A Requiem For Dummies

Every small town has its characters, and mine had Andy.  As a small child, I remember walking with my parents down Main Street as we ran errands.  It usually meant stopping at the pharmacy, the local grocery store where the proprietor was the butcher who wrapped your cuts in brown paper and string, the post office where our box was number two hundred-something, and most boring of all, the bank, where standing in line for a young child seemed like waiting for Christmas.  Once in a while we had to make other stops, but for the most part, those were the only services our town afforded in those days.  Indeed, they’re much the same today.  The buildings are different, for the most part.  The shop keepers are different, some the next generation inheriting family businesses.  When I walk along Main Street now, which isn’t often, the village seems so quiet, as though the few who still call it home are hiding out, watching for strangers from a safe distance.  There is a certain distrust in every small town. 

For a character like Andy to have settled in our village with all his eccentricity was quite an accomplishment.  As a small child, I would often keep my eyes peeled for Andy’s vehicle.  You couldn’t miss it.  If he was walking, you couldn’t miss him either.

Andy MacDonald was already an older gentleman when I first met him.  I can’t remember exactly when I did, nor can I count how often I ever interacted with him.  Like many older folks who knew me without me necessarily knowing them, I was to him ‘John and Joan’s boy’.  Most children want to be known for themselves of course, but I’ve never minded the stigma.  He had a long, grey beard, which grew whiter with the years.  He dressed in sharp red tartans, wearing his Scottish tam in public at all times.  He smiled a lot, and he interacted with people with ease.  Trips downtown for Andy, unlike mine, were never boring, because he seemed to be friends with everyone he met.  Everyone knew him, and everyone liked him.  We often say that about people, but rarely can we say it with such honesty.  He was just a nice guy.

I say ‘was’, because Andy passed away last week.  He was 96 years old, and for a near-centenarian, he was independent and mobile for all but the last couple years.  His passing made the news.  You see, Andy wasn’t just a colourful character.  He was a published author and some referred to him as a ‘humourist’. 

In 1976, with the guidance of his daughter, Andy published a collection of tales from his childhood, titled Bread and Molasses.  His book was an instant hit in our region.  The title was derived from his staple school lunch—a slice of homemade bread drenched in molasses carried in a soggy paper bag.  The setting was the 1930’s, at the height of the Great Depression, in Sydney Mines, Nova Scotia, a poor mining town in Cape Breton.  He was raised by his doting, loving mother, known in his books as ‘Ma’, his hard-working and severe father ‘Pa’, and his numerous siblings.  While he had several older sibs that only fleetingly appeared or were mentioned, the main stories focused on Andy himself, his twin Murray, older brother Billy, younger brother Teedy, and baby sister Pearl.  Like most families in his town, they were dirt poor, and most of the tales were about how the MacDonald kids ate, worked, played, slept, and survived, in spite of strict teachers, questionable employment opportunities, and the ever-watchful eye of Pa.  Throughout the book, you get to know the family really well.  In my mind, I can picture how the kids might look, so vividly he described them.  Try as I might, I can only imagine a young child version of Andy with a full grey beard and a tartan coat.

One time, Andy accidentally knocked one of Pa’s giant coal-mining mitts into the family stew pot, as the mitts were hanging over the cooking stove to dry.  The stew, of course, was made from a rather expensive cut of meat, so when the black coal dust began to froth up in the pot, ruining maybe a week’s worth of supper, the family had to go back to—you guessed it—bread and molasses.  It seemed that every time the kids were on the verge of something big and exciting, it always seemed to fall apart, and they had to fall back on what they already had.  Like the time they caught wind of an actual bathing suit they could borrow for swimming, since all Pa could afford to buy them were second-hand wool dresses for them to wear at the beach.  They had to find it on some guy’s boat drying after dark.  When they snatched it up and ran, only later did they realize all four brothers could have fit inside it simultaneously.  There is more than one lesson to be learned from that particular tale.

About two-thirds the way through the book, Ma passed away.  I remember feeling Ma’s loss when I read it the first time.  Pa, so strong as the head of the family, had no real way of taking care of himself domestically, so the children devised a schedule for preparing Pa’s lunch, getting him up to work on time, cleaning the house, and preparing the meals.  One day, one of the brothers accidentally woke Pa for work several hours too early, only to have him arrive at the mine for work at an ungodly hour.  I could only imagine Pa’s reaction when he returned home.

Andy’s stories continued over four more books.  You can read them and decide for yourself which ones you like the most or least.  I’ve read them all, and I like them all for different reasons.  His tales became more far-fetched with each book, but were no less entertaining.  He told the ‘story’ of how he fought his twin Murray for supremacy in Ma’s womb in his second book, Don’t Slip On The Soap.  After his third book, Tell Pa I’m Dead, he began to include stories from his early adult years, and by his fifth and final book, Don’t Be Funny, Daddy, he began to include stories of his own family, completing the circle he had begun so many years before.

There are very few alive now who can relate first-hand to life in Depression-era Cape Breton.  Still, you could relate to Andy’s stories because there was nothing particularly special about them.  At the root of most of them were fairly average tales most kids would understand.  One example is the game the brothers and their friends used to play, where they crawled around on all fours like cows, and one would be the farmer, letting them out to graze in the pasture, and guiding them back to their stalls.  I think everyone made up silly games when they were kids, but Andy was able to tell it in a way that made you want to go crawling around, mooing and chewing grass yourself.  He hated going to school.  Who wouldn’t, when the teacher was cruel and your mind was on the towering cliffs, crashing waves and rocky shores?  He reminded us that you could still be a success in life even if you weren’t keen on reading and writing.

Andy was known for his books, but he became more famous for his other significant pass-time.  He was retired as far back as I remember, but he spent most of his time creating ‘dummies’ out of recycled items, anything from old clothes to jug bottles.  He made goofy-looking little characters, and wrote sayings on signs made from scrap wood or vinyl siding that described their personalities.  He literally created hundreds of dummies, and arranged them all over his property, eventually calling it the ‘Dummy Farm’.  ‘Andy’s Dummies’ became a tourist attraction.  He notably posted signs advertising his farm every few miles between Sackville and Port Elgin, so you really couldn’t miss it.  Andy’s car, the same one I used to watch for on Main Street, famously had a dummy fastened to one of those old woven-strap lawn chairs on the roof.  I once saw Andy driving by in Moncton, only because his dummies gave him away.

In my university years, I took a job for the village of Port Elgin at the tourist booth.  My job was to keep the grounds clean, literature updated, flowers watered—standard fare for a small tourist stop in a small town, except I had one rather unique responsibility.  As a village, we were proud of our resident author, and as he was promoting his fourth book, ‘Tis Me Again, B’y’, we had one of Andy’s dummies as a prop we kept outside the booth.  It had to be brought out in the morning and brought in at night.  I remember boxes of that book sitting behind the counter waiting to be bought.  Ironically, today I find that one the hardest to track down; it was the last one I had to get to complete my set.

