Last year Michelle and I were fortunate enough to acquire tickets to the Beer Festival, which was almost every bit as awesome as a festival designed around one of the nectars of the gods ought to be, except… Well the thing about this particular godly nectar is that it attracts a lot of flies. And by flies I mean frat boys. Or guys that aspire to be frat boys, or guys that once were frat boys and choose to relive their glory days by worshipping the gods of beer.

So while I was able to taste some fantastic local microbrews and international beers, and I even tried mead for the first time, the event was somewhat sullied by the dudes in backwards baseball caps crowding in hordes around any available female in the joint, braying and stumbling over each other like Keystone cops, vying for her attention.

And when they weren’t trying to get the attention of an available female, they were trying to get each other’s attention by insutling each other, making the kind of nasty comments you would expect from a horde of frat boys about anyone to whom they were *not* attracted. It was really douchey, for lack of a better word. Thus, after a few samples of mead, Michelle and I took to photobombing the douchebags. It was self-made entertainment at its best.

Thankfully we didn’t have to come up with our own entertainment this year. The fine folks at the Beer Festival came up with a fantastic solution to the frat boy scenario: the Queer Beer Festival!

While I am sure that there are queers of the frat boy variety—we do come in all styles and colours, after all—I am pleased to report that no one particular sort of queer seemed to dominate this event. The crowd was delightfully diverse and generally a whole lot of fun. And the event helped to support one of my favourite local community organizations, donating money to the 519 with every advance ticket sold.

The festival organizers sent a bunch of VIP passes to The Little Queer Radio Station That Could, so I was able to bring a small group of Hot Dates to enjoy the sudsy spectacle with me. We had access to the VIP Lounge, where we enjoyed a couple of pints of beer on the house and tasted from flights of food from the kitchen.

On the food, I should note with a bit of disappointment that there was nothing—not a bite—of the vegetarian variety. There were sausages on rolls and little battered and fried links on sticks, chicken wings and ribs, but not so much as a carrot stick with which to cleanse a carnivorous palate. I think that maybe the stereotype of the beer drinker is exactly the caricature of the frat boy that so dominates the general-population variation of this festival—meat-eating, loud-talking, beer-guzzling, backward-baseball-cap-wearing, sexually-harassing gorilla-man.

This is not to say that all carnivores are gorillas—in fact, to say so would be incredibly misleading, as gorillas are primarily herbivorous, but I digress—but that organizers of events such as this have become accustomed to a certain kind of crowd with a certain kind of appetite, and as this was the inaugural queer-focused event associated with the Beer Festival, I doubt it occurred to them that the queer population would show any stronger inclination toward the humble vegetable.

I was incredibly hungry, however, and didn’t want to get myself drunk before even having a chance to sample from the multiple microbreweries displaying their craft outside, so I mooned about pathetically, even begging one of the servers to bring me a roll without the sausage in it just to tide me over, until finally someone brought me a plate of four tiny veggie sandwiches and told me, “This is all yours, and it’s all you get, so don’t tell anyone.” Of course I couldn’t hold to that. I am a generous person by nature and my first instinct was to share this food with the other vegetarian I knew in the joint. However, on my way to find her, I ran into two other hungry veggies, both partners of my coworkers, so I shared with them, too, and in the end, I was left with just one tiny little dinner roll with a bit of shredded cabbage and some cheese. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten at that famished moment.

To her credit, the chef did eventually bring out vegetarian fare. She in fact went home to her garden, pulled out a couple of cucumbers, and sliced them up with some cheese to make some more dinner rolls. She seemed almost ashamed to offer such low cuisine, but let’s face it—the carnivores were eating what amounted to be miniature corn dogs. It’s the Beer Festival; it’s not exactly gourmet.

After we had lubricated our senses in the VIP Lounge, we went outside to explore the different beers on offer. I love discovering new local micros, myself, although there were some international beers on offer as well. One of my favourite discoveries from last year was back again: Flying Monkeys. I went to reacquaint myself with their Hoptical Illusion, the beer with which I fell in love last year, and then went on to try a hoppier IPA called Smashbomb, which was apparently not available in stores until very recently because its label had a cartoon mushroom cloud on it.

