Official music page and soapbox of Matt Snell

Sunday, 17 November 2013

"Free to a Good Home" - Short Story in Existere Journal of Arts and Literature

I'm happy to announce that my short story "Free to a Good Home" has been published in the latest issue of Existere Journal of Arts and Literature. I know the blog looks a little lonely these days, but while I haven't been posting I've been busily writing my brains out elsewhere and I'm gratified to see that effort pay off.

If you'd like to grab a copy of Existere, there's a list of retailers on the journal's site and an option to order. Although Existere's main page hadn't been updated at the time of this writing, I can assure you the latest issue is available, as you can see on their Facebook page. I can also promise you it's a good deal - I'm proud of my work and there's plenty of other good writing in there besides.

More info here:


http://www.yorku.ca/existere/index.html
https://www.facebook.com/groups/2251721361/

Wednesday, 23 October 2013

Writing and Playing New Songs in the Old-Time Tradition


(It's been awhile, so I figure I owe you something good. Below you'll find the notes I gave out at my writing workshop at the Peterborough Folk Festival this summer. I took care with these, so I hope you'll find something to enjoy if you're a player, or even just an old-time aficionado.)


On the surface, old-time music is easy. You only need to know three chords in one or two keys, the solos aren't fancy, and a creaky singing voice is an asset. Anyone who sits in with an old-time band for the first time, though, will realize it takes a lot of subtlety to get the right feel. How do contemporary musicians engage with the music without being hackneyed? Many of the songs we play were written by people in a different country and a different era. Clich├ęs abound. How do you keep the music fresh, without betraying what made the source material so great? Can we write our own songs in the same spirit?

We wouldn’t be a folk festival if you couldn’t. I’ve put together some notes on the subject I hope will be useful to old-time aficionados, but first, let me admit that my definitions are not all that rigorous. I often lump genres like blues and bluegrass into the same broad category, in ways that will frustrate a purist. These are differences that are important to musicologists, and maybe to you, depending on the type of musician you are. My main interest is putting on a good show and following my muse; my muse tends to like music from before 1950. I assume you fall somewhere on the same spectrum, and hopefully players of all stripes will find something of interest here.

The great thing about giving artistic advice is that you can find an example to prove any point you want to make. Whatever you set out to do, somebody, somewhere, has already done it with genius. As such you may find some of my suggestions contradictory. The only thing I won’t do is give highly technical advice. There’s a wealth of resources out there on the mechanics of playing old-time music (check out Happy Traum’s Homespun Tapes, for a start). If you don’t know the basics of music theory, it’s well worth taking the time to familiarize yourself. There’s a myth out there that old-time musicians rely exclusively on their ears, but in practice not knowing theory just means shifting the burden to other people. Watch the fiddler or the banjo player’s face darken as you slide that capo around and call a tune in the key of H flat – you’ll see what I mean.

Notes for Players

Dress the part. You don’t have to wear suspenders and a bowler hat to play old-time music. The perfect pair of slacks will not make you a better banjo player. However, it is worth asking if there’s continuity between the way you look and the way you sound. Old-time music is frequently a storytelling medium, and the audience has to believe that you are invested in the story you are telling. Otherwise, the lyrics don’t seem to bear on the one who is speaking, and what you’re saying becomes meaningless. Here’s an example: I went to see a band of young guys wearing Billabong t-shirts and backwards ballcaps. The lead singer asked, “Do you guys want to hear some old-time music?” and launched into his song: “I went down to the river, to wash away my sins...” I had the strong suspicion he didn’t live near a river, and from the look of him he hadn’t committed any sins worth washing. I may have misjudged this guy, but it seemed to me his artistic statement was unreflective. Presentation matters.

Don’t overdo it on the character, though. I’ve just told you to dress the part, but unless you’re really a Texan, don’t drawl like one. It’s easier than you’d think to slip into, and you’ll hear it often. Unlike looking the part, however, this feeds the meaninglessness. It says you’re doing a cornpone impression rather than engaging seriously with the material. Trust that high lonesome feeling to express itself through the song, not yer TV stereotypes.

Slavish devotion to period details is not enough. You’re wearing a pair of vintage brogans and a moth-eaten vest. The promotional photos you put on your website are all sepia-toned. You put out your last album on wax cylinder. Every detail is correct, yet the music feels inert. The problem is that the people you’re emulating were alive, but you’ve turned yourself into a museum piece. Roscoe Holcomb sounds like a buzzsaw because his lungs were scorched by a lifetime working in the mines. Bukka White sings songs about prison life that you must never, under any circumstances, attempt to cover, because you didn’t live through them first. Get the sound and the look you want, but remember the map is not the territory. You have to find ways to make these songs live for yourself. Maybe you do it by choosing your repertoire carefully, by finding ways to empathize with the characters in your song. Maybe you’ve altered the melody just enough to make it your own. Some songs will buoy you up, and you’ll have no idea why. Just remember, the spirit is the last word. Without it everything else comes to nothing.

