Chris Bilton reports: 

“You look so impressed,” says Attack in Black singer Daniel Romano as he tries to get the crowd to clap along to the a capella ending during “Young Leaves,” adding “It’s because the drinks are so expensive, right?” Seriously though, does it not seem a bit counter-intuitive to hold the Independent Music Awards (aka the Indies) in a place where beers are $7.50? Still, as wedding reception-esque and tragically well-lit as it may have seemed, the Royal York’s Canadian Room felt like an honest-to-goodness award show on Saturday night. The backstage was like a copy of Exclaim! come to life, albeit with an abundance of offensively Hendrix-ian energy drinks and one ever-smiling Miss Canada.

I couldn’t help but wonder whether Leslie Feist or the Arcade Fire would be on hand to claim their sure-bet victories as they both counted for multiple nominations — and if you look up “indie rock” in the Canadian Oxford dictionary there is a photo of one of them (depending on the language). But the Indies are decided by the public, or anyone who casts their vote on the CMW website according to the rules and regulations. So Neverending White Lights have as much of a chance as Joel Plaskett (case in point, the former won favourite rock artist over the latter). Only the hall of fame inductee and CBC’s Galaxie Rising Stars awards are in the hands of The Man.

At 8pm sharp, Arts & Crafts’ astronauts of pop Young Galaxy opened the show, distilling the energy and atmospherics of their sound down to a two song set. In honour of independent music’s recently departed, Jeff Healey Band member Joe Rockman came out to pay tribute to his friend and partner and to dedicate the evening’s proceedings to the memory of Healey. And then it was on to the awards.

But with presenters like a tipsily exuberant Fefe Dobson and an awkward one-half of Tokyo Police Club, and some seemingly reluctant recipients, the awards really only served to get in the way of some decent performances. Attack in Black brought their gritty, duct-taped guitar strap authenticity to the shiny stage, and The Cliks (not to be confused with the Clicks from Brooklyn who play in their underwear) rocked the androgyny like David Bowie in reverse (and then some). Indie Hall of Fame inductees Lowest of the Low revived their brilliant sloppiness for one last go, abandoning "Last Recidivist" after singer Ron Hawkins forgot how to play it — “If this was easy we’d do it better” — and inviting an ecstatic superfan up onstage for spiritual guidance in the form of jumping around for the duration of their set.

*****

Dave Morris reports:

After clinging to the dying notes of The Breeders’ set, this writer hustled from the Phoenix to the Royal York with a weary awareness of the industry backslap-fest in store. The Indies didn’t disappoint on that score, but there was a certain something missing with Jully Black’s delightfully unhinged performance as last year’s MC replaced this year with the staid but likeable Jeff Leake of XM's The Verge, who pulled off a minor coup by being the only person to repeatedly appear onstage in a non-music-playing role who didn’t make you want to emigrate somewhere with no blizzards or CanCon charity cases like The Cliks. Or as Tenacious D’s Kyle Gass said after reeling off ostensibly scripted banter, likely repurposed from an awards show for actuaries in greater Schenectady, “You’re all winners.” Please don’t remind us.

Mercifully, most of the actual music this year was of a consistently high quality (which I hear hasn’t been seen at the Indies for many moons). The Besnard Lakes’ three-headed guitar hydra made the sky open up and rain down acid hellfire, winningly enough to prompt even the guys giving away free and surprisingly not-bad Jimi Hendrix Liquid Experience energy drinks to ask who they were. A year of jamming Are The Dark Horse on tour has turned “Devastation” into an even more vigorously throbbing beast, to the point where you just want to grab people who don’t get it and demand an explanation, if not a Polaris recount.

Tokyo Police Club might be the next big thing, if only judging from the fact that the room emptied out by about half following their exuberant if only mildly diverting set. Newmarket’s answer to The Strokes have the right degree of peppiness and some unexpected political under- and overtones — I couldn’t take my eyes off the "Don’t Mess With Texas" sticker on their keyboard.  But although their new material has the jittery energy and smooth aftertaste (thanks to winsome singer/bassist Dave Monks) of a fizzy soda, their hooks aren’t quite memorable enough to sink their teeth in. Maybe repeated exposure will do the trick.

In that, they could take a lesson from The New Pornographers, who in their various incarnations seem to play Toronto at least three or four times a year, making the temptation to take them for granted a strong one. But having seen them in several non-headlining situations over the years (and always the Neko Case- and Dan Bejar-less farm team —there’s a lesson here, indie fans) I’ve come to realize that repeated baskings in their peppy melodies and expert harmonizing (ignore what I said in that previous parenthetical, because Kathryn Calder continues to improve as a singer occupying the Neko Chair) will turn you into an admirer even against your will. On first listen their tunes can be a bit samey, and a novice New Pornos concert goer probably wouldn’t be able to differentiate them, but they have enough quasi-hits for a Best Of that would certainly rank with the bands they admire.

Every time they break out perennials like “Use It,” the vocal delivered by Newman with eyes-glued-shut gusto, it becomes harder to dismiss them as run-of-the-mill power-popsters. Shit, I don’t even own the records and I think I could sing all of “Sing Me Spanish Techno” from memory having seen it performed three whole times, such are its hooky charms. Extra points for Kurt Dahle and Newman’s playful barb trading over Dahle’s lack of video game prowess (Newman: “This song is Level 58 in Rock Band”). One day they won’t be coming to town every three months, and we will wish we had nodded our heads a little harder the last time. Uh, anyone going to the Phoenix in April?

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