Once again, the cold-weather CanRock craze that is Canadian Music Week has come to a close. In lieu of devoting this week’s Street Spirit column to a proper CMW roundup (you’ll find complete coverage on eyeweekly.com), I’m compiling the most pressing queries I just can’t seem to (with apologies to Kylie Minogue) get out of my head. If there are any godlike figures out there who can provide answers, please feel free.

Why has no label signed Gentleman Reg? The cherubic, falsetto-happy singer/songwriter who once called Three Gut Records home is currently shopping around a completed indie-rock album. Not only are what I’ve heard of the songs better than anything else he’s written, but the disc features cameos by au courant artists like Liz Powell (Land of Talk) and Katie Sketch (ex-Organ). Reg’s last album Darby & Joan was good, but this one’s great. Someone needs to scoop him up, stat. The guy’s even got some dancefloor collabos with Woodhands in the can.

What happened to Maie Pauts? Back when I was knee-high to a grasshopper and harboured an addiction to CFNY, I used to love listening to on-air personality Maie Pauts’ smart, no-BS commentary and pointed interviews. Watching her grill a nervous-looking, post-breakup Alanis Morissette as part of CMW’s conference component, I was appalled by the ickily condescending softballs the once-edgy Pauts lobbed at her celeb subject. What gives?

How long will it take before Winnipeg’s The Details wind up on the soundtrack of a second-rate Canadian drama? The Details: like an even more earnest, even more wordy version of Death Cab for Cutie. CTV’s Whistler: like The OC, but with uglier outfits and way more boring characters. Music supervisors: thank me later.

Why did CMW relocate the big ol’ Indie Awards gala to the Fairmont Royal York Hotel? In addition to changing the location of the Indies from the irritating-but-at-least-concert-friendly Docks to the totally awkward digs of a hotel ballroom — it felt like a spoiled kid’s bar mitzvah — organizers rescheduled the ceremony. Instead of launching CMW — the traditional role of the Indies — the awards show capped off the week in a way that felt forced, weird and totally at odds with the tone of the rest of the fest.

Other highlights of my CMW experience: hearing a hungover Moby spill the dirt on barbecuing with next-door neighbour David Bowie and playing Ian Curtis to the surviving members of New Order; Woodhands at The Drake; the three-way throwdown between SoCalled, Giselle Numba One and Kizzy; and reaffirming my theory that there is more than one Jian Ghomeshi, after spotting the guy at least seven times.

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