I suppose every once in a while Canadian Music Week should actually feel like Canada in March. With the early action of yet another massive snowstorm already under way, I hitched up my conceptual dogsled team and headed out into the elements destined for the Paper Bag showcase at the Drake. As tempting as it was to make this my sole destination thanks to the delightfully stacked line-up of bands, I just can't deny the impulse to try and cover impossible distances for unexpected musical experiences all over the city.

First up at the Drake are local art-damaged trio Huckleberry Friends. With Siena Decampo opening their set by scraping a slide across the wrong end of her super-distorted bass strings before the dense Moog sludge and tribal rhythms start in, it seems that the Friends are getting noisier and more abstract with every show. There’s mysterious energy to this band, especially in the way they wordlessly exchange instruments in between songs and almost never acknowledge the audience. Though they may still look like Au Revoir Simone’s younger sisters, their penchant for interesting Sunn O))) drones paired with Hilary Crist’s angular guitar melodies and a wholly unique approach to the drum kit is more befitting a spot on the Social Registry label’s roster.  

Though I anticipated missing Slim Twig’s solo set, I took comfort in knowing that I would finally get a chance to check out his other project, the guitar/drum duo Tropics before dashing out of the Drake. And good gawd, was it ever worth abandoning my travel aesthetic. Tropics injects Slim’s rockabilly leanings with a massive hit of post-punk intensity, most of which is provided by the powerful and creative drumming of Simone (aka Thick Branch). With flailing guitar solos and a non-stop collision of country two-step, hyperactive funk beats and the occasional free, swinging groove, Tropics are endlessly entertaining and frequently devastating.

Despite the snow, it’s a surprisingly painless trek up to the Silver Dollar for Arthur Magazine-approved Weewerk records act The Burning Hell, who are greeted by a respectably packed crowd awaiting Mathias Kom’s ukulele-driven big band. With nine members crammed onto the stage (at times boasting not one, but two accordions), the Burning Hell threatened to exhibit a quantity-not-quality insecurity, especially when the first few tunes seemed to utilize the band more for chorale sing-a-longs than elaborate orchestration. Thankfully all members were in full swing by the time Kom was singing in his bin-rumbling baritone about being buried naked with his ukulele, and they maintained the energy through such ditties as a disco song about smoking and a clever bit about fiscal policy history. With their oddly topical lyrics and a small army of musicians, The Burning Hell is almost like Peterborough’s answer to Friendly Rich (which is really Toronto’s answer to Washboard Hank so maybe old-school freak folk is just going full circle). But in a world filled with indie smugness, there is much room for true-blue entertainers like The Burning Hell.

Onwards to the Reverb for the second of two back-to-back showcases from Vancouver’s Octoberman. Having finished a set down the street at the Gibson Showroom a mere 20 minutes prior, the six-piece band were plugged in and treating the crowd to some brand new tunes when the clock struck their scheduled start time. Though their Tragically Hip lyricism-meets-prog rock precision carried across with adequate conviction, the whole scene was distracted by the 10 or so newly-shorn jock dudes whooping it up at the front of the stage while alternately grinding up against two attention-loving ladies (and occasionally each other). The more I focused on their antics the more I realized my window for getting back into the Drake to witness Woodhands was quickly closing.

A brief cab ride later and I’ve joined the already-impatient lineup to discover no sign of the Drake’s infamous security crew. But my initial panic subsided when the mere mention of allowing for media passes provided the opportunity to slip through the line and down into the near-capacity bowels of the Drake Underground. Within a few minutes, Woodhands’ Dan Werb was engaged in some mock-nervous banter to the effect of, “Holy shit. I think it’s starting!” And with that, the local keys and drums duo launched into one of the most relentlessly grooving sets I have seen since sweating it out with !!! back in the spring. Woodhands should change their name to Dance Hipsters, Dance! as the crowd instantly took to ass-shaking and roof-raising once drummer Paul Banwatt doubled up on Werb’s programmed pulses. Between shouting choruses from their highly anticipated Heart Attack disc and giving his gleaming white keytar a serious workout, Werb exudes the fervor of a punk-rock physicist. Combined with Banwatt’s flawless rhythms (and impressive MCing) their solid show is a testament to their endless gigging in town and beyond, as well as a promising representative for the health of Toronto’s scene at next week’s SXSW.
    
It’s only fitting that Woodhands had to call it quits at the Drake’s insistence, because the band and the crowd (myself included) were ready to go a few more rounds past their hour-long set and might still be there right now. Instead, it was back out into the unforgiving weather to try and remember where I parked my dogsled.

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