Yeah. That’s so scary. If I saw that in the LCBO I would tremble in fear. Please. Anyway, it was super-hoppy and I liked it a lot, but I still prefer Hoptical Illusion. Yum. I tried various other beers, wheat ales and stouts, and even had myself a dark ale ice cream float from Rickard’s, but in the end I came back to Flying Monkeys to use up the last of my tasting tokens. It was a successful beer-tasting night.

But the best part in terms of entertainment was that with so many fun and un-fratly queers hanging around us, Michelle and I did not have to resort to photobombing douchebags for entertainment, which meant that we could direct our attention to the headlining act: Ace of Base!

Well, kind of Ace of Base, anyway. The guys are the same, but the women have been replaced by a couple of girls I am pretty convinced were still in zygote stage when “All That She Wants” was released. It was…odd. Ace of Base 2.0. Apparently the lineup change happened because the original women had discovered Jesus and didn’t want to be rockstars anymore, or something, I don’t really know. I heard it through the Queer Beer grapevine, which had about ten samples of beer filtering it before it reached my ears. I could be passing on some misinformation.

What I do know is that, all oddness of the new lineup aside, the show was highly entertaining, particularly because there were these two hilarious backup dancers who looked like clones of my good pal Mike Chalut. In fact when the first one showed up on stage, I thought it was Mike Chalut. And then he seemed to replicate himself, and although I do believe that Chalut has some special powers, I am pretty sure that that isn’t one of them. These dancers made the show. They were high energy geek-bots with pretty, pretty man-chests. It was like the Hot Nerds Club. I found myself imitating their dance moves just because they were so dorky. And I do love dorks.

At the end of the show we went back to the VIP Lounge for our last free beer, but the park was closing up soon, so we decided to get moseying out. Looking around at all of the tipsy, flirting homos, boys holding hands and hot girls making out, I was struck with the difference between the frustration I remembered feeling at the end of the night last year and the contentment I was feeling watching my people around me now. Queer Beer Fest. It’s so much better than photobombing frat boys.

Last night I was treated to some serious VIP indulgence at a chic new club on Richmond Street that my best boyfriend Mike Chalut is helping to launch, Black Moon. I don’t think I have yet witnessed the kind of star treatment that I received last night from everyone involved.

Now, Black Moon actually opened its doors a few months ago, but due to its location and possibly some lack in promotion, it has remained relatively under the radar. It is just off of the main Richmond Street bar strip, and I am not sure it was consistently open. Well, with Canada’s VIP Host Mike Chalut on the job, that’s about to change. Mike has a knack for filling up a place, and with his expertise added to exceptional service and unbelievable cuisine, I am predicting lineups around the corner for this one.

I was feeling extra special about this invitation. The re-launch of Black Moon is actually not until next week. Mike has arranged a media launch with some very prominent folks on the guest list. But last night he was throwing a private party for one of his best girlfriends, so he invited my partner and me for a private dinner to preview the place, even before the media. That guy really knows how to make me feel like a special super-duper-VIP.

And the place did not disappoint. The moment we walked through the door, Michelle and I were treated to drinks and shown to a private table near the window. My first impression of the place could be summed up in four words: absolutely, stunningly, breathtakingly gorgeous. It’s an intimate little lounge, with the perfect lighting to give you the feeling of privacy while still maximizing the space. Sheer curtains provide some separation in the room without obstructing or cluttering the place. And a bright globe of lights over the bar draws attention away from the fluorescents of the business strip buildings outside the window and back to where it should be directed.

I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with one of the owners, Amir Azizi, who took the time to come out and sit with us for awhile to talk about the restaurant. He still has some changes in mind, but he seemed pretty satisfied with how the room is shaping up. He was polite and made it very clear to us that we were to be taken care of this evening. I’m telling you: super-duper star treatment!

The server soon came by with the bread course—gorgeously presented, and with olive oil and balsamic infused with Parmesan. It’s always the simple things that impress me.