Play with drive. You can probably come up with examples that disprove this rule, but I have a suspicion that really slow, drifty ballads belong more in the sixties folk tradition than in old-time. Whenever I hear a truly tragic old-time song, I’m amazed at how much drive it still has. Old-time music usually has no rhythm section, but that just means string instruments have to supply the forward thrust. This is a subjective quality and a hard one to explain away, but if you haven’t consciously listened to how musicians create drive, give it a try.
Listen to the Tommy Jarrell track “As Time Draws Near,” then play it yourself. If you’re like me, you’ll start off too slow and the song will bog. Too fast, and the tempo feels unsuited. The secret ingredient is drive. Jarrell has it, even in the depths of one of the saddest songs I know.

Remember, you’re an entertainer. An old-time performance has one of two purposes: to engross people in a story, or to make them dance. When a show doesn’t serve one purpose or the other, it fails to hold my attention for a full set. This is a common pitfall in bluegrass: the performance becomes a display of technical virtuosity, which is perhaps of interest to other players but less so to the general public. On the other hand, old-time musicians sometimes have a misguided notion that showpersonship is a form of insincerity, and so they fumble onstage, apologize, and take forever to tune. The desire to entertain comes from a sincere place. There is nothing the audience would like more than to see you relaxed and comfortable. Crack some jokes, play out and communicate with the people who came to see you.

Old-time music is weirder than you think. You’re excited to check out the latest old-time band when they come to town. They’re all gifted players, yet somehow the result is polite, proficient, and unmoving. Chances are the band has taken too few risks with the form, and failed to personalize their set. Some instrumental line-ups are standard for a reason – for instance, the bluegrass combo of stand-up bass, guitar, banjo, and mandolin brilliantly covers the spectrum. However, don’t be fooled into thinking that the standard approach is the only authentic approach. If you dig a little, you’ll find examples of weird and wonderful departures from the formula. The term fiddlesticks comes from standing beside a fiddler and tapping out a rhythm on the strings while he or she plays. Check out what Washington Phillips did on the celestaphone, a zither-type instrument. Listen to the haunting bell sound in Blind Mamie Forehand’s “Honey in the Rock,” or the clarinet and slidewhistle accompaniment on Blind Blake’s “Hot Potatoes.” Try out an odd instrument or take a stylistic departure now and then – chances are your heroes did at one time or another.
There is a danger, of course, that you’ll push the genre farther than it will go. Check out the travesty that is the Holy Modal Rounders’ album Indian War Whoop for an object lesson. However, you may also find a niche that distinguishes you from more generic offerings. Listen to how gleefully the Jim Kweskin Jug Band mixes it up. Or take C.W. Stoneking, a contemporary Australian blues musician with a turn-of-the-20th-century style so complete it borders on creepy, yet who acknowledges 50 Cent as one of his influences. See the Canadian musician Petunia in concert, and watch how he makes a Bill Monroe tune his own. And don’t miss Sheesham and Lotus at the festival today!

Notes for Writers

Enduring songs are universal. The most popular songs in the old-time canon have survived because they’re sturdy as hell. Whenever they were written, they seem eerily timeless. “You Are my Sunshine” is my favourite example. Many people haven’t looked beyond the chorus, but they should. That song is hard as diamond, pared down to the barest essentials. You’ll find no extraneous details, no slippery poetic conceits beyond the plaintive central metaphor. Writing with this kind of directness and sincerity is vastly more difficult than it sounds, and it’s a lifetime goal for songwriters to strive for. Luckily old-time music provides us with some of the best examples.

...But great songs are personal, too. It’s well and good to strive for universality in your songwriting, but if you miss your mark you’re bound to hit platitudes. A lot of old-time songs are about heartbreak, but do we really need another heartbreak song? Not unless something compels you to write, beyond the desire to participate in a tradition. As I mentioned above, the blues musician Bukka White recorded some of the most powerful music I know. Listen to his song “When Can I Change my Clothes?” and marvel at how he’s set his experience to music. You don’t have to have suffered in a Mississippi work camp before you can write good songs, but if you’re able to tap a personal experience rather than trading in ambiguities, chances are your listeners will perk up.
Don’t take this to mean you have to stick to the literal details of your experience, though. I wrote a song I’m proud of called “Circus Coming to Town,” about a guy who fantasizes about running away to join the circus. I’ve never come close to running away with the circus, and the narrator of the song isn’t quite me. However, I gave the song some weight by connecting with his dissatisfaction with his humdrum life, a subject I can unfortunately sometimes relate to. When I sing it, I’m being genuine even though I’m in character.

Lastly, don’t think that real art must be crushingly serious in tone. Let your sense of humour find its way into your songs, if it wants to. Fun and seriousness are not mutually exclusive.

Protest songs are angry. Folk music has a long history of being involved with protest movements, but unfortunately I think it’s taken something of a wrong turn. Many songwriters today seem afraid that an aggressive song will violate the folksy sense of solidarity their listeners feel, and so they turn in a polite suggestion that it’s time to change the world. “Golly whiz, wouldn’t it be nice if Enbridge didn’t build that pipeline?” is a nice sentiment, but it’s no wonder that protest writing has largely migrated to hip hop, where the message lands with more force.