Last year, I found myself searching for a decent book I could read aloud to my Grade 3 and 4 students.  Most of the well-known ones are either made into movies or have already been read.  I thought I’d try Bread and Molasses, because I figured the stories would relate to the small town kids I was teaching, not to mention it was a Maritime book from an author I actually knew.  Sure enough, it was a huge hit.  The kids begged me to continue it when it was time to switch to another subject.

When I heard the news that Andy MacDonald had passed away, I felt a sadness I have only felt for lost family members, even though I didn’t know him particularly well.  I will never meet so gifted a storyteller.  I like to tell stories too; I have always looked up to him as a mentor of sorts in his ability to take a simple moment in time and weave a magical story from it.  He was as witty as he was kind.  One day, I was canvassing with my Cub pack for Apple Day, and when Andy greeted me at his door, he bought an apple, then gestured to the apple orchard in his back yard.  He showed me some of his dummies around the yard that day.  It makes me sad that I can’t remember any of their personalities.

I will, however, forever remember Ma, Pa, Billy, Murray, Teedy, Pearl, and of course, Andy.  I had briefly considered having my students write to him after we had read Bread and Molasses to let him know how, generations later, his life growing up in the ‘hungry thirties’ was still capturing young imaginations.  I wish I had.  Who knows how many young writers have put their pen to paper because of Andy?  I can name one for you right now.

La vie en rose

I remember sitting around in the living room with an old friend, empty beer bottles and caps strewn about, smoke hanging heavily in the air, and Edith Piaf crooning away, that 1940’s crackling vinyl sound despite modern CD technology.  My friend insisted on showing some old home movies, and by old, I mean black and white, silent, converted from old Super-8 reels.  The videos showed various scenes of a toddler waddling about on a beach, or in a living room, with family reaching to pick him up, smiling, and happy to share a tender moment with their young son.

“That’s me,” my friend sighed through the exhalation of a cigarette.  The videos were equal parts charming and haunting.  On the screen, we saw the embodiment of William Blake’s ‘innocence’, a child filled with wonder and amazement, adored by a loving family, in what would surely be the happiest of times.  The man slouched in the big arm chair, in a cramped apartment littered with empty bottles, pet hair, and unwashed dishes, was so completely removed from the boy on the screen, you could only take his word for evidence that he and the boy were one and same.

You see, we had just spent the day sampling from a selection of craft ales from both home and abroad.  We had a great time.  A buddy had managed to secure unlimited sample passes, and we didn’t hesitate.  By supper time, I was probably more incapacitated than I’d ever been in my life, all from shot-glass samples consumed far too quickly, and no food to counter-balance.  The plan was to enjoy the festival, crash at my friend’s apartment and watch some movies for the evening.  All in all, it was a fairly harmless evening of relaxation.  And it was, if not a bit disconcerting.

At the time, I thought the combination of distant childhood memories, especially of a simpler time, mixed with alcohol, smoke, and depressing music could only lend itself to heightened depression.  I reminded myself that some people struggle daily with depression.  My friend was no stranger to vices.  He was a good man, in a noble profession in which he helped others through their own difficulties.  How ironic it was for someone who offered hope to so many to have needed so much for his own.

The older I get, the more obvious it is to me that I have lived with some form of depression for most, if not all of my life.  In recent months, I’ve been more open about it, with myself as well as my friends.  I’ve taken steps to try to combat it.  I’ve learned that it’s likely something I’ll face for the rest of my life, and that much like the first 37 years of it, during which I’ve developed all sorts of coping strategies, I’ll find more appropriate and effective ones so I can maximize my own happiness for the next 37. 

Here are some moments I have identified as indicators that I’ve been harbouring something that has held me back or hindered me in my own personal growth:

Ø  In play-school, way back when I was four years old, we had wonderful teachers.  I learned my alphabet, numbers, how to tie my shoes, and made friendships I still keep today.  We made lots of crafts, some of which I still have (no surprise there).  We also played games.  One game, which I think was ‘Mother May I’, or some variation, involved trying to reach the other side of the room on silly commands, such as walking backwards, crab-walking, scissor walking, or whatever else.  It was a fun game, and completely harmless.  And I wanted no part of it.  The problem was, I found myself extremely uncomfortable with all my classmates watching me.  We played all sorts of other games that were similar, but in this one, I was absolutely terrified.  I remember the warm feeling when I finally played, how everyone cheered and encouraged me.  I was equally terrified the next time we played.  As a teacher today, I still won’t play this game with students.

Ø  I have always adored sad music.  Even on the old Sesame Street records, the slow child-chorus songs like ‘Somebody Come and Play’ and ‘Sing’ were my sentimental favourites.  My favourite Burton Cummings song was ‘I’m Scared’, and from his earlier band, The Guess Who, my favourites were ‘Undun’ and ‘Sour Suite’.  You can look up the lyrics if you’re unfamiliar with them.  As I grew older, I found great solace in music, through both the melody and the lyrics.  Now, just because a song is sad or depressing doesn’t necessary mean I have to love it, but I always go back to the emotionally-heavy tracks.  To this day, people have jokingly referred to the mellow, indie bands I follow as ‘slit-your-wrist music’.  I can see where they’re coming from.  As I’m writing this, Sigur Ros is in my CD player.  Again, if you’re unfamiliar with them, look them up.

Ø  In one of my earlier blog posts, I recollected my struggles with the Kamakaze slide at Magic Mountain.  There is a really steep water slide at our local water-themed park, and to conquer it showed you were brave in the face of such a staggering obstacle.  In Grade 11, and was determined to give it a try.  I was all the way to the top, and was even hanging from the support beam, dangling over the gaping mouth of this terrible beast intent on swallowing me.  Thoughts of those two or three people over the years who had been injured on the Kamakaze were strong enough to cause me to haul myself up and unceremoniously walk back down the stairs to jeers from the crowd waiting in line behind me.  We bought Magic Mountain t-shirts that day, and I wore mine for almost fifteen years afterwards.  Even when it was faded, stained, and stretched beyond recognition, I kept it.  It was a reminder of my failure.  I never realized why I had kept it so long until long after it finally got cut up for spare rags, pieces of which I think I still have.

Ø  Speaking in public has never been my favourite thing to do.  Granted, many people feel the same way, and for someone who decided to become a teacher, you might think I have it licked by now.  Hardly.  I still get butterflies before I begin a lesson, less now than before, since I know my students pretty well and am comfortable teaching them.  One time, in anticipation of being evaluated by a university professor during my internship, I felt so nauseous I very nearly drove past the school driveway with the intention of quitting altogether.  I didn’t, of course, and proceeded to deliver a great lesson.   

I trace this back to a public speaking event for which I was chosen to co-represent our school with three others.  It was in French, and it was about a subject of my choosing.  I chose fly-tying, because at that time it was among my favourite pass-times.  I had done so well with my speech in my own class that I took it for granted I would do equally well at the competition.  Naturally, I scoffed when Mom urged me to practice.  

