hate to think that everything could disappear in four small years / but you and me won’t ever see what lurks behind their dark veneer.” Yet Bidini then almost completely regresses to the amateurism of a pamphleteering protest singer with the chorus: “All hail Canada / we know what’s best / the only country but the States to not sign the Kyoto Accord.” A valid point, yes—but it might well be the clunkiest, arrhythmic line by a great writer ever since Billy Bragg—who usually knows much better—decided to frame a chorus around the phrase “no power without accountability.” Sadly, it’s not the only line like that in that song.

Does this matter? Don’t times like these almost demand a blunt response? Surely I can’t lament the lack of political songwriters and then cringe slightly when someone like Bidini calls it like he sees it. I also can’t worry about whether or not these songs will stand up to scrutiny five or 10 years from now; that’s a classic pitfall of rock dudes who are always quick to dismiss something as a fad or a trifle if they think it’s not something “that’s going to last” (see also: rock dudes’ treatment of ephemeral pop and dance music in general).

There’s zero question about the band behind him: wiz guitarist Paul Linklater, drummer Don Kerr and bassist Doug Friesen can do anything, and Bidini remains a highly underrated rhythm guitarist. He’s also a prolific prose writer; not surprisingly, there are moments of both beauty and effective bile here (“The Grey Wave” and “The Fatherland,” respectively). “Ladies of Montreal” is a wonderfully silly romp exoticizing the Québécoises, with guest vocalist Selina Martin rhapsodizing about “le vin, le pot en p’tites culottes.” “Say the Names” sets an Al Purdy poem to a lilting rhythm, a trio of angelic female voices and a trumpet solo; it’s the loveliest thing Bidini has done since the dissolution of the Rheostatics.

At a time when almost no one is writing political songs—in a hyper-politicized age, no less—I want Dave Bidini to succeed. I’d love Bidiniband to back up Kyp Harness (check his new Armageddon Blues) or collaborate with Bob Wiseman or just start a movement with Geoff Berner and John K. Samson and Tanya Tagaq and Kinnie Starr and Freedom Writers and anyone else who has several dozen bones to pick with the federal government. The Motherland is not the record to do that, but that doesn’t mean Bidini and everyone else should ever stop trying to write songs this country deserves. Dave Bidini, being who he is, is never going to stop. (This review ran in the Waterloo Record, July 3)

Download: “The Fatherland,” “Ladies of Montreal,” “Say the Names”

TURF 2014

As a parent… No, just kidding. I wouldn’t pull a Peter MacKay on you like that.  It is interesting, however, the reviews of the Toronto Urban Roots Festival (TURF) I’ve read by dads (hmmm—no moms) who brought their kids to the festival.

The most egregious was this one by the National Post’s Ben Kaplan, which is, frankly, an astonishingly awful piece written by someone paid to be a culture writer at a national newspaper. I’m not one to call out colleagues for bad writing; God knows I live in a glass house. But really: woof, that should win some kind of prize. It’s been deservedly nitpicked to death on social media (and in the comments section beneath the article), but one consistent criticism is Kaplan’s reference to attending TURF “as a parent” (sorry, there’s MacKay again). Stuart Henderson at Exclaim! did the same thing, to less consternation (he’s  a much better writer, even if I disagree with almost all his opinions). I suspect some negative reaction comes from non-parents who can’t imagine why a music reviewer would think we’d care what their five-year-old thought of Artist X. I agree, it’s indulgent; if you’re representing a national media outlet, your kids shouldn’t be a prop in your story. (That was only a minor quibble with Henderson’s review, and the very least of my troubles with Kaplan’s.)

Bringing your kids to festivals is a novelty for Torontonians; Western Canadians and folkies everywhere have been doing it for decades. Silly urban hipsters always think they’ve reinvented the wheel. But the greater point is that major festivals in Toronto are actually accounting for the fact that many parents who no longer make it out to live shows are far more likely to come to a festival if they know the kids are going to be all right; both TURF and Field Trip figured this out and Toronto is a better city for it.

I was halfway through writing my own review “as a parent” when I read the above reviews and got self-conscious. But I’m not pretending to speak objectively about a festival I consciously attended as a family outing; I was there to enjoy a family outing first, educate myself second (see new acts, get story ideas) and hopefully scribble some notes after the fact.

So here they are, with hopefully few maudlin asides about my child.