Then came the vegetarian dishes. I am a vegetarian with an aversion to mushrooms, so I am aware that when I go to restaurant openings, particularly in fine dining establishments, I will be lucky if I see anything beyond the bread course that will meet my tastes. But the head chef, Kai Zyganiuk, had been made aware of my dietary restrictions, and had made some beautiful tasting dishes for me.

First came a dish of heirloom tomatoes with baby greens and herbs, drizzled with olive oil and sunflower seeds. Delicious. And then came a second dish with roasted asparagus topped with julienne tomato, shaved Parmesan, fresh basil, and truffle oil, flanked by what I considered the pièce de resistance: freshly made ricotta cheese, locally acquired in Toronto’s own Little Italy, wrapped in bok choy, with porcini mushrooms. I know I said I don’t like mushrooms, but you know, I think Kai Zyganiuk may just be the man to change my mind about that. It was veritable food porn.

Then came the pasta course, a trofie pasta with tender, pulled chicken and a pistou porcini sauce. I had only a small bite of a chicken-free part, and it was very good. I assigned Michelle the role of tasting all meat-and-fish dishes, a duty which she carried out with relish. She was impressed with the pasta. It wasn’t quite as al dente as she prefers, but even she admits that she likes her pasta practically raw. From my one bite, I would say it was just about perfect.

After the pasta course, Mike invited me back to the kitchen to meet Kai in person and to see the chef in action. They were busy preparing the salmon dish. It’s a tight space, and they’re running a tight ship back there. Kai explained to me some of what he put into the meals—the man is nothing short of an artist.

I was also introduced to Abdi Ghotb, Black Moon’s other owner, who was on the line along with Kai and the other cooks making the magic happen. I was impressed to see a restaurateur involved in the actual workings of the restaurant. In my own past experience as a cook, restaurant owners were often removed from the day-to-day operation of the restaurant. Mr. Ghotb is both owner and chef, and I think his passion for the place comes through.

Soon the salmon was brought out to the table, atop a bed of delicately braised vegetables. Michelle once again took over the role of official food taster, and she was instantly in ecstasy. Now, I should tell you that Michelle is extremely picky about salmon. It is often served too undercooked for her comfort level, or else dried out from overcooking. This filet, she reported from between orgasmic bites, was grilled to absolute perfection. It was topped with a mild, slightly sweet grilling sauce that made a pleasant contrast to the savoury vegetables. She was in heaven.

There were other dishes on offer, but at this point were both more than sated with what we had been served. Kai made a point of coming out to speak to us about the meal. He was concerned that as a vegetarian I would be leaving his restaurant hungry, and asked if there was anything more he could do for me. I happily reassured him that I had been well-treated, but I certainly appreciated the special care he took to be sure of my satisfaction.

We enjoyed a few more drinks and just soaked up the atmosphere for awhile. The always fabulous Manny Mark, a consultant to Black Moon’s re-launch, sat with us for a bit and talked about how they plan to overcome some of the issues that the lounge had suffered in the past. The bar is exactly one short block from Old City Hall, right beside Sterling Tower and the surrounding Bay and Richmond businesses, and thus will make the perfect spot for a business lunch or let’s-knock-off-early drinks. And with the right host welcoming people in, it will make a swank weekend hotspot.

Even as we sat there I noticed on multiple occasions passersby taking notice of the place, peering through the window and trying to get a fix on what was going on inside. Even at this private party there were some local celebrities in attendance. Interest is already generating. It’s gonna be hot. Trust me.

Near the end of our evening, a distinguished and jovial gent in a very expensive suit took a shine to Michelle and demanded that we have a few vodka shots with him. He didn’t seem like the type who would take no for an answer in this kind of situation, so we took him up on his kindness and joined the party at the bar. There was a great vibe, people just having a good time with each other. We tottered out after a couple of shots. No need to let things get out of hand. We were full and a bit buzzed and happily satisfied with the evening.

Black Moon is opening with a public launch on Friday, March 25. If you’re in Toronto and you want to get in early on what I think is going to something of a phenomenon, check it out: it’s at 67 Richmond Street West, and you can RSVP with my man Mike Chalut: chalut@rogers.ca. I highly recommend you make that reservation.