When I took the stage, I partially froze, and when I did speak, my speech was full of mistakes.  I was humiliated.  Now, when something like that happens to you, one of two things can happen.  You can learn from it, pick yourself up, and improve upon it.  Or, you can be completely scarred to the point it becomes a monkey on your back.  Three things happened that day:  I became very reserved when it came to speaking in front of an unfamiliar audience; I became very insecure about my ability to speak French, and my enthusiasm for learning it began to wane from that point forward; and I also started to lose interest in fly-tying.  I continued to tie, but it wasn’t the same.  I’ve made several attempts to pick it up again, and it is lots of fun, but the same passion I had when I was younger isn’t there anymore. 

Ø  Skip ahead to spring, 2013.  I decided to take my son skiing, since it was a sport I had never tried before, and he was really excited to learn how to snowboard.  A snowboard enthusiast friend of mine came along, and we went to Crabbe Mountain for a relaxing day on the slopes.  Having cross-country skied most of my childhood, I was comfortable on the bunny hill, picking up really quickly how to control my speed, shifting from side to side, and stopping with that slow-arc shower of snow that you see from professionals.  My son took the snowboarding lesson and showed real promise, mastering his balance and tackling the hill with ease.  We took on some more challenging courses, and with a few scary moments, I felt quite confident I could at least ski on the basic hills.  That’s what I decided to do, keeping it simple as the weather was warm, and the snow was starting to get sticky with ruts from dozens of other skiers carving up the mountain side.

Making our final run of the day, I navigated my way down a hill I had done a few times earlier without incident.  This time, however, I hit a ridge unexpectedly and tumbled.  I was holding my ski poles tightly, and when my right hand collided, my grip on the pole contributed to the snap at my thumb joint.  At the time, I thought it was a bad sprain.  The x-rays two days later confirmed the fracture.  My son was horrified, and for a time he blamed himself for my injury.  I assured him that one day, I would bring him back and try again, because I didn’t want him to harbor the same anxiety I do. 

A year later, almost to the day, I brought both my sons back to Crabbe.  We tackled the same hill on which I had fallen before.  My snowboarding pro had no trouble at all, but my youngest and I decided to take it safe midway down.  I saw the part of the track where I fell.  He asked me if this was where I fell, as though he was there when it happened.  We took off our skis and walked down the steepest part, then put our skis back on to finish the rest.  No one got hurt that day. 

When we got back to the bunny hill, I felt the anxiety rising in me again.  Having successfully descended it dozens of times at this point, I couldn’t understand why I was still so scared.  I smiled, giving the boys the thumbs-up and made my way to the base, and for the last time.  Possibly ever.  You see, I felt good about facing my demons.  I gave it another try, but at the end of it all, the echo of something now long-past still rings inside me.  It’s the inability to find a way to overcome these things that makes me feel that there is something more afoot. 

There are days when it is all I can do to slide my two feet over the edge of the bed to start my day.  When I don’t have any commitments to keep, I sometimes curl up in a ball and stay under the covers longer than I normally would.  I could be in the middle of listening to a catchy, up-beat song and suddenly need to turn it to something more mellow.  Sometimes, within a matter of minutes, I feel the need to just be alone, and if I don’t, I find myself becoming more irritable than I have any reason to be.  There are days when I even feel like I’m a fraud, and that the successes I have achieved in life really aren’t mine.

Now before you start to panic and plan an intervention, rest assured I’m doing fine.  I love my job, and apart from professionally writing, can’t imagine anything else I’d do instead.  I’m raising two wonderful children, and am trying to be aware of my childhood anxieties as I help teach them how to become confident young men.  I’m single now, for the first time in over seventeen years, but I’m looking forward to the next chapter of my life.  I always used to joke that I would one day end up buying some small cabin in the woods where I could just spend my day with my thoughts, writing, and maybe fly-tying.  I think my desire for that kind of solitude just couldn’t wait any longer.  

There are two types of days.  There is the kind when everything comes up roses.  And then there are the rest.  Maybe depression or anxiety can be calculated by the ratio of one type you have to the other.

To Wit:

It’s funny how completely integrated the computer has become in our everyday lives.  Mine was the generation that first got to experience the arrival of the home computer, back when most of us who had one couldn’t do much more than type a letter and play some pretty crappy games.  I remember visiting a friend who had some archaic brand, which was as technologically wonderous then as an iPad is today, and being able to do nothing but actually type letters on the black screen, the letters glowing green trailing behind the cursor.  They didn’t even have Pong.  I was bored within about thirty seconds.

Sometime in the mid- to late-eighties, Mom and Dad bought our first computer.  It was a Tandy, and it was one of the first I can remember that took 3 1/2 “ floppy disks.  It had no modem, and even if it did, the World Wide Web was still in its infancy, and not yet accessible by the mainstream for another few years.  Still, the gaming industry had caught up to the burgeoning market for the personal computer, and I found myself trading with my friends games like Kings Quest, Police Quest, Space Quest (I enjoyed quest games apparently), and some of the more kid-friendly ones like Carmen San Diego, Jeopardy, and Wheel Of Fortune.  In junior high school, I convinced my parents to let me get Leisure Suit Larry, a legendary and infamous game franchise in which the titular character was a swinging bachelor with a raging libido on an adventure to find true ‘love’.  They finally gave in and let me buy it, but only the second edition because it was less controversial than the other titles in the series.  I always wanted to get the third Leisure Suit Larry game:  “Passionate Patty and the Pulsating Pectorals”.  I still have my original copy, but no computer I own or have access to can play it.  I think I sold my cousin the 5 ¼” disks that came with it.  If it was a potential source of income, I would try to exploit it.  I would have sold the Chihuahua if I could have gotten away with it.

Computers were little more than fancy word processors and sophisticated gaming consoles before the advent of the internet.  I was not living at home when Mom and Dad upgraded their computer to one that could access the ‘net’, but in the fall of ’93, when I started university, I had regular access to the internet for the first time.  Most of my closest friends were also making the same discovery, and within days, we were talking via email to each other.  Those few of us who didn’t have their own email were begging to use someone else’s account to keep in the loop.  I can’t remember how email worked back then, how you accessed it, or what the screen even looked like.  I remember being able to find information about my hobbies, printing out everything from song lyrics to corny jokes on dot-matrix paper.  I recently found a folder full of all sorts of junk like that among my university keepsakes.  Most of them I tossed away.  Of course, I kept a few, being the archivist I am.

Within that first year, a few of my acquaintances began to spend an awful lot of time in the computer lab.  There was a small room in the basement of the Edmund Casey building at St. Thomas, and if you were able to get inside before they locked the doors at 11pm, you could stay as long as you wanted.  You just wouldn’t be able to get back in if you left.  My friends, and a few others that shared their passion for the internet chat groups, would stay overnight, jabbering away online with their early social-media peers from various corners of the world.  What they had found online were people just like them:  people who were slowly forsaking the real world for a person they had never actually met in person, and for all they knew, might not even be whom they claimed.  At least they were happy, I suppose.  Or were they?