Classic protest songs are alive with pathos and rage. Even funny ones, like Harry McClintock’s “Hallelujah, I’m a Bum,” are seething underneath (you may not know that song is actually set to the tune of the Presbyterian hymn “Revive Us Again,” which adds to its vitriolic attack on hypocrisy). If you’re passionate about a subject, give it full expression. Don’t write a song the same way you would write a letter to your MP.

On the other hand, don’t hector your audience. It’s hard to tell people something they don’t already know in three minutes’ worth of rhyming couplets. Don’t tell me that consumers need to change their spending habits or the planet will suffer; I know that. What music can do is make me feel gutsick about it, so your song runs through my head when I try to justify a new flatscreen TV. A good example is Woody Guthrie’s song, “1913 Massacre” (Ramblin’ Jack Elliott does a great version, too). He tells a story guaranteed to fill you with outrage – striking miners and their families are enjoying a well-earned Christmas celebration, when anti-union thugs shout fire and cause a stampede. Listen to the way Guthrie sets the scene: “I will take you in a door and up a high stairs/Singing and dancing is heard everywhere/I will let you shake hands with the people you see/And watch the kids dance around the big Christmas tree.” Perfect – my response is no longer purely intellectual. Think of it this way: other mediums are better at informing people, and you’re usually preaching to the choir anyway. The best you can do as a songwriter is inspire the people who are doing the heavy lifting.

Recommendations

Once again, these are organized more in terms of what’s influenced me personally than strict genre lines.

Classic

  • American Primitive, Vol. 1
  • Black Banjo Songsters of North Carolina
  • Blind Willie Johnson - The Complete...
  • Blind Willie McTell - The Definitive...
  • Buell Kazee - Sings and Plays
  • Bukka White - The Complete...
  • Clarence "Tom" Ashley - Greenback Dollar
  • Clawhammer Banjo, Vol. 1-3
  • Dock Boggs - Country Blues
  • Hard Times Come Again No More, Vol. 2
  • Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music
  • Hobart Smith - In Sacred Trust and Blue Ridge Legacy
  • Joseph Spence - The Complete Folkways Recordings
  • Mississippi John Hurt - Avalon Blues: The Complete 1928 Okeh Recordings
  • Reverend Gary Davis - The Complete Early Recordings
  • Roscoe Holcomb - An Untamed Sense of Control
  • Son House - Delta Blues
Contemporary(ish)

  • Bill Monroe and Doc Watson - Live Recordings 1963-1980
  • CW Stoneking - King Hokum and Jungle Blues
  • Dolly Parton - The Grass Is Blue
  • Iris Dement - Lifeline
  • Jim Kweskin and the Jug Band - S/T
  • John Fahey - The Transfiguration of Blind Joe Death
  • Kossoy Sisters with Erik Darling - Bowling Green
  • Leon Redbone - Double Time
  • Petunia/Petunia and the Vipers - I Live in the Past and S/T
  • Sheesham and Lotus - Everytime! and Five Miles from Town
  • Southern Banjo Styles - Mike Seeger
  • Steve Earle - Train A-Comin’

Monday, 19 August 2013

Your Host for Peterborough Folk Festival Scavenger Hunt Secret Shows (Presented by Exclaim!)


I'm honoured to announce that I'll be hosting the Scavenger Hunt Secret Shows at the Peterborough Folk Festival this year. Set away from the main stage at top-secret locations around Rotary Park, the list of performers includes Gavin Gardiner from the Wooden Sky, Rae Spoon, Jennifer Castle, The Grey Kingdom, and Dave Tough.

I could tell you exactly where these mercurial musicians will be appearing, but then I'd have to kill you. Decode these devilish clues if you can:

Show #1 - 5:15pm - Just off the beaten path is where our first performer will be, Light will call out darkness in a clearing near a tree.
 

Show #2 - 6:00pm - Not the Thames of London, but near our dear footbridge. Our Wooden singer isn’t Neil Young, but he’ll be singing On the Beach.
 

Show #3 - 6:45pm - He may be Tough he may be rough, and a woodsman perhaps he’ll be. Look for our next performer along a unkempt path, next to the Mighty Otonabee.
 

Show #4 - 7:15pm - Across a wooden bridge, if you hurry you’ll get there soon. For our Prairie Home Companion will leave you howling at the Moon.
 

Show #5 - 8:00pm - Find a willow on a turtle’s back. That’s where our final singer will be. For kingdoms or castles made of sand must fall in the sea (or the Otonabee), eventually. 

If you have the Mensa-level abilities it takes to crack the code, I'll see you there. This is gonna be fun.



Writing and Playing New Songs in the Old-Time Tradition: Peterborough Folk Fest Workshop

On the surface, old-time music is easy. You only need to know three chords in one or two keys, the solos aren't fancy, and a creaky singing voice is an asset. Anyone who sits in with an old-time band for the first time, though, will realize it takes a lot of subtlety to get the right feel. How do contemporary musicians engage with the music without being hackneyed? Many of the songs we play were written by people in a different country and a different era; cliches abound. How do you keep the music fresh, without betraying what made the source material so great? Can we write our own songs in the same spirit?