So in addition to granting me admission to the seminars and awards ceremonies of Canadian Music Week, my very own delegate’s pass also gave me line-bypass status to all of the gigs and concerts that make up the accompanying Canadian Music Festival. I was almost as stoked for this pass as I was for the Crystal Awards. As you may recall from my foray to NXNE last summer, I do enjoy a free passport into all of the music events I can handle.

And man oh man, was there a lot going on in Toronto last week. Sammy Hagar was here, Melissa Etheridge, Janet Jackson…it was out of the park. Of course, I wasn’t interested in any of those people. I was interested in one name : JD Samson.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Little Queer Station That Could kicked off Canadian Music Week with a queer showcase at the Gladstone. I was a bit late, so I missed out on Kevin Wong, although I heard he put on a fantastic show.

I did make it in time to catch Chris Velan, and I was thankful I did. If you like indie folk rock in the vein of Wilco, Ryan Adams, or Sufjan Stevens, you’re gonna dig this guy. I was really into him.

It was a bit odd that Creature was the act to follow; their music really didn’t fit into the more acoustic indie sound of some of the other bands of the night. But who am I kidding? I didn’t care—they were the band I came out to see. And they were well worth it. They have just enough sass and attitude on stage to keep things entertaining without becoming a stereotype of queer camp. So much fun! I think I danced three inches of my ass off. I would have danced the entire ass off, but they had just the one-hour set, and I had to save some of it for JD Samson. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Brigitte Bardot

I was going to have to get up early the next morning for those Crystal Awards, so I just couldn’t stay for Gentleman Reg. I have seen him numerous times before; he’s kind of that indie-guy-about-town—he’s everywhere. And for good reason. As my buddy Acey Rowe said about it, “If you haven’t seen Gentlemen Reg live, chances are you’re not a real Torontonian. Kind of like if you haven’t killed a cockroach with your bare hand or had a heart attack at Yonge and Dundas induced by the ‘BELIEVE IN THE LORD!’ guy… Seeing a Gentlemen Reg show is the best and most enjoyable way to confirm your Torontonian status.”

The next day, of course, I won that Crystal Award—you know, no big whoop—so I spent the rest of the day celebrating with my co-winner, other staff from our radio group, and pretty much anyone who would raise a toast with me, and consequently I didn’t actually make it out to any gigs. Oops.

And after all of that celebrating, I had to get up even earlier on Friday morning for the Trailblazers’ Breakfast, celebrating women in radio. It took about everything I had to put on my best networking face and schmooze with some very intelligent women in the business. I was pretty much dead set on going home after work and skipping out on the gigs I had planned to see that night. They were with bands I had never heard of before, and as much as I like to discover new music, I like catching up on my sleep even more.

But then that thing happened. You know the thing where a friend updates Facebook with plans to see a gig you hadn’t been aware was going to be going on, and it’s a band you checked out for the first time at last year’s NXNE and you really loved them and no amount of hungover sleep-deprivation is going to stop you from seeing them again? That thing.

In this case the band in question was The Pack A.D.—Vancouver’s dykey answer to the White Stripes and the Black Keys. As soon as we heard they were playing, Michelle and I switched gears from tired and lazy to awesome and fantastic and excited. We got our gear on and headed down to meet some friends at the Bovine, a Queen Street institution that has been around for about 20 years now. Its façade is decorated with a mass of rusted bicycles, hub caps, and various assorted yard tools in a bizarre sculpture. You can’t miss it.

Interesting as it is to look at, it’s a narrow and dank space inside, and it’s always inevitably filled with punk and metal boys, which can be a pain in the butt—literally. We managed to get to the front of the stage for The Pack, but we were so wedged in that I could practically feel the bulge of the fella behind me wedging itself into my…well, my behind. It wasn’t pleasant.