Fast forward a generation.  In the years since those fledgling days, computers drew more and more of us into their social network.  There was ICQ and MSN Messenger, neither of which I fell for, the memory of my awkward friends becoming specters in shadowy basement computer labs fresh in my mind.  MySpace and YouTube began to pick up steam as the millennium turned.  The term ‘social media’ was probably being used by people in the know, but it wasn’t until the advent of Facebook that the general public really began to understand how vital the concept had become.  ICQ was about as obsolete as the telegraph by the time Facebook started to spread, exponentially until it seemed like within a few months, just about everyone was on board. 

I was at a friend’s wedding reception when some of my friends from back home, the same ones that I used to email with such enthusiasm about fifteen years before, convinced me to give Facebook a try.  It was the spring of 2007.  I was skeptical.  I wanted to believe that I would never attach myself to some lifeless electronic box, and for sure I would never forsake real life contact for strictly digital communication.  I had long since lost contact with those old acquaintances from back in the day.  I remember when one of them had met a ‘friend’ online and they began dating.  She even paid his bus fare to visit from the US.  When he arrived, she was less than enthused.  The parameters of the relationship had changed.  Suddenly, she had to actually talk to him live in person.  He stayed for a few days before he quietly went back to wherever his console was plugged in.  Maybe they got along better that way.  I remember feeling sorry for the both of them. 

People warned me that it was addictive.  I scoffed at them.  Addictive?  Coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, gambling—now those were real addictions.  Who lets themselves get hooked on computers?  No logic in the world could convince me.  I told people I would check in on Facebook every week or so, just to say hi and then be on my way.  Within days, I was completely taken.  Before Facebook was riddled with useless games and applications, I was immediately drawn to the instant connection I had found with people I had long lost to either time or distance, or often both.  Within a span of a few short weeks, I was using my Facebook as my primary means of communication.  I can count on one hand how often I’ve called some of my friends since 2007, although I may speak to some of them daily online.  In some instances, I can see that some of my relationships have strengthened due to the new technology.  In some, I can see that it has regressed, or in some cases, dried up completely. 

We would have been foolish to think that the advance in social media would have stopped with Facebook.  There are dozens of them now.  I opened a Twitter account about four years ago, because everyone was predicting that it was going to be even better than Facebook.  I signed up, then sat back, unsure what to do next.  I ‘followed’ a few friends, some of my longest-standing Facebook-ers to start with, then found myself completely bored.  I was away from Twitter for about six months when I decided to check in.  Somehow, I was being followed by several people I didn’t know.  They must find me a boring guy to follow, since I hadn’t tweeted in months.  I logged out and haven’t checked it since.  I’ve long since forgotten my password.

I’ve dabbled in Edmodo (the Facebook for teachers), Pinterest, and Google Plus in recent months.  They’re all fine, I suppose, but Facebook remains my primary distraction.  You can use Linkedin or Instagram, depending on what you want to do online these days.  There are social media sites that are only popular overseas, and you have to believe the next big thing is already starting to take off as you read this.  I was browsing MySpace the other day, and couldn’t believe how archaic it had become.  Even Facebook isn’t the same anymore.  It isn’t just for the young anymore; parents and grandparents, now more adept at technology are logging in, and are still enjoying the honeymoon stage I was experiencing in 2007/08.  Because parents are now able to peer in on the kids, Facebook is reportedly not cool anymore.  It occurs to me that I am a parent, with children on the verge of having Facebook accounts of their own.  Will they be the first to skip Facebook altogether, pioneers of their own digital indulgences?

I’ve been thinking of giving Twitter another go ‘round.  I could just launch a new profile and start fresh, especially since so many more people use it now, and it can be used for so many more purposes.  Still, the thought of following celebrities I don’t care much about makes me cringe.  Why should I have to update my status on two different sites now?  Instagram is no good to me since I don’t take many pictures.  Which technology should I pursue?  It’s like trying to decide which gaming system I should buy.

In regards to game systems, I could get a Wii, an X-Box, or a PS3.  My kids have a Wii, but apart from that, I prefer none of the above.  When I want to play a game, I go back to the tried and tested option, my good old fashioned board games.  They don’t need an expensive computer, but they do need people to be present, in the flesh.  You have to make the effort to coordinate them, but when they come together, there is nothing quite like the social aspect you can only get from a good board game.

Maybe I should apply this logic to my social media.  These days, I’m so entwined in Facebook, I can barely stand to use the phone anymore.  Why does it feel like picking up the phone is like rereading the old instruction manual of a long-forgotten board game?  Maybe the solution is to buy an old dial-tone phone again.   What differs from my generation to the current one, it seems, is that mine remembers how to read the manual, while this one isn’t aware of the existence of the game itself, let alone how it was played.  One thing that remains is that we still have a choice.  If you’d like to set up a game sometime, give me a call.  I can’t promise I’ll call you back.  #leisuresuitlarry

To Wish Impossible Things

“It was the hope of all we might have been; that fills me with the hope to wish impossible things...”

I’m a collector.  One of the most defining aspects of my character is my compulsion to collect and organize things that interest me.  As a small child, I used to marvel at my parents’ record collection.  They must have had over a hundred records, spanning decades of rock and pop, country and folk.  I always went back to Burton Cummings and Kenny Rogers in the early days--we’re talking age three and four here.  Even if I didn’t actually play them all, I used to take them out, hold them, manipulate them, organize them, and admire them for all their decadence and flair.  I remember being utterly horrified when the family cat, which was half-siamese and all evil, sharpened her claws on the cardboard spines, shredding the names and labels on so grand a collection of culture, entertainment, and artistry.  I also remember thinking to myself that I could never be so lucky as to have a collection so grand as theirs.  Today, my music collection dwarves theirs, and spans thousands of titles in four formats.  Not including MP3s.  

I have spent my adult life learning how to temper my unnatural craving for collecting.  There’s the music, of course, which will always be my favourite pass-time, but there are others.  Those who know me well know I am an avid Star Wars fan, and since those same days when I was grooving to ‘My Own Way To Rock’, I was also flipping through colouring books which told me the tale of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.  In the years before the VCR, if you couldn't get to the movie theater, you had to hear about the stories via alternate means.  In a rare juncture of both worlds, I also had the 45 rpm record storybooks.  At the time, I thought the voices on the record were the real actors.  Many years later, after I actually saw the films, I realized how poorly substituted the voice actors actually were.  How hard would it have been to get James Earl Jones to speak into a microphone for a few minutes, really?

I’ll spare the details, but I also collect books, beer bottles, bottle caps, coins, rocks, flags, among other things.  Most of these are minimal cost to me, but for lack of storage or display space, I limit my intake of all of them to varying degrees.  Imagine a greedy dragon sitting on top of his pile of gold and treasure, or Scrooge McDuck swimming in his vault full of money.  You would have a pretty accurate visual of my man-cave.

With only so much money to go around, especially when you consider I have a mortgage, two cars, and two growing boys, I need to keep my impulse to consume tighter every year.  I’m very okay with this.  My kids are either in, or soon approaching middle school, and if you have ever been or have raised an adolescent boy, you know how expensive food is.  With everything these days costing more and more, the need to plan ahead and save has never been more urgent.

