The theme for Saturday’s round of NXNE club-hopping: bands of the world. Of course, said theme doesn’t preclude beginning the tour in a part of Canada that feels like another world: Saskatchewan. The prairie province was represented by Saskatoon’s Deep Dark Woods, a band I’m not entirely familiar with but had been hearing enough about for the past few weeks that I figured it was time to find out for myself. I had a bit of a scare as I approached Cadillac Lounge to the sound of Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground” being murdered at excessive volume. No, it was not Deep Dark Woods, just the cover band next door.
Deep Dark Woods on the other hand tastefully wove their way through a balanced set of up-tempo twang and moody country waltzes. Singer/guitarist Ryan T Boldt led the band through the lyrical country landscapes, punctuating each song’s finale with a yowlping “Yeah.” The bearded rhythm section provided a rollicking backbeat and some sweet falsetto backgrounds. But the real treat was the guitar work of Boldt and Burke Barlow — equal parts Chet Atkins and Flying Burrito Brothers, though unfortunately underpowered by the Cadillac’s PA. Give these lads a later time slot, half a box of beer and some serious volume and I suspect you’d been in for a serious barn-burner.
The “bands of the world” portion of the evening was supposed to commence in earnest with India’s awkwardly-titled yet supposedly-famous Menwhopause. For whatever reason (another writer suggested the high cost of flights from New Delhi) they were a no show. Instead, I was greeted with a nearly empty Kathedral and the overbearing pop anthems of Cork, Ireland’s FRED. (At least they fit into the international theme.) But after a couple songs I realized my time would be better spent two floors above in Holy Joe’s where Madrid’s We Are Balboa were powering though their set to a packed house. This venue, however, has no stage, so catching a glimpse of singer Lua was next to impossible. Come to think of it, the only concrete proof I can offer that We Are Balboa were actually playing (other than of course their music emanating from the other end of the room) was when guitars were triumphantly raised at the set’s end.
It might be a stretch but Toronto’s The Two Koreas fit into my travel aesthetic, in name anyway. Besides, I couldn’t pass up their first formal performance of 2008 on account of a technicality (or nepotistic leanings, for that matter — just compare their line-up with our masthead if this factor isn’t wholly obvious). Their El Mo set was a slow grower, leading with the drone-ier end of their Fall-inspired sound and even showing some restraint during the anti-fashion anthem “Cloth Coat Revolution.” By the time they slouched into the pulsing march of “Withering Heights” from their new Sessions E.P., the set attained full-scale intensity — confirmation that The Two Koreas are back.
After a quick trek across College Street (though not so for anyone in transit or auto thanks to the Taste of Little Italy festival) I inserted myself into the dense crowd already gathered at Sneaky Dee’s for the well-documented antics of Tel Aviv, Israel’s Monotonix. Though it was already midnight, none of their gear was assembled as there seemed to be some logistical snags in setting the band up in the middle of the floor. Fifteen minutes of sweaty impatience passed for the now-packed house before a torrent of spazzy blues-metal guitar licks filled the room and the entire crowd heaved like a massive gelatinous organism.
Within seconds, Manson-esque singer Ami Shalev leapt up to dangle himself from the mounting posts on the ceiling all the while spurting mangled lyrics. Bathed in the chattering strobe light of at least 30 high-powered cameras constantly flashing (a Monotonix show constitutes a photoblogger’s wet dream), Shalev crowd-surfed his way around the room while guitarist Yontan Gat carefully knifed his Stratocaster through the audience — at one point actually managing to tune his guitar while also held aloft. Somehow, drummer Shimoni held the whole anarchic circus together, buried as he was under bandmates, audience members and flying garbage bins. Only at the set’s end as he was lifted like a trophy while sitting atop his bass drum and still cracking the also-floating snare did the beat begin to waver. Though the spectacle far outweighed the music, you simply can’t fake that kind of intensity. I can only assume these guys often practice in the middle of a riot to be able to keep it together, relatively speaking, under such duress.
After I hightailed it north to Lee’s Palace in an effort to beat the non-existent line-up for the reformed Redd Kross, I relished the downtime (Redd Kross didn’t grace the stage until well after 1:15) to try to process what I had just witnessed at Sneaky's. Soon enough I was ready for a dose of 1992 courtesy of the famously young — but now noticeably old — California quartet. Cranking out all their hits with intensity uncommon for a band that hasn’t produced anything in 10 years, the alt-poppers commanded the stage with an impressive combination of precise musicianship and fashionable attire — highlighted on both counts by wiry guitarist Robert Hecker in his sand-coloured Marc Jacobs suit and bare feet. If they can tap this kind of energy for their new record, we may be in for the second coming of the Kross.
With the US and Israel covered, I had just enough time to make it back to Sneaky Dee’s for a post-2am beer and the second half of KAKKMADDAFAKKA’s set. The Norwegian dance punkers already had the crowd shaking its collective ass to hyperactive funk lines and impressive sax solos. I was beginning to get the impression that serving booze until 4am was more of a draw than the music as the bar began to resemble a high-school house party as a steady stream of youngish hipsters stumbled through the door and headed straight for the bar. Then again, there couldn’t have been a more appropriate soundtrack as KAKKMADDAFAKKA rallied the crowd into a three-part cheering section (“We say ‘KAKK,’ you say ‘MADDA’ and you say ‘FAKKA’ — seriously, say it aloud and you’ll get the joke).
But it was around this point that my global music adventure degenerated into a fitful combination of exhaustion and homesickness; and I’ve travelled enough to know that this is always a good time to leave.