Nonetheless, the show was awesome. There wasn’t much room to dance, but I did my best to rock out. The hotness of Becky Black makes up for a lot of discomfort. We stuck around for their set and then headed out to other, roomier bars in which to find libations.
Cobra Matte

And Saturday was the day I had been looking forward to from the moment I looked at the CMW lineup. I have finally caught up with myself! Saturday was all about JD SAMSON. Specifically, MEN was going to be playing at Sneaky Dee’s. My love for JD stems from my love for Le Tigre, which itself stemmed from my love for Bikini Kill and Kathleen Hanna. There was a time in my life when I believed that Bikini Kill was the best band ever to have existed in history. That time was last week. It comes and goes, actually. From time to time I really need to scream out all of my feminist rage.

And at other times, I just really need to dance. Saturday was one of the latter times. Let me tell you, MEN provided everything I needed to do just that. Great beats, great energy, and great lyrics—the whole package. In fact, they even covered a Bikini Kill song! My brain would have exploded if I hadn’t been busy dancing the remaining inches of my ass off. It was fan-freaking-tastic!

After the show, I made my way up to the front, where JD was striking the stage in preparation for the next act. I screwed up all of my courage to squeak out that I worked in radio and would really like it if she would like to contact us whenever she was in town. She nodded, took my card, and said, “Thanks, I will.” I turned into a thirteen-year-old fangirl and *died*.
Off Our Backs

I pulled myself together and made my way over to El Mocambo, where Acey’s derby team was having a fundraising dance party. If there was anything left of my ass to dance off, I did so there. My friends arm-wrestled derby girls with varying levels of success, and we spent about four hours on that dance floor. It was the perfect way to cap off the festival.

I don’t know if it was because it was past four in the morning when I got home, if it was the beer I drank, or if it was the fact that I had danced parts of my body into oblivion, but on my way back to my humble abode at last, I managed to fall up the stairs. What I can tell you about that is that it sure beats falling down.

It was time to call it a night, and you know, I’ll also call it one of the best weeks I have enjoyed in a good long time.

I hadn’t been out dancing in awhile, so I decided last night to go to the Phoenix Concert Theatre in my old stomping grounds on Sherbourne Street. I had only been to the Phoenix before for concerts; I went to see Peaches there a couple of years ago, as well as the Breeders.

Both concerts hold a tie in the category of The Best Concert I Have Ever Attended, and the venue played no small role.

The Phoenix is my favourite venue in Toronto for concerts. Not only does it boast great acoustics and a stellar sound team, but the size and setup of the room offer you a great vantage point of the show from anywhere, even when you are standing against the back wall. And on top of it all, they have a DJ night on Fridays after their gigs, so the Friday night concerts start at 8 and are usually done by 10:30 PM. Granny Stark here likes to be in bed by eleven.

But last night I wasn’t going to any concerts. I was just going to rock out. The Phoenix has long had a hard rock/alternative night on Saturday nights. However, over the past few years, it has flagged in popularity. The room is relatively large. I think the capacity is around 700 people. Before the New year, they were averaging somewhere around 125 people.

But now they’re looking to pick things back up again, with the help of DJ Bingo Bob, also known as…my boss. Thus, of course, I wouldn’t be paying the ten-dollar cover, thank you very much.

Bingo Bob is an odd name for a DJ, don’t you think? Apparently he actually used to call bingo, before he got his gig as a producer on The Humble and Fred Show at Edge 102, and the name stuck.

It turns out Bingo and I have a lot of musical tastes in common—the Ramones, Pixies, Yeah Yeah Yeahs—so I was looking forward to the night. I met up with a few friends and we hit the dancefloor. Drinks were had, people were bumped around. A girlfriend of a friend showed up unexpectedly, and unexpectedly drunk.

Girlfriend was very happy to see me. I had made her a mix CD and she was pleased. She high fived me with the kind of judgment reserved for those who can stomach 13 oz. of vodka in one sitting and still have room for beer. Which is to say, what she thought was my hand was actually my face. Getting high-fived in the head by a girl who lifts boxes all day is…less than pleasurable. As I had not had quite so much to drink as her, however, I was able to avoid the brunt of the blows, and just smiled my way out of the conversation and over to a corner of the dancefloor that was safely out of reach.