I've thought a lot about this, and on August 24 at the Peterborough Folk Festival, I'll be hosting a workshop on the subject. I'll bring my own ideas and examples, but I'd like to hear your take, too. Bring an instrument and a song you've written in the old-time tradition, or a classic tune you're working on. We'll be in Nicholl's Oval Park (725 Armour Rd), at the top of the hill. Start time is 2:00 pm.

And oh yeah - there'll also be tons of incredible music all day. The Folk Fest is a great way to cap off the summer, so don't miss it!

Monday, 5 August 2013

Film Review: The Act of Killing

This weekend I saw one of the best movies I will ever see, a documentary entirely specific and unto itself. No other film can borrow its techniques, at least not without wildly different results. Even that is unlikely to happen, because the kind of intelligence and nerves-of-steel resolve it takes to make something like this are rare.

The Act of Killing follows several perpetrators of the 1965 communist purge in Indonesia, a genocide that killed at least half a million people. Far from being held accountable, the killers are still feared and respected in Indonesia today. The state is so supportive of them that when director Joshua Oppenheimer tried to make a documentary about the survivors of the massacre, he was frustrated at every turn. His solution was to approach the killers, who were only too happy to boast about their exploits. Together they made a harrowing film.

Oppenheimer offered to let the killers re-enact their crimes for the camera however they saw fit. Their bizarre interpretations involve 1940s gangster costumes and dance interludes. As compelling as the concept is, it mostly acts as a framing device for the action behind the scenes: executioner Anwar Congo sees nothing wrong in screening a gory murder scene for his grandchildren. An actor playing a communist confesses that his stepfather was murdered. The killers discuss the need for comic relief.

The film is short on historical details, but the decision works in its favour. Its purpose is not to inform you of names and dates but to show you, quite painfully, what living in a distorted reality looks like from the outside. There is an inherent guilt that comes with thinking you are having a profound experience through film, when that film is showing you things more horrifying and violent than you could ever truly guess at. The The Act of Killing reckons with that by showing the executioners not as sadistic visionaries, but stunted adolescents. Their method of dispatching communists was borrowed from The Godfather, their self-image as gangsters borrowed from American cinema. The question of how their glorified interpretation of the past will actually be perceived occurs to them late, and only hazily. What makes this doubly sickening is how easy it becomes to see where one's own reality might be distorted. I thought of recent stories about unchecked surveillance of citizens in Canada and the United States, and could imagine some choice news clips slotting into a wrenching documentary forty years from now.

That's the cynical, despairing side, but there is also a hopeful one. In The Act of Killing you can see Anwar Congo, however dimly, coming to reckon with his crimes through the reenactment. It happens through the images themselves, and simply the process of trying to corral his memories into a final product. It's powerful stuff, and it makes the documentary much more than a commentary on itself. Something about the blend of surrealism, politics, and psychology makes it operate on more levels than I can name or guess at.

I'm intimidated simply writing about it, because anything I say is bound to be reductive. I can only recommend The Act of Killing as one of the most potent and thought-provoking things you're bound to see. When I left the theatre I was stunned into silence, knowing I could probably count on one hand the number of films that had affected me like this. Werner Herzog agrees: "the film is so powerful, so frightening, and so surreal that it will take decades until you see something of that caliber again. It just doesn’t happen very often."

Watch the trailer, then go see the movie:


Real Coyotes Return to the Carpe Diem Cafe

Earlier this summer, the Real Coyotes had an awesome run of shows at the Carpe Diem Cafe (552 Armour Road, Peterborough). I messed it all up by going away in July, but I'm please to announce we're back Friday, August 9. The Carpe Diem is a cozy venue, and JC and stretch out for three full sets from 7:00-10:00 pm. If it's anywhere near as much fun to watch as it is to play, you're in for treat. C'mon out and we'll make the most of what's left of the season!

Tuesday, 23 July 2013

Stonehouse Festival Pics by Ester Vincent

As a solo artist, I can be somewhat squeamish about posting photos, because there tend to be a lot of pictures of me-and-only-me. Ester Vincent's pictures from the Stonehouse Festival are too good to pass up, though, so I'm going to share some of her work. Thanks to Ester, to Julia Fenn and Megan Kendrick for organizing, and to everyone who came to the festival!






Radio on the Lawn, Friday July 26

I'll be appearing at Trent Radio's "Radio on the Lawn" event this Friday, July 26. You're welcome to join in person at 715 George St. North, or listen in at 92.7 FM. There'll be cool drinks and snacks, and music runs from 11:00 am - 5:00 pm. My half-hour set starts at 2:45 and will be followed by a short interview. I'm keeping this post short because I'm saving all my witticisms for Friday, so do check it out!

Tuesday, 11 June 2013

Thomas Truax, Musical Genius

A few weeks ago I went to see Wax Mannequin. Opening up for him was a guy named Thomas Truax, who sounded pretty interesting in his own right. I knew I'd like Truax as soon as I saw his Sister Spinster waiting on the stage, a sort of solenoid-powered steampunk drum machine. On a stand nearby sat the Hornicator, a gramophone horn retrofitted with fancy electronics and a kazoo. As soon as he picked it up, I became a fan for life.