While I still indulge in my two main distractions, I’ve come to realize there are some things I will never be able to have, for some reason or another.  I’ve learned that while you can have your cake and eat it too, and maybe even seconds, you can’t keep going back to the sample lady over and over again.  They’ll kick you out of the store.  Or repossess your house.

I’m fine with dreaming of the wonderfully ridiculous things I would love to have, some expensive, others not, but due to the choices I’ve made, and the bed that I’ve made, I’ve acquiesced that it’s just not going to happen.  Here are a number of indulgences that would tickle me several shades of pink to have in my possession, but will likely never own:

> If I could buy one thing, it would be a lighthouse.  Not just one of those small beacons, I’m talking a real live-in lighthouse that has all the necessities for year-round living and a beacon up top.  Given that lighthouses are always on the water, we’re talking really expensive real estate, not to mention the fact that they are brutally hard to keep heated.  And they’re usually far away from any real gainful employment, because in 2014, lighthouse keeping isn’t exactly a viable vocation anymore.  Why lighthouses?  I don’t really know.  They are symbolic of all sorts of things, but mostly I like the romanticism of life by the sea.  I grew up near the shore, while not directly along the coastline exactly, but the salty air invokes a wonderful sensation that you have to just understand to ‘get it’.  

> While I can play piano a little bit, I don’t play any other instruments at all.  Therefore, it would be odd to want to own multiple musical instruments, but I would love to have an assortment of them just laying around.  Maybe I think that by having them there I’ll just magically one day pick one up and play naturally.  I recently inherited from my grandfather’s old house an old dulcimer he bought with the intention of learning how to play bluegrass music.  He never did.  I expect I won’t either, but I’ve dabbled around with it a few times and even played a few YouTube tutorials.  It doesn’t seem too hard to pick up, and no one around here offers dulcimer lessons, so if I want to learn, I’m on my own.  Still, it’s a thing of beauty, and if nothing else, a great conversation piece.  I’d love to have those weird, obscure instruments, like ophicleides or flugelhorns, just for the novelty of it.  My great-uncle used to be a great musician, playing all over the maritimes with Don Messer’s contemporaries, and it kills me to know that he gave away or destroyed most of his instruments years before I was born.  What an amazing assortment of musical instruments he must have had.  

>  I would like to travel one day when I’m more financially secure.  To actually be more financially secure may well be impossible itself, and deserving of its own bullet in this list, but assuming that I can one day pay my debt, achieve a regular salary, and even pay my mortgage off, I’d like to travel.  Not only do I want to travel, I want to see every country of the world at least once.  All of them.  From North Korea to Somalia, rich, poor, or otherwise dangerous for western travelers, I want to see the world.  And from each one, I want their national flag.  I have always found flags to be fascinating, how a small piece of fabric can come to represent a national identity.  I once drew a whole book full of national flags.  I was in Grade 2.  I was proud as pie of all the work I did at the time, but when I look back on it now, they were all uneven, and I never used a ruler.  Still, what I learned from doing it has stayed with me to this day.  I still remember most of them, except for national flags that came to be since the early eighties, including the post-Soviet Union, post-Yugoslavia, and half the micro states of the Pacific.  Gadhaffi made life easier when he made the Libyan flag just a green rectangle, but since he’s been dumped (and killed), they’ve gone back to their classic design again.  Eritrea, East Timor, Macedonia, and South Sudan have all since joined the ranks of new national flags, and by declaring their independence, have added four more countries I’d have to visit to achieve my goal.  I’ve seen precisely three different countries in my lifetime, including Canada.  The others are the United States and the Bahamas.  I lived in the US for a year, yet never bought the stars and stripes.  Instead of buying a Bahamian flag, I bought a large conch shell from a street vendor in Nassau.  So I’m only 1 for 3, and I’m pretty sure my Canada flag was a gift from someone.  My brother-in-law graciously picked me up a Spanish flag when he went on vacation there last year.  I once found a website that has all 193 national flags on sale for about $1000.  Maybe I should just buy these, then fly every flag on its respective country’s national day.  Or, maybe I should just redraw my book from Grade 2, this time with a ruler.

> This one might be plausible.  I would love to own a yacht.  Now, I realize that fancy yachts costs anywhere from tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars, and even more if you’re super-rich.  I’ve accepted that super-wealth isn’t in the cards for me, but I think that if I really wanted it, and planned carefully, I could one day acquire at least a small sail boat or similar pleasure water craft.  This romantic notion falls close to the lighthouse dream, for several reasons.  That zeal for the open sea gives cause for wanting to sail upon it.  I once spent the night on a lobster boat.  I woke up feeling dreadfully sick to my stomach.  I would need to be able to combat that nausea that comes with seasickness if I was to go on over night voyages.  But before all that, I’d need to know a thing or two about sailing.  I’ve done research on sailboats recently for my novel, and it has only increased my curiosity.  Since living by the sea seems unlikely, having a boat to be able to take to the open sea is the second most romantic dream I can imagine.  If I decide to take a dent out of the world flag collection mentioned earlier, owning a boat seems out of the question.  

>  If I did manage to save up enough to buy a boat, it would almost certainly mean my lifelong dream of owning a tractor wouldn’t be coming true anytime soon.  Tractors don’t have to be expensive, but the kind I’m talking about would be.  That’s because I’d have every attachment known to mankind ready to snap on for just the right occasion.  Need your garden tilled?  How about your snow blown?  Want to dig that basement or trench you need?  Widen your wood path?  Move large boulders?  I’d be your man.  I’d drive to Tim Hortons in my tractor, just because I could.  I’d be the guy you’re cursing taking up half the lane along the highway that you can’t pass on the blind hill.  You’re welcome.  Before you ask me what kind of tractor I’d like, don’t bother.  I don’t know much about them, really.  My grandfather had a Kubota, and he seemed to like it a lot.  He did all of the above with it and more.  Sometimes he would putter around and just dig up things just because he could.  It made him happy.  That’s good enough for me.

I’m not sure why I always dream of tangible things.  It would be noble of me to dream of the end of poverty, world peace, the cure for cancer, or a Rolling Stones tour this year.  And don’t get me wrong, I would love to see all those things, and more.  I dream of the day they send a manned space craft to Mars.  The day we find a clean source of renewable energy.  When peace in the Middle East is secured.  When we discover life in the cosmos.  The day Canada wins gold in men’s figure skating.  Unfortunately, my lofty ideals seem more likely to come true.  Maybe that’s why I keep dreaming.  If you need me for anything, I’ll be in my lighthouse.

Starless and Kettle Black

They say the more things change, the more they stay the same.  I think that's nonsense.  There is always a progression.  Sometimes the progression is slow, and sometimes it gets distracted, sidetracked along the way, or even lapsing into old habits before straightening out and resuming its procession of progression.  We can’t unlearn what we’ve learned.  History is an endless quest.  Once you reach the next level, you don’t retry the earlier ones, but move on to the next, prepared to stumble through the next set of challenges until you’ve mastered it, and so on.