There I found my buddy Jonathan and his boyfriend stirring up a little Queer Fear by having the audacity to dance together. In a room full of macho hard rock guys, it’s a ballsy thing to do. Noting the disdain on one particular man’s face, they made sure to *accidentally* bump into him as often as possible, apologizing politely every time.

This game soon grew tiresome, however, and after a couple of hours of requesting Bruno Mars to no avail, Jonathan and boyfriend made as though to leave. At that very moment, the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” started, however, and I convinced them to stick around so we could all have one last little jump around before they took off. As I was jumping around, a light caught my eye from the floor. I thought to myself, “SHINY!” and bent to see what it could be.

Lo and behold, it was a toonie! Two bucks, man, I was well pleased. And then more shininess drew me to a nearby loonie. Three for the money, now go, man, go! And next up I found the not-so-shiny, but even more pleasing ten-dollar bill. Sir John A. MacDonald never looked so handsome. I just made my drink money back! Time for more gin.

In the end, our man Bingo Bob brought in around 400 people, at least triple the pre-2011 crowds. I hope it keeps up—if only because it will mean he’ll be in a better mood at work.

I have had a tendency from time to time to complain about my job. Most people do it, right? We’re all underpaid and overworked and don’t get the respect we deserve, yadda yadda. But for all of my complaining, I do get to enjoy some pretty nifty perks. Such as, for example, my Priority Pass to the North by Northeast (NXNE) festival. It’s no SXSW, but it’s what we’ve got.

A Priority Pass is just fancy talk for a pass that let me skip the lineups, but it did get me into all of the gigs I wanted, and it just kinda looks fancy. I am all about looking fancy.

I would like to say that I was awarded this pass because I am a highly honoured and respected member of the radio station for which I work, but the truth is there was only one pass and I was the only person who was both interested in NXNE and flying solo this weekend, as my partner left town for the week. Thank you, Michelle, for going to New York without me. No, really! My weekend of bachelorhood was every bit as much fun as I imagine I would have had had I joined you.

So the first place I went to was the Dakota Tavern, a little basement country and blues bar that I have never seen before. I missed the first band, but the second one, First Rate People, really was first rate–boppy and fun, with a nice mix of male and female vocals. The girl on drums was really banging it out.

Then there was some really loud band from Alberta called Ghostkeeper, and they looked like Alberta, complete with farmer caps and hipster beards. The lead singer was hot, though. He was Métis and said he was putting the “Indian” in Indie rock. They also had a female drummer. I thought maybe this was a female drummer night, but the first band was comprised only of men, so I guess it was just a coincidence. This drummer also sang some of the songs, but here is the problem with coed singing bands at small music festivals: the sound checks are all done by the guys and the bass levels are so high that you can barely hear the women’s voices. So I didn’t really like Ghostkeeper much. They weren’t horrible, but their MySpace page sounds nicer than they do live in a tiny bar. Let me be old for a moment: they were too loud.

Then came the band I was waiting to see, The Pack A.D., comprised of drummer Maya Miller and guitarist/singer Becky Black. These chicks really rock out. Seriously, I had such an awesome time, I was losing my shit. I found myself dancing and cheering like a tween fangirl. I think I may have swooned. Day 1: success!

Day 2 was significantly less thrilling. I went to the Velvet Underground, a once-popular and now kind of divey goth bar. Who knew goth bars could still fly in Toronto? The first two bands were regrettable.

The lead singer of The Scarlet Fever wished really hard that he could have been some sort of cross between David Bowie and Siouxsie Sioux. I thought he was a girl until he stopped singing and began to speak in a faux-Brit accent (he’s from Toronto). He liked to drape himself over the speakers in his leather corset and feathers, looking dramatically heavenward, before leaping into the near-empty dance floor to fondle the faces of the two or three women who stood listening to him there. His singing was atrocious but he was nonetheless entertaining in a wholly unintentional way. I laughed out loud, but genuinely enjoyed the floor show. Amazing.

From would-be Siouxsie Bowie, the show continued with the Wannabe-Henry-Rollins-Band, a.k.a. The Torrent. Let me share with you a sample of their lyrics:

There’s a taste in my mouth and it tastes like you.
There’s a taste in my mouth and it tastes like you.
There’s a taste in my mouth and it tastes like you.
I wanna spit it out and find someone new.
What’s new, pussycat?