Truax taps out a rhythm on the Hornicator and loops it as a backing track. Then he sings and triggers farting, sliding, grunting noises via a mechanism I don't really understand. On the instrumental breaks he sticks the horn over his face and blows the kazoo like a swooning automaton. His homemade instruments are the whole package, and he's created a new music to suit them. They're much more than a gimmick or visual flourish.

What really sets Truax apart, though, is the fact that he doesn't even need them. He can entertain with just a badly-tuned guitar. Apparently his luggage was full with his homemade devices, and he couldn't pack a guitar. So he rented a shitbox in Toronto for eleven dollar, and played his heart out on a tune called "Full Moon over Wow-Town." First he climbed up on the bar and paraded along it, strumming and belting out the chorus. A girl on a barstool, seemingly unimpressed with the spectacle, checked her smartphone while Truax tapdanced a few inches from her face. So he leapt down and ran out the front door. When he didn't come back someone went to the door and peeked out -- Truax was running up and down the block screaming, "There's a full moon over Wow-Town tonight!" We might've followed him outside, but he dashed around the corner and disappeared. The crowd sat waiting for a stretch of two or three minutes. Suddenly Truax burst in the backdoor with the words "-over Wow-Town tonight!" and finished the song while doing an extended pirouette in the middle of the room.

I asked him after the show when he realized he could come in the back -- had he planned the whole thing? "Right around when I ran out the front door," he said. That kind of improvisational fearless is inspiring. As someone who worships albums by artists who make their own instruments (Moondog, Hans Reichel, Kaada, Harry Partch and Frank Pahl spring to mind), the chance to actually see something like this live is worth a Daxophone's weight in gold. I'd recommend you check out a show ASAP, but I'm afraid Truax's North American dates may have already passed for the summer - he's from Colorado but currently lives in Germany. Keep your ears open for next time, and savour this mindbending video:



Tuesday, 4 June 2013

Real Coyotes w/the Sumner Brothers, Red Garnet June 14

The Real Coyotes will be making their first official appearance at the Red Garnet on June 14, supporting the Sumner Brothers for the Peterborough date of their North American tour.

By the time they get to us, these guys are going to be road-tested: Bob Sumner calculates "18 Days. 18 Shows. 4,518 km. 46hrs behind the wheel. 14 Cities. 2 Provinces. 5 States. 2 Countries." Based in British Columbia, the 'Brothers are promoting their latest album, I'll Be There Tomorrow. Critics call them rootsy and gritty, one of my favourite combinations. 

JC and I want to give them a warm Peterborough welcome. Do come out!

Check out the Sumner Brother's website, or watch a video here:


Here's hoping they bring that carillon thing. And those masks.

Stonehouse Music Festival, June 22

































May was good, June looks even better. I'll be appearing at the Stonehouse Music Festival in Lakefield, and I'm so excited I could squeal. The location is postcard pretty, the lineup is stellar. I've been working on new songs and experimenting with new musical contraptions, so I can meet the awesome standard.

The festival began in 2008, and featured, among others, object of my hero worship Timbre Timbre. It's been on hiatus for a few years, but the current residents of the Stonehouse have resurrected the festival. This year's lineup includes: 

Jos. Fortin
Blues in the Bottle
Hollow Hills (Percussion duo Charles Glasspool & Paul Vernon)
Pronto Monto (Kate & Anna McGarrigle Tribute)
Mink Lake Road
Me
The Burgess Shale
Ham Hawks (Zack Rothwell & Simone McCormick)

BB Guns

Tickets are available at the Red Garnet and Bluestreak Records, for a suggested donation of $25-35. You can also check out the festival's Facebook page.

Come out or risk missing what promises to be nothing less than a 21st century Woodstock.

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

Sitting in with Hurtin' for Certain

May's been a good month for shows and collaborations. Last night's reading with Marguerite Pigeon felt great, and on Friday, May 31, I'll be sitting in with Hurtin' for Certain. The band is an old-time and McGarrigle-influenced project of Julia Fenn and Megan Kendrick; I'll be adding a little banjo to back up their lovely harmonies. I'm even going to play the hulusi, a Chinese gourd instrument, on one song. This will be the first time, to my knowledge, the instrument has been used in the service of hurtin' country music, so come out to the show and witness history in the making.

Showtime at 10:00 at the Rock and Roll Underground (189 Hunter Street West). We'll be followed by the always-excellent Sean Conway Band.

Wednesday, 22 May 2013

Reading with Marguerite Pigeon at the Spill, May 28

I don't give a shit about James Bond. That philandering monarchist can stockpile as many gadgets he likes, I will still root for the one-eyed freaks and diminutive hitmen out to kill the queen. My friends have stopped asking me to movies, because I always bellyache about the miserable politics that drive most blockbusters. Don't get me started on the libertarian wet dream that is Batman.

That's why I think the concept of a lefty mining thriller set in El Salvador is so intriguing. Marguerite Pigeon's new book Open Pit has earned comparisons to John LeCarre's The Constant Gardner and promises complex characters and an elaborate plot. It concerns a group of Canadian human-rights activists held hostage by a revolutionary leader, who demands the closure of a new gold mine. Marguerite will be reading excerpts from her book at the Spill (414 George North, Peterborough) on May 28, and at the risk of alienating my far-right mining tycoon readership, I'll be joining her to read some of my own prose work.

