The Wilderness of Manitoba

I just learned about this great 5-piece band from Toronto called The Wilderness of Manitoba. Very Fleet Foxish. This particular fireside performance of the song "November" from their 2010 album When You Left The Fire makes me want to go camping. Anyone seen my cowichan?

The Wilderness of Manitoba perform 'NOVEMBER' from Kaan Akalin on Vimeo.

Check out more of their music here.

Francophone Musique...Je t'aime...(aka Lost in Translation)

I've always had a soft spot for francophone music. There is such beauty that is conveyed in the French language; whether it be the hurt and melancholy of Edith Piaf and Charles Aznavour, the jaunty camp of La Bolduc and Jean LeLoup, or the seductive passion of artists like Serge Gainsbourg and Francois Hardy.

Sadly, this love is somewhat unrequited. Despite six awkward years of taking French in school, I often have no idea what is being said by these artists and am often left to my own devices to piece together some kind of narrative. Using tools like mood, phrasing, or instrumentation, I'm able to come up with something I think is pretty close; in other words, I don't need to know what they're saying in order to get what they're saying...dig?

I've just stumbled upon an album released this week by electro-folk singer-songwriter Daniel Belanger, entitled Nous. Here's a video for the lead-off single "Reste" which I'm really liking for some reason. Is it the Beatles-esque feel to the song's rhythm? Is it Belanger's voice? Is it the faint scent of Maudite beer and smoked brie blowing in through the open window?

Je ne sais pas.




Belanger has another older video for the song "Spoutnik" that I am convinced my friend Chip made...you decide.

By the way, this is pretty fun;

Belanger's website has a brief news bulletin regarding the release of Nous, en francais of course. Translated into the Queen's english (by virtue of Google's translator) it says,

"Daniel Bélanger We present, in stores today

Never two discs Daniel Bélanger not have followed so closely, but that's clearly under other skies that we conducted this time the creator. After the very land the failed equipment (2007), photo of our time and its materialistic tendencies, it offers us with a soaring love, ultra groovy stroll to two."

Bien!

R.I.P. Jay Bennett

In tribute to one of the late greats...

Missed Opportunity...Yann Tiersen

Every now and then, a show will roll through town that I inevitably miss for one reason or another (read "lack of funds or failing to get my act together before it's sold out"). Tonight's example; French composer and burgeoning rocker Yann Tiersen, whose credits include the film scores for Goodbye Lenin, Tabarly, and most famously, Amelie.

Tiersen's instrumental compositions are dreamlike; dizzying waltzes and piano ballads brimming with emotion and whimsy. Accordian, violin, and melodica lend a playful and parisienne element to his music, which can be plaintive and sad one moment...frantic and exuberant the next. His is a unique and dramatic sound, one perfectly suited for use in film scoring, yet strong enough to stand on its own merits when removed from the context of the films.

As beautiful as his instrumental work may be, it is the indie-rocker persona that Tiersen is presenting on his current North American tour, ditching the accordian in favour of an electric guitar and kicking out les jams. While the electric guitar and bass turned up sparaingly on his last studio album, Les Retrouvailles, Tiersen has come to fully embrace the rock-combo configuration as documented on his newest release On Tour, for which he is now..uh...on tour.

As exciting as it would have been to see Tiersen tonight, I'll have to settle for this great clip of him performing the song "Le Moulin" from the Amelie soundtrack.

Enjoy!

Clapton Is Not God

Eric Clapton should be dead. You would probably think the same thing, had you read Clapton's autobiography, entitled....wait for it...Clapton: The Autobiography. Apparently the man's genius lies in his guitar playing, not his book titles.

Now I don't know if Clapton himself came up with the title, but what I can say is that he has composed a pretty riveting book. As one of the most accomplished guitarists of the past 40-odd years, Clapton has both embodied and endured every high and low of what the music industry encompasses. The highs; sixteen-time Grammy winner and the only triple inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (for his work with the Yardbirds, Cream, and as a solo artist). The man has jammed with Jimi Hendrix, Muddy Waters, and Howlin' Wolf. The lows? Too many to count. It is by virtue of this autobiography that we learn of Clapton's endless list of short-comings and the years he spent in hell; something you wouldn't necessarily expect from someone who was once proclaimed, through re-occurring graffiti across the UK underground, as "God".

Throughout this book, I was always surprised by Clapton's frankness about his own life. In an industry known for endless self-promotion and flamboyance, Clapton has always remained fairly private and reserved. However, Clapton bares all in his autobiography, from years spent obsessing over Pattie Boyd (wife of best friend George Harrison and muse for his song "Layla") to his reclusive "lost" years where he did nothing but shoot heroin and eat chocolate in a constant state of paranoia...from his times spent strolling in and out of New York clubs and jamming with Jimi Hendrix to horrible confrontations with band members, lovers, and family...from recording "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" with the Beatles to weeping in a pool of his own vomit on a studio bathroom floor. This is a guy that should have gone down with the likes of Hendrix, Keith Moon, or John Bonham...brilliant artists who pushed their physical capabilities to the brink and never returned; it is a wonder that Clapton is still alive and able to share these tales of past indiscretion and ultimate redemption.

It is this redemption that rounds out the latter pages of Clapton's book, written in the language of someone who has obviously gone through more than a few rehab sessions. We learn that after years of failed relationships, public humiliation, and recurring bouts in rehab, the one thing that finally cleaned him up was the death of his son, Conor, who fell 42 stories from a Manhattan high-rise as Clapton was on his way to meet him for a day out on the town. It was cold turkey from the moment he found out. In the years to follow, Clapton took his sobriety one step further and established his Crossroads rehabilitation program in an effort to help those whose lives have seemed to mirror his own. Selfishness and ego gives way to selflessness, and we cheer his new found lust for life after the hell that he has passed through.

As emotionally heavy as his autobiography can be, Clapton does allow himself to nerd out a bit and drop some guitar tech-talk, spouting the virtues of humbucker pick-ups and the way he worked his thumb into the fingering of chords when he was a kid learning how to play. These moments represent a slip into guitar-lesson territory, which adds another element to his book; not only is this the story of his life (and by virtue of that a personal history of 60s and 70s British rock music), but there are things in here that guitarists of any skill level will appreciate and learn from. Afterall, Clapton is a guitarist first and songwriter a rather far-off distant second.

Clapton's songs have never been anything to write home about. He's written some pretty great riffs over the years, but the bulk of his solo career has been mediocre at best. What Clapton has done is carve out a niche as one of the most expressive guitar players out there and has made a fantastic effort to preserve and celebrate blues music for contemporary audiences. Ironically, the very blues musicians who Clapton has emulated all these years would probably blush knowing what he has gone through in his life. If anyone has the right to play the blues, it's him. His life not only stands as a history lesson in blues and rock music, but as a human story of addiction, desperation, and redemption. Clapton is not God. He's human and as such, fallible...and in this book, he willingly acknowledges it.

For a guitar solo that melts the paint off your walls, check out this clip of Clapton playing "Old Love" at London's Hyde Park.

Howdjadoo...Neko Case

Howdjadoo...J. Tillman