Words & Music

Just finished a record review for my friend KC's free monthly coffee shop read, Concrete News. This is the second one I've done for him. The idea is that he gets local musicians to write short reviews of classic albums. They're a lot of fun.

But when I say, short, I mean SHORT. He asks you to keep them to around 100 words. I always think I have nothing to say, and then in the end there's not nearly enough space. The first one I did was for Wire's Chairs Missing, and this one is for the Pogues' If I Should Fall from Grace with God. It'll come out in the March issue, just in time for St. Patrick's Day:

In 1988, the Pogues find the sweet spot where Britpunk and Celtic rollick cohabit in beautiful misery. The connections turn out to run deeper than a shared love of beer and the eff word, though there's room still for plenty of each. 

In the wrong hands, a mashup of traditional Irish romanticism and postmodern London irony could fail miserably. The word "fusion" comes to mind, and a couple of these songs actually flirt with "exotic" motifs.

But Shane MacGowan careens boldly between the cornfields. Banjos and penny whistles somehow rock. Sneering sentimentality becomes lyrical, transcendent poetry. You'll be weepin' into yer green pint ere this one's o'er.

See what I mean? I could've gone on for 1,000 more words just about "Fairytale of New York" alone. Didn't even get to say anything about the lovely Kirsty MacColl…

Nor did I get to talk about seeing the band when they toured this album. They played in the Masonic Hall in Toronto, where there was an ingenious setup: the stage was on the main floor, and the bar was downstairs by the washrooms. So the extreme hubbub from the constant line of celtophiles buying beer in plastic cups and then getting rid of it in one way or another didn't distract from the music at all.

Not that there was any way anyone could have drowned out that band. They were LOUD. And very drunk, as was everyone in the audience, this reporter not excluded.

In fact, I got so drunk I didn't even trust myself to get home to the suburbs on public transit. I ended up calling my sister Dana to pick me up. Somehow I knew she was out that night in our parents' car. She obliged, and I entertained her all the way home with my uncharacteristic enthusiasm and barely coherent speech. We had to stop halfway home so I could get out to urinate in someone's freshly ploughed field along the side of the highway. I remember that being hilarious to both of us, for some reason.

But so anyway, the necessarily short version of the review will be in the newsletter, as will this ad for my own album:

Maybe if they're on the same page and if I can maybe get onto the local college radio chart that gets printed every week in The Coast, then maybe I'll force myself into the public consciousness and maybe sell some virtual records. This is my carefully considered marketing and publicity strategy.