In a lucky coincidence, Marguerite's brother is my bandmate JC Pigeon, so there'll be music too. Marguerite is the evening's feature, but the Real Coyotes have been playing up a storm lately, so expect a lively time all round.

Here's Marguerite's website: http://margueritepigeon.wordpress.com/. Notice she's a UBC alumni, and I'm in the second year of my MFA. Cozy connections all round.

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Film Review: Room 237

Room 237 opens with a man explaining that Stanley Kubrick's The Shining is an extended metaphor for the genocide of the indigenous peoples of North America. His chief justification is a can of baking powder in the background of a shot, though he's got lots more evidence. A subsequent critic agrees that the film is about genocide, but argues that the focus is actually the Holocaust. The proof is a German typewriter and the prevalence of the number 42.

I've seen The Shining, but so long ago I can't remember specifics. Mostly I remember being baffled and bored. I was probably too green to pick up on the subtleties, so I always planned on watching it again. Before I did I figured I'd watch Room 237, a documentary about the many possible interpretations of the film, so I'd go in primed. Boy am I primed.

Many of the ideas floated in Room 237 are ridiculous, but it doesn't seem to matter. The movie fascinates because it's a testament to the associative power of the human mind. Being a Kubrick fan probably intensifies the experience, but it's just as easy to study the interviewees as the film in question. There's scant mention of The Shining's plot or characters, or anything that takes place in the foreground - most critics are more interested in the poster on the wall behind the ghostly apparitions, or the aforementioned baking powder. Snatches of dialogue are given close scrutiny, but only if they're considered a cryptic allusion, say, to the theory that Stanley Kubrick staged the Apollo 11 moon landing.

Not all the theories are quite so fringe. Room 237 has a lot to say about the artistry of the film techniques Kubrick employed. The Overlook Hotel where the The Shining is set has an impossible architecture, and though you might not notice the discrepancies when you're caught up in the storytelling, they contribute to the sense of unease. I think I understand film language well on the intuitive level, but it's interesting to be consciously reminded of what a dissolve means, or to notice how the extras in a casual scene are exquisitely timed. This element might only appeal to a geekier segment of watchers, because my wife Rebecca gave up around the halfway point. But that meant she missed the eeriest observation of all - when the film is superimposed forwards and backwards over itself, it has a disturbing symmetry. Seeing how meaningfully the images comment on each other, it's hard not believe the effect was intentional.

Believing in the intention is important, because I doubt people would be willing to devote so much time to watching a less prominent artist's work frame by frame. They spend hours decoding the significance of a minor character who would be dismissed as unnecessary in a lesser movie. There's an element of projection, in that the willlingness to believe fosters connections we would never make otherwise. What marvels would we find if we trusted in the greatness of a dish soap commercial? (Some of the same things, apparently - one critic claims Kubrick studied subliminal messages in advertising.) Nonetheless, I'm certain Kubrick's rigour as a filmmaker encourages and supports the investigation. It's just too bad he couldn't live to see Room 237, I'm sure he would've gotten the biggest kick of all.

As a documentary, Room 237 has its flaws. The critics interviewed in the film are never shown on-screen, and two of them have such similar voices it takes a moment to realize who's talking. The soundtrack is pretty intrusive, and it's clear the project was done on a shoestring. None of that ultimately detracts from the message, though: I came away in awe of the mind's ability to see the entire history of humankind in the pattern of a carpet. And with a yen to watch The Shining.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Film Review - It's Such a Beautiful Day

I'm not familiar with Don Hertzfeldt's body of work. Up until a week ago, I had only ever seen Rejected, a series of crude, surreal animated shorts. It's a nine-minute slice of weirdness, the kind of thing that works well as the opener for a midnight movie. Each sequence is wildly unpredictable and often violent, punctuated by non-sequiturs like "My spoon is too big!" and "My anus is bleeding!" Just your typical talking banana, singing creampuff dialogue.

I love the manic energy and invention that went into Rejected, and I was ready for more of the same when I put on Hertzfeldt's latest, It's Such a Beautiful Day. Instead, I was surprised, and quite impressed, to see him applying the same animation techniques in a vastly different emotional register. It's Such a Beautiful Day is the story of a stick figure named Bill's mental collapse. It's hard to convey the poignancy of that stick figure's dilemma without sounding sarcastic or gullible, but once you've seen the movie you'll be amazed how genuinely affecting the execution really is. The same crudity that was put to humorous or abstract use in Rejected is used to reflect Bill's shrinking world.

I'm a fan of all types of animation, but I don't think I've ever seen so much done with so little. It's a simplicity that comes from mastery of the form. I'd recommend It's Such a Beautiful Day to anyone, but those who've seen Rejected will get the added pleasure of bearing witness to Hertzfeldt's versatility. He certainly knows how to dredge absurdities from his subconscious, but he can also deliver a story straight from the heart. This is one of the best and most surprising works of art I've seen in awhile.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

Return of the Return of the Real Coyotes

Many thanks to everyone came out last night, braving a blizzard and possibly a St. Paddy's Day hangover to check out the show. However, due to a scheduling mishap, the Real Coyotes played solo, and Inch Chua and Mary Stewart will be coming to the Spill tonight, March 19. So JC and I are happy to reprise our show again with them. If the weather scared you off yesterday, fate has given you a second chance!

