Return of the Jayhawks

The Jayhawks took a while to get going last night. Or maybe I did, because it was so weird to be at a show and not drinking.
Is it so wrong that virtually every concert-going experience I've had has been influenced by alcohol? Perhaps, perhaps not, but one thing's for sure: a drink or two does help dull the irritation caused by standing in a packed, hot room, being regularly knocked around by people pushing past you and deciding to stand right in front of you. The band's job is to lift you past that irritation, and eventually they did.
I still think it's all about Gary Louris, he's a better guitar player, and his voice is really the essence of their sound. Plus his songs, of course. The best ones are all his, as I discovered years ago when he did a solo show at the Horseshoe and sang them all. Still, they have some lovely harmonies and I liked the keyboard player. No self-consciousness, no attitude, no turning their backs on the audience or hiding behind their fabulous haircuts—just letting the songs stand on their own. God, I love unfashionable bands!

Blood and Feathers

I guess I can see how some people found Black Swan too over the top... it was outrageous, but I completely and utterly enjoyed the ride. It's kind of like a female version of Fight Club—something that delves into and picks apart (sometimes literally... ouch) our ideas of femininity the way Fight Club poked around in mens' psyches. Ballet is pretty much the perfect vehicle for it, since it's where women have to starve themselves, torture their bodies and never get old in order to succeed. And that's not even counting the nasty and psychotic storylines most classical ballets have.
I loved the way Darren Aronofsky borrowed from Polanski, Cronenberg and Hitchcock, loved all the mirrors and the creepy subway tunnels and the scary bunnies and the way the faces switched back and forth. Awesome, and Natalie Portman deserves the Oscar which she will presumably get.

Space Odyssey

I hadn't seen 2001: A Space Odyssey in 25 years, which is kind of mind-boggling. The first time was at the University Theatre, the mindless destruction of which still irks me. It was a beautiful theatre with 70mm capability, and I remember being blown away by the spaceship rotating to The Blue Danube and the crazy psychedelic rush of the trip to god knows where. I also remember being horrified by people watching it on TV a few years later. That is just wrong.
This time I went to the TIFF Lightbox, which is showing a 70mm print of 2001 in its almost frighteningly soundproof theatre. And it's still amazing. What I loved the most: the art direction—the prescient snappy retro-futuristic look of the space station, the freaky modern-classical house where Keir Dullea clinks his cutlery and ages, the rolling Escher-like spaceship, the little bars that have to be keyed one by one to shut down HAL—the music, both Strausses; HAL, of course; and yes, that intensely colourful hallucinogenic trip. I also love how I still have no idea what it all REALLY MEANS. But virtually every sci fi movie owes it a huge debt.

Legislative behaviour

My name was read out in the Ontario Legislature on Monday, though hardly anyone was paying attention. My grandfather, Wilfrid Heighington, was an MPP from 1929 to 1937, as well as a writer and lawyer, and he was being honoured by the Legislature with a brief mention of his life and work. My cousin arranged it as a birthday treat for her father, and a bunch of us got to sit in a special gallery and watch. It was pretty interesting to be there, but the overall impression was one of petty boorishness. None of the MPPs listened to anything anyone else was saying, even the members of their own party. They sat there, chatting and laughing—when they weren't yelling like a bunch of bratty teens. You've got to wonder why they take schoolkids there to watch; what a lesson they get in debating. Heckle, yell, laugh, yell louder, repeat. But yay Wilfrid, wish I'd known you. Afterward, I touched the letters of his name, which are carved in the hallway along with every other MPP's.

singalong Shakespeare

So ’90s week started with Chris Dignan reanimating the shimmering ghost of Suckerpunch at Lula Lounge, continued with my discovery of No Joy, a band from Montreal who sound like shoegazers (and are really good) and wrapped up with the Lowest of the Low playing Shakespeare My Butt start to finish in a packed-beyond-belief Lee's Palace. I had to move around the club a couple of times, first because a bunch of yahoos muscled into our sweet side-of-the-stage spot (there is an inordinate number of large men among Low fans), then because another fan was screaming every lyric in my right ear, then because I got stuck behind another member of the solidly built fan base. It was worth it, though. They were great, and everyone looked as though they were having fun up there. Jim Bryson and John K. Samson were so good together that they almost stole the show. And then today I was going through old CDs and got washed over with more ’90s nostalgia. The Feelies! Buffalo Tom! Slow Loris! Rusty! Hardship Post! Sianspheric! I've still got way too many CDs but at least I can walk into the closet now.

accidental vandalism

I broke something, kind of by mistake and kind of not, since I kicked it. But I am choosing to see it as a metaphor for breaking up certain annoying logjams.