The problem, from which the old cliché is derived I suspect, is that sometimes crises resemble past levels, and suddenly you feel like you’ve just wandered in the woods in a circle, only to recognize that same tree you swore you saw half an hour or half a century ago.  For example, the struggle for women’s rights in the early twentieth century closely resembled the civil rights movement of the 1960s.  Now, generations on, it is unthinkable that someone was once discriminated against based on gender or skin colour.  Unthinkable except for a small minority of people who still stubbornly cling to outdated social dogma, people I like to refer to as ‘uneducated’, to put it politely.

The latest crisis to hit a fevered pitch in virtually every aspect of life these days is homosexuality.  It has to be a crisis.  Everyone is talking about it, and everyone has either a solution to it or a critique of the whole thing.  They likely aren’t sure what  the whole thing really is.  Homosexuality is really a generic term with very broad definitions, implications, and perceptions, from those who are, aren’t, or are somewhere in the middle of what it means to be ‘gay’.

There are no aspects of our culture free from the long shadow of sexual ambiguity.  I can’t get through a line at a grocery store without seeing plastered all over tabloids which celebrities are or aren’t gay.  Or, more often than not, a blurred teaser photo inviting me to check page 34 to see which shocking celebrity has just been unceremoniously ‘outed’.  Sadly, I’m sometimes surprised to see the names mentioned, before it occurs to me I have no idea why I would assume one way or another, or whether or not it’s even my business to wonder at all.  Whether or not Lindsey Lohan likes women is as irrelevant to me as whether or not she has a drug problem. 

Even the domain of professional sports isn’t immune to the tongue wagging.  I remember people being shocked when Martina Navratilova came out in the 1980s, when I was still a teenager.  It seemed that people were more interested in her sexuality than her unparalleled accomplishments on the tennis court. 

With the shocking death of the famous actor Rock Hudson from the newly discovered AIDS virus, a wave of fear for the homsexuals lurking in the shadows, locker rooms, public bathrooms, and local supermarkets had everyone afraid that someone of the same sex was eying you lasciviously, waiting for you to be alone before they pounced on you and ravaged you in unimaginable ways.  That irrational fear gave cause for most of the homophobia that flourished in those years, back when being gay meant to be unmanly or unwomanly, or that you were certain to carry plagues that would surely be the end of civilization.  And just like racism, homophobia has a long memory.  It doesn’t just go away; in fact, it still permeates society, just more cleverly veiled.  The team locker room was one of the last bastions of accepted or encouraged homophobia.  But that is changing.

TSN hockey analyst and former player Aaron Ward has produced a series entitled ‘ReOrientation’, in which he investigates the changing climate in dressing rooms of professional sports.  The reality is, there have always been and always will be gay athletes, but few have ever felt comfortable enough to identify themselves publicly for fear of reprisal from their team mates.  Only in recent years have athletes begun to reveal their homosexuality while still playing, and some sports have yet to reveal their respective pioneer in sexual acceptance.  I recently overheard some middle-school boys, athletes themselves, likely already anointed in the locker room culture, speaking to each other enthusiastically about Aaron Ward's article, and it made me smile.  The memory is long, but like anything else, it can eventually fade away.  When (not if) a future team mate comes out, they will have the moral fiber to accept them for who they are.  That is the real spirit of team anyway.

Homophobic normalcy was once part of my character.  Like most everyone around me, I also felt that homosexuality was less a trait or attribute, but a political opinion.  For example, I was vocally opposed to gay pride parades, less for the advocacy of acceptance, and more for the image I thought was being portrayed, that of a more perverse or deviant social behavior.  I never truly knew any gay people, though.  Actually, I probably did, but they weren’t ready to reveal that, and since I was no more understanding than the next guy or girl, why would they ever feel comfortable telling me?  I still feel ashamed when I think about it like that.

One day, a friend in my circle came out.  I had never seen it coming.  He was a popular, fit, friendly person who dated really attractive girls frequently.  How could he be gay?  And how could he suddenly seemingly decide that these beautiful women were no longer sexually attractive?  It just didn’t make sense.  I’ve come to realize that in that regard, to me it will never truly make sense. 

Most of our group of friends accepted him for who he was, and I remember feeling for the first time that everything I thought I knew about what it meant to be gay was wrong.  Less wrong, and more misinformed, I suppose.  One afternoon after exams, we were all sitting around on a patio, having a few drinks, and he decided he would field our questions.  It wasn’t locker room talk anymore, but a legitimate Q&A session.  He very bravely and graciously shared his perspective, and we learned quickly that the friend we had in him before had not changed, and in fact was always that way, just concealed behind a veil of fear.  His fear was justified.  Team mates on his rugby team were less forgiving, and some refused to change in the locker room when he was present.  To imagine that he was ogling them in the showers all that time!

As he became closer friends with other students in the gay community, I was introduced to more and more gay and lesbian folks, all of whom seemed friendly enough to me.  At the end of the day, isn’t that all that matters?  If people are respectful to me, I see no reason to treat them otherwise.  He introduced me to another fellow who it became apparent quickly found me to be attractive.  Uh-oh, here come the sneaky homosexuals from earlier in this essay, and this one had me in his sights.  Around campus, he seductively cooed my name when he said hello, and to my chagrin in front of lots of attractive women.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was still friendly to him, but I clearly wasn’t interested in dinner and a movie.  Even if he was paying.

My friend  told him a few days later that I was straight.  He seemed a bit disappointed, but not too much.  I guess that for gay people, there are plenty of fish in the sea too.  I hope he found someone who treats him well.  He seemed like a decent guy.  And whether or not he’d noticed me in the grocery line reading tabloids or saw me scrubbing my back in the locker room shower, he didn’t seize upon that opportunity to attack.  It occurred to me that there were no more likely skulking gays than communists.  The more things change, I suppose.

Still, I accept that people will have their own views.  You can hide behind the discomfort that comes with a lack of understanding of homosexuality if you like.  You can make jokes with your friends privately for a few quick laughs, like lots of people do.  You can even try to convince me that scientifically homosexuality is not natural, and that if we were supposed to be attracted to the same sex, our species would have died out long ago.  You won’t likely succeed, but you can try.  You can’t convince me that homosexuality is wrong if your only defense is that you read it in the Bible.

The latest and most furious kindling in the firestorm of controversy surrounding homosexuality came about when one of the stars of the popular TV show Duck Dynasty revealed in an interview that his religious adherence is the reason he feels gay people are sinners, akin to those who commit bestiality, among other claims.  He says that his strong ‘family values’ are a result of his faith, and so his views on homosexuality, which are shared by millions, should be accepted as such.  Religious freedom is also something we value today which was less tolerated in the past.  If we have to accept Muslims, those swarthy Middle-Easterners with such strange customs who attacked the Twin Towers, then surely to our God, good old-fashioned Christianity has to be protected, here in a country founded on those same Christian values that believes in freedom and tolerance for all, doesn’t it?

I really don’t like his TV show.  I watched a few episodes, and failed to see the charm.  Still, I’ll grant the Robertson family a few of their more endearing qualities.  They eat supper together, worship together as they see fit, help each other in both work and play, and seem to get on just fine.  I’ve also met plenty of gay people who live the same way.  Some of them even like hunting.