Wednesday, 13 March 2013

Return of the Real Coyotes!

I missed this project while it was gone. Now my partner JC Pigeon is back, we're getting picking again at 8:00 pm Monday, March 18 at the Spill (414 George St. N, Peterborough).

Expect wily old-time tunes written by myself and JC. Mr. Pigeon will be playing guitar and mandolin, and I'll be handling the guitar, banjo, and maybe a homemade thingy or two. Howlin' harmonies abound.

Our music has been known to induce labour, joyful incontinence, spastic dancing, and accelerated hair growth. Or you can sit further back and enjoy the subtle lyricism. Either way, I hope you make it out. After lots of solo shows, I'm stoked about this duo and promise to goose your boring Monday night.

We're followed by Mary Stewart and Inch Chua. Both are seasoned artists, check 'em out:

Mary Stewart: http://music.cbc.ca/#/artists/Mary-Stewart

Inch Chua: http://www.inchchua.com/


If you can't make it next week, the Real Coyotes will be appearing again at the Spill April 16.

Thursday, 28 February 2013

New Moondog Album Released!

Actually it came out in 1994, but it's new to me so I stand by the headline. I just got a copy of Sax Pax for a Sax and I have already contacted the federal government to see about making it mandatory listening for every citizen. That goal is achieved, we will use diplomacy or military might  to enforce similar standards globally.

There are some artists who bind themselves strongly to a time and place. An album might remind me of rainy days in Halifax, or the people I listened to it with. When that time is past, I may listen to once every few years for nostalgia's sake. Moondog I expect to enjoy as long as I have partial hearing in at least one ear.

There are two Moondog albums I view as peak musical experiences - Moondog (1956) and Moondog (1969). None of the other albums will do you any harm either, but these two are perfect. I reach for them whenever I feel grumpy I can't find any new music I like. The best I can say about Sax Pax for a Sax is it sounds like the 1969 album. There's even a retake of the "Bird's Lament" composition on Sax Pax, but more of that sound is very welcome. The idea of nine saxophones playing at once doesn't appeal to me intuitively, but the arrangements are incredibly warm, and enriched by percussion, piano, vocals, even the 'Dog himself on bongos.

If you like Moondog's music, you'll like his story too. A blind inventor who lived for decades on the streets of New York City, dressed as a viking? Sign me UP! I better stop before I start repeating myself - you have to understand I'm listening to the album as I write and getting pretty worked up. I'll leave you with the track I've been whistling for days, "Paris." Yes, it's a little bit cheesy, but it's also so heartwarming that if you don't like it, I can say without ever having met you that you are dead inside. Enjoy:



Thursday, 7 February 2013

Book Review: Tenth of December by George Saunders

I came late to the George Saunder party, but it turns out he's kind of a big deal. Terms like "blazingly original" and "masterful" regularly get applied to his work, and not just in the back cover hyperbole - he's been blurbed by the likes of Jonathan Franzen and Thomas Pynchon. If their word isn't quite convincing, well, I'm here to clinch it. His latest collection of short stories Tenth of December came out in January, and it's great.

I'd read a couple of Saunders' stories in anthologies, and thought they were very funny. Coming to Tenth of December I was more aware of his reputation, a knowledge that tainted my first impression: it didn't sound the way great writing was supposed to. I expect "great" writers to sound quasi-Biblical, or at least pistol-whip me with their erudition. Saunders uses words like "uh," "dude," and "holy crap." I don't know why I expect writers to be stuck in the mid-20th century or earlier, but I do. I'm getting better with Saunders' help.

The readability of his work disguises its more challenging elements. Stories flip in and out of rambling interior monologues without warning, and still manage to seem smooth and streamlined. It makes them go down easier than they should, because each one has moral heft. They tend to begin with a protagonist who seems ripe for ridicule - because they're airheaded, inarticulate, or obviously deluded - and over the course of the story transmute that feeling into one of compassion and understanding.

Nearly all the stories use that same arc, but it's a good one. Thinking about it, I was struck by how much of the art I like is dark and unredemptive. There's plenty of darkness in Tenth of December, but the final impression is of optimism and inherent goodness. Even better, it feels earned. That's not an easy act to pull off without sinking into cheese.

Besides deceptively clean prose and subtle morality, the stories also have plots. In "Victory Lap," a boy witnessing a crime out the window must rise above his sheltered upbringing. In "Escape from the Spiderhead," a convict volunteers to be a pharmaceutical guinea pig in exchange for a reduced sentence. "Home" follows a war vet returning to his deadbeat family. "The Semplica Girl Diaries" is so weird I won't spoil it.

I finished Tenth of December quickly, and I was sad when it was over. Reputations and preconceptions aside, that's the highest compliment you can pay a book.

Friday, 1 February 2013

Free at Last... and a Photo Essay

Last night I escaped from the basement where I have been imprisoned, without Internet access, for the past three months. I am not the man I used to be, but I remain confident solid food and sunlight will do me a world of good.