No joke. I think that pretty much says it all. Thank goodness there was a city-wide power outage in the middle of their set.

The power came back on, and finally it was time for the act I had come to see: People You Know. One of the former interns at my radio station is the drummer. Apparently hot chick drummers have really been a theme of my NXNE experience this year. Anyway, these girls really made the night worthwhile. The lead singer/guitarist, Aimee Bessada, and the bassist, Devon Clarke, have some serious rockstar moves—I think they practice in the mirror. They really use the medium; they roll and jump all over the stage, and they splay themselves over the speakers. They really have invested some time in cultivating a stage presence. Totally entertaining. I had a great time.

At the end of the show, they gave me a free demo—old school, just some little burned disc with the band name scrawled on it with a Sharpie. It’s the 2000s version of a mixtape. There are only three songs on it, but they are three solid songs. I look forward to a real release from these girls.

I deliberated over what to do Saturday, whether I should check out some more indie bands or go to Dundas Square to see Iggy and the Stooges play before they finally wasted away. I do love Iggy Pop, but I thought maybe he might better be left to my imagination. I remembered how I had longed to see Bowie my entire life, and then I finally got the chance to do so about five or six years ago and he was a great disappointment. In the end, however, I decided to risk it and headed down to the square with a couple of friends.

What a bad idea! The square was open and free to the public, with no set capacity, so the place ended up getting so crowded that my friends and I had to get the fuck out of the sardine tin. There were douchebags all around, guys ripping their shirts off and drinking Jack Daniels out of–get this–a can. Who knew that even existed? It would be one thing if this were a mosh pit full of punks, but most of the people around us had never actually heard of Iggy Pop.

I did get to see the Raveonettes, whose feedback addiction actually sounds much better in a live, outdoor setting. However, their stage show was incredibly boring. I really find it annoying when a band has a whole entire stage but they just stand there and play their instruments without so much as a bob of the head. Take a lesson from People You Know, folks!

I also survived the suffocating crowd long enough to see old Iggy rock out to “Raw Power” before violence breaking out right in front of us forced us to get the fuck out of dodge before we got trampled. Getting out of the crowd was almost as difficult as it would have been to try to get in. Iggy was still full of energy and looking really awesome, when I could peek at him through the ever-thickening crowd of taller people than I. He was pretty funny, too. He said, “We are what remains of the Stooges. And you get to see us before we die!” I was happy he said that because then I didn’t feel so bad about having thought the same thing all day.

Let me tell you, I practically grew up in a mosh pit, but this was insane. First, it was clear that most of the people crowding the stage weren’t even into punk, or Iggy Pop, for that matter. They didn’t recognize the music or even seem to be enjoying themselves. What they were doing was acting the way I guess they thought one should act at a punk concert: drinking too much and starting fights. It was a real disappointment.

When finally we made it back to the thinner area at the back of the square, we saw the real punks, not fighting, just slam-dancing and having a grand old time even though there was nothing you could see from back there. Having bruised ourselves enough for one night, we all decided to head back to my friend’s place a few blocks away and drink beer on the balcony. Which was more fun than watching Iggy Pop.

All in all, though, I had a great time at NXNE this year. I got to see some new bands, appreciate some old ones I already liked, and even got a bunch of free swag—and bruises—out of the weekend. I do love free stuff.

Let’s see, we’ve got a couple of CDs, a download card for some music site, a foldable pocket map of Toronto, some earbuds, 3D glasses, the swag bag itself, which is pretty nifty looking, some ear plugs, stickers that I can put on my seldom-used-anymore guitar case, a button, a CN Tower coupon, a guitar pick that says “Rock Shrink” (my dream job…or possibly nightmare job), some bathroom reading, and a gift certificate of some sort to a sticker/t-shirt/paraphernalia store I would probably really love if I were a rockstar.

I would say I made out like a bandit. Not a bad way to spend a bachelor’s weekend in Toronto.