With a three-year-old in tow, I can’t begin to pretend I saw everything worth seeing. I know I missed plenty I would have loved to have seen: Andrew Bird, Lucius, Caitlin Rose, New Country Rehab, Strumbellas, Sam Roberts, July Talk, Jeff Tweedy and much more of the Violent Femmes’ set than the three songs I saw. No matter, however: it's hard to leave TURF unsatisfied.

Here, then, is a summary of my highly subjective experience:

Friday

Waco Brothers: I have maximum respect for Jon Langford, even more so after I once saw the Mekons give 100% to a completely barren concert hall in Montreal more than 10 years ago. But I feel far too young—at 42—to fully appreciate what he’s up to with old-dude act the Waco Brothers, his long-running band that leans heavily on punk covers of country songs. I’m sad I missed the Sally Timms cameo during this set, and Langford’s appearance with the Burlington Welsh Men’s Choir later in the weekend.

Deer Tick: Lots of people love this band. I have no idea why. A poor man’s Cuff the Duke.

Local Natives: If I felt too young for Waco Brothers, I felt too old for Local Natives. (All told, a pretty good midlife crisis to have.) Who are these guys, when did they get so popular, and why are so many people into such a boring band? This Friday night was not shaping up well.

Beirut: I was an early adopter back in 2006, though I don’t think Zach Condon made another fantastic record until 2011’s The Rip Tide. I hadn’t seen the band in years. It sounded fantastic: his voice is as swoony as ever (though my ladyfriend disagrees; its her least favourite thing about Beirut), and it’s a perfect soundtrack to a warm summer night by the lake. That said, the set was rather static. After he dropped “Postcards from Italy” about six songs in, I was completely satiated. So it was off to…

Black Joe Lewis: This man has the most effortless scream in rock’n’roll since Little Richard. I can’t help imagining him using it in his everyday life: “Please pass the salt, baby. WAAAAAAAA-OOOOOOOOO!” To top it off, he’s got a monstrous garage rock rhythm section and a delightfully dorky three-piece horn section that includes baritone saxophone. The sound on the festival’s South Stage wasn’t forgiving—Lewis’s guitar was tinny, his voice too high in the mix. The slower numbers also dragged, with the exception of the ominous “Vampire,” of which Screamin’ Jay Hawkins would be proud. When Lewis and his band hit their party groove, however, as on “Booty City” and others, I’m sure even the trucks on the Gardiner above could feel the earth moving.

Saturday

Shovels & Rope: The most pleasant surprise of TURF. I didn’t know anything about this South Carolina duo before this set; Cary Ann Hearst’s striking country voice drew me in immediately; the instrumental juggling between her and husband Michael Trent was just as impressive. The foot-stompin’ songs aren’t half-bad, either. This was exactly the kind of band I’d hoped to discover at a festival this summer; watch for their second album, due out Aug. 26.

Drive-by Truckers: I’ve never seen this band and have only heard enough of their music to know that even the best Southern rock band is still just a Southern rock band. I thought I’d give them a shot this weekend (the why-not? beauty of festivals like this). As soon as we approached the stage, however, my boy started shouting “I don’t want to be here!” Who was I to argue?

Pokey LaFarge: My boy loves swing music. And how can you not love a man named Pokey? We saw this Missouri musician at Hillside last year, and it’s near impossible not be charmed by his old-timey take on Western swing, complete with a saxophonist/clarinetist and stand-up drummer who plays a mean harmonica. This was a must-see for our family, which sadly means we missed…

Violent Femmes: Apparently they played their 1983 debut album from front to back. Hard to argue with that. I was skeptical that after all these years, and an acrimonious lawsuit between the two remaining founding members (over a Wendy’s commercial), that the Femmes could play with any passion at all. I was prepared to leave this band in my past. Catching only “Black Girls,” “I Held Her In My Arms” and “American Music,” this was a most pleasant surprise. It also sent me back to the incredibly underrated album 3 (1989), which gets even less love than Hallowed Ground (1984) or The Blind Leading the Naked (1986). Of course that first album is untouchable—which is why it’s not entirely sad that they’re still milking it. But if this show made you reaffirm your Femmes fandom, I highly recommend you go back to the three albums they put out after the debut.

Gaslight Anthem: I’ve somehow unconsciously avoided this band for years, assuming they were faded carbon copies of bands I loved in the ’80s. Big mistake. It says a lot that they made a big impression even from the muffled distance of the kids’ area, for the same reasons a great Springsteen song still sounds good from a tiny speaker at the other end of an apartment. Judging primarily by a straw poll of T-shirts spotted at the site, this band had the most devoted fans of the weekend. If I was 20 years old, I would absolutely be one of them.