Historically, public opinion about issues like this tend to heighten along with social upheaval or uncertainty.  When Germany was economically in the toilet after WWI, the Jews seemed like logical scapegoats, and we all know how that turned out.  With so much economic instability in North America, particularly in the southern states, it isn’t surprising that people yearn for a simpler time, when men were men, and women were, well, women I guess.  When you went to church, ate dinner together at 5pm, asked a girl to the prom, and went muddin' on the four-wheeler, when you could actually afford to buy gas for it.  The Duck Dynasty men remind us of those times.  Phil Robertson briefly also reminded us of all the fear gay people had during those same times.  For them, it is not a time of fond remembrance.

Defenders of the Robertson family claim that they are suffering an attack on a legitimate point of view.  They believe that their faith affirms this, and that they are free to believe it so long as they are propped up by their scriptures.  They feel that a traditional way of life is under seige from those perverts waiting in the bushes to rush out and push their gay agenda on us.  Some even feel that their traditional man/woman marriages are in peril on account of male/male or female/female marriages being permitted, and even defended under law.  How anyone could claim the Robertsons are any less than saintly is inconceivable to them.  They pray.  They must be good people.

The fact is, you can still be like that younger me well past middle age.  You can hold on to that view that something you don’t understand is a threat to you before you take the time to try to learn about it.  I believe that A&E, the company that distributes Duck Dynasty, was well within its rights to dismiss an employee that portrayed a point of view that is no longer socially acceptable.  Those who had found their champion of homophobia were suddenly without their star power.  After a huge public outcry, they weren’t starless for long.  For them, it was not an indictment of their religiously-backed views of homosexuality, but an indictment of a simpler way of life.  I feel that the sacking, however temporary, of Phil Robertson was actually an indictment against enabled and tolerated mediocrity, of cyclical uneducation, and of intolerance.  And for that, I applaud them, because cultural ignorance is not something worthy of defense. 

If you think that life was better when Bo and Luke were driving the General Lee with its confederate flag emblazoned on the doors they were too lazy to open, you’re painting the kettle black when it comes to the millions who lived those days afraid to be themselves.  The maniacs ready to pounce on them at any moment were not hiding.  Even the German SS troops sat down to eat with their families once in a while.

 

Brandon's Top 20 Albums of 2013 (and More!)

Here it is, my annual list of my favourite albums of the year, with a few other tidbits at the end for good measure.  It was the year of the comeback, with some artists years, even decades removed from their last recordings, storming back and making a statement.  And maybe the most defining moment of the year was that we finally learned what the fox says.  This is pretty important stuff, people!  Here are my picks!

1.    Alice In Chains – The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here

Layne Staley has been gone for eleven years.  Inactive for several years before his untimely death of an overdose, Alice In Chains we’re held hostage first by his personal demons, and then in the uncertainty of where next to go, newly unencumbered by all the baggage that comes along with having a junkie for a singer.  I’ve spoken about this before:   the band hired close acquaintance William Duvall to fill the void, immediately polarizing popular opinion from fans and critics alike.  How could anyone replace Layne?  Why would you want to?

As it turns out, they neither did nor needed to.  What most fans forgot, or at least took for granted, was that Jerry Cantrell was the chief songwriter, and in the twilight years held equal billing with Staley in lead vocals.  He released two respectable solo albums, which with a little fine tuning, could have fit in with the Alice canon nicely.  Their comeback album, 2009’s Black Gives Way To Blue was a huge statement coming from a band fully prepared to launch AIC Mach 2.  That album was terrific, allowing for Duvall to stake his claim within the band, and showcasing some of the band’s strongest work to date.  I found myself wondering where the next step would lead. 

This album has a unique place within their discography.  You can hear elements of Dirt, the self-titled album, and even Black Gives Way To Blue throughout it, but as a whole, they’ve created something quite independent.  There are plenty of cuts here that could have been rock radio hits, and the first two singles (Hollow, Stone) were easy to digest.  Echoing the last album, where their ballad Your Decision was slotted at track four, this album’s fourth track Voices is equally satisfying.  But it’s the deeper album cuts that makes this album soak in.  Low Ceiling and Phantom Limb have that same sludgy drone that identifies as their signature sound.  The real gem here is the title track.  Lyrically, Cantrell’s denunciation of far-right Christianity are some of the most thought-provoking lines in recent memory (“I am wise, and you don’t know; a cloud is my home; only some get in; got an imaginary friend”).  The title itself is borrowed from the theory that the devil hid dinosaur bones on Earth as a test of faith.  Cantrell’s faith is unwavering, in terms of who he is and what his band’s vision is.  At almost 70 minutes, this album could have been over-long or bloated (Pitchfork felt it was), but it plays front to back much easier than that.  On the last album, I found myself wondering how the songs would sound with Layne singing them.  On this album, by far my most played of the year, I found it irrelevant.  Alice has secured its identity, and may well be the unlikeliest of survivors of the Grunge era.

1.     The National – Trouble Will Find Me

Few artists can claim the universal praise The National has earned over the course of their career, and justly so.  At first glance, they have a sound that could easily become tiresome, save for the baritone vocals of Matt Berringer.  Their songs dealt with relationships, love lost, and cautious optimism, not unlike many of their contemporaries.  But they have something special, and their fans, who are arriving exponentially from album to album, recognize it.  They appear to have made it past the ‘three album shelf-life’ of millennial buzz bands, and seem to be picking up speed (figuratively, of course).  While their early albums were charming, if not only a hint of what was to come, from the third album Alligator onward, they have made stronger and stronger albums, expanding their sound without compromising their feel, which is very difficult to do.  2010’s High Violet was a masterwork, and seemed at the time impossible to top.  Trouble Will Find Me may not be quite as strong, but it is very close.  Lead single Demons is among their best, showing Barringer’s deepest range in 7/8 time.  Standout tracks Don’t Swallow The Cap, Graceless, and the delicate Fireproof are instant classics.  After six albums, it is safe to say that The National can be depended on to deliver an intensely personal, reflective, and powerful album that almost everyone can agree is just amazing.

2.     Arcade Fire – Reflektor

I spoke above about the three album curse.  In the pretentious world of indie rock fandom, it almost always seems that either the bands have a) run out of ideas, b) changed their style, either from a major label’s bigger budget, or because the band themselves have become bored, c) couldn’t recapture the magic, or d) a little of all of these.  Coldplay and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s immediately come to mind.  With all the critical acclaim and clamour over Arcade Fire’s whole body of work, culminating in Grammy Award-winning album The Suburbs, it seemed as though they were bound for Coldplay/U2 stardom.  And when the massive campaign leading up to the release of Reflektor rolled out, with epic videos, viral marketing, mysterious logos appearing on billboards, and hype unparalled this year, my fears that my beloved Arcade Fire had succumbed to the big machine, ready to flood radio with catchy singles, and possibly try to save the world.  Thankfully, the album itself stayed closer to their sound than I had thought.  Electing to split the almost 75 minutes of music into two shorter sessions, Reflektor is more focused and feels more trim than The Suburbs.  They continue to use Caribbean and world music elements, and Win Butler’s vocals are reliable as always.  Regine Chassagne is still heard, but this time never taking the lead, which I find leaves her as a valuable asset underused at times.  Still, there are no weak tracks, and while radio singles may be harder to come by, the songs are more substantial than some of the more forgettable tracks from The Suburbs, which I felt was a little too long to digest all at once.  Even spread over two discs, Reflektor is immediately more satisfying.  The title track may be the least effective, and is about two minutes too long, but from there, the whole thing is well-crafted, and not too commercial to dismiss them as sell-outs just yet.

