Caroline Desilets

Strategy is everything. Even on a mildly warm Thursday in CMW territory, to sketch out an advance route for a club crawl is paramount. Probably not the best idea to do it in a chic boîte with tiny tables and food that deserves lingering but hey, working it out at the Queen and Spadina hot-dog cart wasn’t really an option. This year, this night, I base my schedule on geography. Not walking distance from club to club (always a good plan), but the showcasing act’s point of origin. In this case, Quebec. Because tonight it feels like the French have taken over the town and it’s about time.

First stop and the plan’s working wickedly, having led me to Sneaky Dee’s for Misteur Vallaire. Talk about getting the party started at 9. Five guys in argyle sweaters with turntables, tablas, trumpets, and just about every other instrument you can think of are pumping out mad energy and a slick stream of rhythms no doubt inspired by many nights recreating Beastie Boys and Beck records live in their basements. With no vocals or hooks to speak of, it’s all about the grooves and these multi-instrumentalists keep 'em coming, from hippie to hyper-speed, adding much value with a modest light show of the Active Surplus-supplied variety. (Can one go wrong with Kanye West-like glow-in-the-dark glasses the days? I think not.) Put these guys in a midnight festival slot and they would destroy! Definitely download their new album from their site for your next house party. Headed for: Montreal Jazz Festival.

It’s only 10 and I’m already off the plan, lured to the 'Shoe by the words “goth” and “Kate Bush” in a preview for local Katie Stelmanis. Soon find out this act is more Bat for Lashes than batcave. (One of her band-mates is wearing bright yellow and gingham, which may as well be kryptonite wrapped in garlic for goths, but whatever, it’s not like  Katie wrote the blurb herself.) The new Block Recordings artist has something special inside her, but tonight she can’t seem to project more than wee, spacey warbling, her band mates offering the meekest back-up. If you’re going to try to cast some magic, you better believe in it yourself. Otherwise, why should I? Headed for: Buffy conventions.

Hop skip to Rivoli, close enough you don’t need to close your coat up, for Jenn Grant, also not from Montreal but one of those surefire singer/songwriters that might just deliver your new favourite song. She doesn’t here, but with her effortless playing style, vocals as powerful as Dolore O’Riordan and as likeable as Sarah Harmer and props for the audience to play along with she wins everyone over. She also has the cutest bob ever. Headed for: Hillside mainstage.

There's a line-up outside the 'Shoe for Plants and Animals. (Why bug the door guy about that, people? What do you expect?) Inside, we soon find out why they’re all the rage with people looking for that next big thing from Montreal. But they are way bigger than the blogosphere. This is Canadiana done large as the landscape: mellifluous and muscular, rugged and riff-tastic. The songs are dreamlike and yet memorable (“It takes an enemy to get you out of bed”). Too bad lacklustre stage presence means they lose the crowd’s rapture between tracks. Really, is it so hard to come up with a good comeback to shouts of “Where you from?” Headed for: Tragically Hip tour support.

Maudite, off the French trail we go once again to cram into Supermarket for hottest ticket of the night: Sloan. How could you not see Canada’s original indie superstars play their best rarities and B-sides to die-hards? (If you showed up later than 9pm without a ticket, that’s how.) This is what a music festival should be: big bands in small clubs previewing new material. In one from the upcoming album, Chris Murphy sings, “I’m not a kid anymore.” Thankfully, he continues to act like one. Headed for: Canada’s Walk of Fame.

Last chance for some Montreal dance action downstairs at the Drake for rapper Cuizinier — if only he would take the stage. Now, I like hearing the Daft Punk gems one more time too, but pushing the MC to go on an hour late because the bar is open till 4? I hope the club enjoys the extra $18 it squeezed out of us waiting for the dude. When he finally takes the mic at 2am, his first words were “I’m tired … so tired I forgot to put on my gold chain.” And that was the end of his wisdom, I’m afraid, as he lazily dropped pearls such as “F is for fun.” Yes, and it’s also for “fin.” Headed for: Bed.

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