Jenny Lewis: Well, her band was pretty good, I’ll give her that. On a side note, it’s unfortunate she was the only lady at TURF with anything resembling a headlining slot.

Bidiniband: I wish I liked Bidiniband’s latest, The Motherland, more than I do. That doesn’t change the fact, however, that appreciation for Paul Linklater’s guitar playing grows exponentially when you see how exactly he pulls off what he does, while Bidini remains the most indefatigable frontman in Canadian music. The visceral punch of his lyrics work much better in the moment than they do on record; the lesser lines wash off easily with the force of his band. “The Fatherland” is his latest standout, while “Last of the Dead Wrong Things” never gets tired. Seeing the former Rheostatics leader perform directly underneath the Gardiner Expressway was—well, strangely endearing.

Man Man: The hands-down highlight for me, this group of Philadelphia oddballs get better every time I see them. The band members have changed; the duo of Ryan Kattner and Chris Powell—each pounding the shit out of their piano and drums, respectively—has not. Yes, there are ridiculous costumes involved. At times the manic ecstatic vibe can be overwhelming. But everything about the intensity of Man Man doesn’t seem the least bit forced or fake; their music has always been, to me, the sound of the only other people in the world who understand the chaos in your own head, strange shamans who are determined to dance you back to sanity. It’s not an act, a masquerade; it’s an emotional necessity. As they get older, the tempos have slowed slightly and found some funk; there are genuinely tender moments that are all the more tearjerking amidst the fantastic fuckery they get up to the rest of the time. Also: Powell is one of the best drummers you will ever see in your life. 

If that wasn’t enough, Man Man was the one act all weekend that made the boy insanely happy—like, deliriously so. Didn’t see that coming; honestly, I thought he’d be terrified by the band that both his mama and papa have loved for the last 10 years. We laughed and cried with joy and the three of us danced as a family, something I’ll never forget. Man Man: quality family entertainment. Put that in their press kit.

Neutral Milk Hotel: Well, honestly, we skipped this because by that final slot of the festival I was incapable of enjoying anything else with a sleepy (and heavy) preschooler on my shoulders—and I’m going to see them in Chapel Hill, N.C., in two weeks at Mergefest (shockingly, tickets still available, people!). It seems phenomenally weird that a band so wrapped up in mystique is now Just Another Band on Stage, during whose set stoned guys wander up to you and say, “Dude, is this Man Man playing right now?”

Bidiniband, John K. Samson

John K. Samson – Provincial (Anti)

Bidiniband – In the Rock Hall (Pheromone)

If Canadian rock had men of letters, Dave Bidini and John K. Samson would be two-thirds of a triumvirate alongside Gord Downie. Bidini, of course, is the author of 10 books about music and hockey (his latest, Writing Gordon Lightfoot, is one of his best), and for over 25 years he was a principal songwriter in the Rheostatics, arguably the most creative Canadian rock band of the ’90s. Samson is the barely prolific songwriter at the core of the Weakerthans, who with only four albums in the past 14 years became one of Canada’s most beloved bands, primarily on the strength of Samson’s prose (which he just collected into his first book, Lyrics and Poems 1997-2012).

Both men have always excelled at setting unlikely characters and situations inside compelling and moving songs. Until recently, they’ve always had help from sympathetic bandmates with whom they grew up, musicians who knew instinctively how to cast every quirky quote. Both men’s solo careers challenge them to think outside the box and make full use of new creative opportunities.

Granted, both had wide leeway before: Samson’s pop-punk bandmates have never stopped him from reciting poetry about retired NHL goalies over a detuned banjo and scraped percussion; the Rheostatics’ best and worst trait was that they were capable of and willing to try anything, making them the Canadian equivalent of equally influential and misunderstood American cult bands like the Minutemen and Camper Van Beethoven.

So what are these two bards up to now?

This is Bidiniband’s second album, so they have the upper hand. The debut, 2009’s The Land is Wild, seemed more like Bidini’s non-fiction writing hurriedly set to music—songs to be played at in-store appearances in between reading passages from his books. Here, his seasoned backing trio have been whipped into shape by regular gigging, to the point where they’re almost as sympathetic as the Rheostatics were to Bidini’s nuances. They obviously share his love of Devo, XTC, The Who and Max Webster, elements that were a small part of the Rheostatics’ avalanche of influences, but are brought to the fore here. And not in an imitative way, either; Bidiniband sounds most like, well Dave Bidini.