Every night, when heavy footfalls on the staircase would signal a fresh round of terror, my thoughts would flash briefly to the poor, faithful readers who were checking mattsnellmusic.com nightly in vain. To them I have no defense but to say that I too know what it is like to pass three months without hope, dignity, or human company. Every time I licked the damp bricks of the cellar wall, or dug for grubs with the shinbone of a deceased cellmate, I thought of you.

Really what happened is I took a couple months off, then went to Japan and Thailand. It was fun, and I took lots of pictures. Here's a few you might enjoy, though anyone who's perused the photos from my last expedition will remember that I am fond of sticking my camera down strange cracks and crevasses, and seldom photograph anything so interesting as a human being or an identifiable landmark. I'll try and provide helpful commentary to make up for that lack:


Funny story - this is the first person we met when we got off the plane, so I mistakenly assumed all people in Japan had rabbit heads. Not the case, but this lady was a terrific ambassador nonetheless. She spoke good English, welcomed us to her country, and offered me a foot massage.


Japan is a fascinating mix of the modern and traditional. At this establishment, a live bobcat acts as a theft deterrent system.

This photo appears unremarkable until you notice the squid man lurking in the background, selecting his next victim.

Our friend Yuko Tanaka poses with a Kappa, a Japanese fairy. These creatures cycle up and down the streets of Tokyo every day at twilight.


Notice the metal cylinder full of magical chopsticks in front of me, and the millions of tiny drawers. You shake the cylinder, a stick falls out, and you take your fortune from a drawer based on the sigil on the stick. Here I am moments from receiving the most horrific fortune I ever got in my life. It insinuated my house was going to burn down and I had a year left to live, among other calamities. I paid good money for it, too. Yuko promptly rushed over to the booth on the other side of the square and bought me a good luck charm to compensate. I think that's how they getcha.


Yuko taught us to play Monopoly - Tokyo Edition. It is much harder than our version.


Goddamn, these people love fish.


Speaking of fish, get a load of the eye on this one. This photo was taken at the Tsukiji Fish Market, the largest in the world. Nothing beats it for sheer volume of aquatic monstrosities. Squid floating in buckets of their own ink, sea snails, mermaids, and row upon endless row of unnameables. You can even buy bags of fish sperm, which I can only describe as looking like ghost brains.


Late one night we checked out the ramen museum in Shin-Yokohama. The museum recreates a dozen famous noodle shops from around the country, so you can try many regional styles in one place. It has the kind of rundown, roadside attraction feel that gets me every time.


Kyoto. I am most willing to take photos of people when their back is to the camera.


This photo was taken along the Path of Philosophy in Kyoto. Turns out the Path of Philosophy is lined with a lot of stray cats.


This colour is called vermillion. I knew vermillion was supposed to be a colour but I never knew what it looked like.


Love to meet the hermit who lives in this rainbow hut high in the mountains.


The floating torii (temple gate) in Miyajima. Touted as one of the most-photographed landmarks in the country, experts have called my snapshot the best yet.


 Kyoto is crammed with gorgeous, dark temples, but strangely enough my favourite was Daisho-in temple in Miyajima. These stone guys in toques had a lot to do with it. I also loved the tunnel that passes beneath the temple. You feel your way along a long lightless corridor, occasionally encountering a softly-glowing picture of the Buddha. Stumbling in complete darkness puts you in the moment.



Daisho-in.


The lighter side of Daisho-in.

I am willing to bend my no-people rule if the picture is humiliating enough. Seen here are my wife Rebecca and my sister-in-law Emmie Tsumura. I'm not going to tell you what they were doing.


My brother and sister in-law refer to the spider's nest that is Hiroshima's drinking quarters as The Deep. I made it out alive and brought you this.


On a stopover in Shanghai, My four traveling companions and I came upon a seemingly-abandoned amusement park. There was one old lady at the wicket, so we paid for a ride on the swings. Our shouts of joy brought at least dozen people out of the bushes, who watched us with zombielike, unsmiling intensity. We stopped laughing and finished the ride in silence. I'm prone to exaggeration but I'm not making that up.


In Shanghai, we happened upon the musical instrument district. Emmie and I scooped a couple of these things and had us a jam.


Ko Chang, Thailand. I swear I didn't steal this from the Board of Tourism.


Ko Chang is a beautiful island, but there's an unfortunately high quotient of stumblin' drunk tourists on the west side. We escaped to the quieter east side and had our little Heart of Darkness moment in the mangroves.


My favourite photo of the journey. If you can't tell, the middle of the road is completely gone, crapped out, washed away. We heroically rode across the rickety planks on the lefthand side and gained the lookout on the other side. That was when a mysterious Dutchman emerged from nowhere, his motorcycle injuries bound in dirty grey camouflage handkerchiefs. "What a ride!" we said. "Zot vas ze easy part," he said. "From here it gets difficult. But ze rewards are many. In three kilometers, you will find a beach like durum semolina." Then he jumped on his hog and squealed off. He was right, but I was too busy concentrating on the treacherous roads, and luxuriating on the pasta-esque beach, to snap any photos.