In fact, In the Rock Hall sounds far better than any record from the last 10 years of the Rheostatics’ discography, because this band knows how to push Bidini, and he’s more than willing to push back. There’s an explosive, though good-natured, musical tension at work here—largely the work of incredibly elastic guitarist Paul Linklater—watching these men throw endless curveballs at each other before uniting over three simple power chords and four-part harmony in a chorus (Bidini is singing better than he ever has). This is most evident on a recasting of the 1994 Rheos song “Earth,” which Bidiniband rescues from the bloated prog-rock mess of the original and transforms into a driving stadium-rock anthem. Mind you, Bidiniband has its own prog-rock mess in the form of “Eunioa,” a 10-minute adaptation of Christian Bök’s book of poetry that will really only appeal to anyone who understands what a “univocal lipogram” is.

There’s a nautical theme throughout—though there’s no reason for a native English speaker to write a song with the phrase “Big Men Go Fast on the Water” as a chorus (unless this originates as an odd translation of an Aboriginal name). Obvious novelty songs like “Popcorn” and “The Best Thing About the ’80s Was You” sound more like well-produced bar-band set-fillers than anything else—but hey, so do most of the Black Eyed Peas’ greatest hits, and (much to my chagrin) these earworms are just as catchy, if not more so, and not as dumb.

The performances—as well as the production from longtime partner in crime Michael Philip Wojewoda—outshine many of the actual songs, most of which are a baffling series of seemingly non-sequitur images and phrases. (There’s also a queer fondness for the word “tits.”) “I Wanna Go to Yemen,” Bidini sings—but why? “I’ve been waiting all this time to shine a light.” Is this a song about the Arab Spring? Doesn’t sound like it. And: “I want to see your face, eyeliner and burka” doesn’t make any sense when you realize that with a burka you don’t see any part of the face, never mind eyeliner. And why are there Burmese police shooting fishermen in a song also about a “two-bit Neil Young rip-off attack”? No matter: that latter track, “Last of the Dead Wrong Things,” is one of the most fantastic four minutes of visceral rock’n’roll Bidini has ever recorded. (Hear it here.)

And so Bidiniband’s literacy is not so much lyrical as it is musical; the real thrills here are listening to Linklater’s persistent fretboard wizardry, the throbbing, pummelling yet soulful grooves of the rhythm section of ex-Rheo Don Kerr and bassist Doug Friesen, and Bidini’s own underrated rhythm guitar skills. (Here’s your next bar argument: is there any essential rock’n’roll instrument more undervalued than rhythm guitarists? They don’t even get their own set of jokes.)

On John K. Samson’s solo album, his lyrics are the sole focus of attention; the accompanying music is mere background. He’s a prose writer first and foremost; every image and phrase is pondered over until it’s just perfect, yet there is no laboriousness heard in any single lyric. Though the ever-modest Samson will tell you that his vocal range and guitar skills are limited—hey, so is Leonard Cohen’s—he writes tiny perfect melodies and enlists trusted collaborators to fill in all the blanks.

Here, producer Paul Aucoin (Hylozoists, Cuff the Duke) casts Samson solo against just a horn section, in folk-country modes, as a piano balladeer, and—less successfully—in situations not unlike the Weakerthans. Those latter tracks are the only times when the otherwise impeccable Provincial manages to stumble. Even though the hired guns are no slouches (including Bidiniband bassist Doug Friesen and Constantines drummer Doug MacGregor), Samson already fronts an incredible rock band—anything else is going to sound second-rate. His solo work should stand further apart.

On the first single “When I Write My Master’s Thesis,” Samson steps into self-parody: any songwriter beloved by legions of English grad students is probably tempted to write a title like that all the time, but I’m not sure even Colin Meloy (Decemberists) would get away with that. Samson’s most successful narratives here are much better off set to delicately arranged downers like “The Last And,” “Stop Error,” or (a typical Samson title) “Letter in Icelandic from the Ninette San.”

As Samson sounds older (or, more accurately, his age), Bidini sounds more youthful; both promise their fans even bolder moves in the future.

Bidiniband's Toronto release show is this Saturday, January 28, at the Dakota Tavern in Toronto, 7 p.m. More dates are here.

John K. Samson was just in Toronto; Chromewaves wrote about it here. His North American tour begins on March 7 at the Grad Club in Kingston.