3.     Russian Circles – Memorial

Chicago has a long legacy of great music, and in the post-millenium world, two of its greatest exports continue to push the boundaries of not only heavy music, but instrumental music.  Both of these bands released excellent albums in 2013.  One you’ll read about a little later, the other being Russian Circles, a band who continues to evolve what was at the onset a simple creed into almost orchestral movements within the confines of a four-piece band without a vocalist.  Starting with their second album Station, and steadily climbing with subsequent efforts Geneva and Empros (the latter of which arrived late in the year and completely slipped past me until the following spring), they have built upon their more simple structures into more layered, complex arrangements, allowing the listener to draw upon an unspoken narrative throughout.  Like all their previous albums, Memorial is best enjoyed in one sitting.  This album is bookended by an intro-outro piece, the latter being the self-titled track, and for the first time accompanied by vocals, here in the form of Chelsea Wolfe, Sargent House label mate and doomy chanteuse extraordinaire.  Her vocals are so muted, mixed deep in the layers that she becomes almost a fifth instrument herself.  On this their fifth album, Russian Circles have once and for all established themselves not as students of the post-rock genre(s), but masters of it.

4.     CHVRCHES – The Bones Of What You Believe

I have never been a good gauge for what constitutes good pop music.  As a child of the 80’s, I relate pop to artists like the Bangles, Go-Go’s, Madonna, Prince, and their kin, artists influence in part or whole by either New Wave or Disco that predated them.  When I latch on to a pop act these days, they almost always have a retro feel that resonates with my comfort zone, and CHVRCHES deliver exactly what I want from a pop band.  I’m not alone.  The trio from Scotland has been a huge buzz band this year, and their debut album has landed on several influential publications’ end-of-year lists.  That’s not why I ranked it so high, but it’s nice to know that others see what you see in a band once in a while.  Lauren Mayberry’s voice would have fit right in between Belinda Carlisle and Jane Weidlin, with a touch of Susanna Hoffs for good measure.  Synthesizer and guitarist Iain Cook was once a member of Aereogramme, a band that dissolved in their prime in 2007; he brings with him a resume of very progressive musicianship, and the arrangements on The Bones Of What You Believe are more dense than most current pop acts.  But what makes this album work is that it is so well written and executed.  From start to finish, it is up-beat, melodic, and memorable.  Singles We Sink, Gun, and The Mother We Share should be huge, and since the album only saw release in November, there is time for it to impact the mainstream.  A top twenty debut already suggests that people are catching on, but honestly, I’m fine if it stays a little below ground. 

5.     Wild Belle – Isles

Elliot and Natalie Bergman are a brother and sister duo from Ohio, recording under the moniker ‘Wild Belle’.  Normally, sibling or spouse partnerships appear as singer/songwriter indie groups (Tennis, Beach House, Haim, to name a few).  Wild Belle is similar, except they play a varied style of world beat meets reggae dub, mixed in with funk and jazz for good measure.  The album is called Isles reportedly because they felt that each track was an island unto itself stylistically.  For what is billed as a variety show, the album blends together really well, lending to their versatility almost becoming a signature sound.  Natalie sings like a jazz singer on standout cuts Backslider and It’s Too Late, and she shows impressive range on the deeper album cut Happy Home.  Lead track and single Keep You, however, is as sexy as anything you’d hear all year, Natalie nailing Caribbean dub as though she were from Jamaica while Elliot’s sax provides the perfect accompaniment.  Released in March, I couldn’t get enough of this album, and early on, it was a contender for top spot during a period when it seemed 2013 was not destined to yield a lot of choices.  While I can’t deny CHVRCHES’ album is the stronger pop effort, Wild Belle’s album was very satisfying, and I look forward to the direction they choose for their next effort.

6.     F*ck Buttons – Slow Focus

You have to hand it to a band that uses profanity in their name, yet still garners critical acclaim from mainstream publications.  Andrew Hung and Benjamin Power have built their name producing complex, layered, hard electronica over the course of three strongly received full-lengths, the most recent this year’s Slow Focus, which incorporates elements of drone, shoegaze and ambient throughout their hook-laden rhythms.  You don’t get the sense that the music is experimental per se; there’s a lot happening on any given track, and it is meticulously assembled to allow the listener to take it all in incrementally.  Lead off track Brainfreeze starts with a pummeling beat that commands you to sit down and listen, and single The Red Wing, accompanied by its tantalizing video of a dancing girl obscured in psychedelic colour and lighting, marches at a hypnotic pace, building to a superb crescendo over almost seven and a half minutes.  “F. Buttons” won’t make you want to dance like early nineties techno, or take ecstacy and break glow-sticks all over yourself like the late-nineties/millennium electronica acts.  They are part of a movement that is elevating what electronic music can do, if not the leaders of it.

7.     Mazzy Star – Seasons Of Your Day

One of the year’s most anticipated releases, Mazzy Star’s Seasons Of Your Day did not disappoint.  While the foundation of the album was conceived around 1997, shortly after they began an almost fifteen year hiatus, Hope Sandoval and David Roback never fully abandoned it, slowly picking away over the years in between outside endeavours.  Last year, they released California as a teaser single, almost like a telegram assuring us that indeed an album was forthcoming.  The greatest question, much like in the case of fellow nineties alt-rockers My Bloody Valentine, was if they could sustain their vision having been hibernating for so long.  Mazzy Star seems almost more relevant now than they did in their heyday, a host of acts producing ‘dream pop’ or ‘sad core’ with an eye on their first three albums as learners’ guides to the genre.  Less inclined to use any electric guitars this time around, Seasons is a very pretty album, almost quaint, Hope’s vocals as velvety as ever, evoking listening in a dim room with maybe some candles and lots of plush cushions.  It feels as though this record was meant to follow 1996’s Among My Swan about three years later, Hope’s work with her group The Warm Intentions notwithstanding.  In recent years, the challenge for the crop of nineties alternative acts has been to prove their relevance in the current climate.  For that, Mazzy Star feels like the second coming for the Beach Houses, Lana Del Reys and Camera Obscuras of the world.

8.     Neko Case – The Worse Things Get, The Harder I Fight, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You

Another highly anticipated album this year was Neko Case’s Fiona Apple-like titled sixth solo release (including her first two, credited to Neko Case and Her Boyfriends).  Following up her commercially and critically successful 2009 Middle Cyclone album, with its image of Neko crouching on the hood of a car sword-drawn, was no small task, especially given that she is known for changing her style as frequently as David Bowie, depending on her current mood.  Having built her name in alternative country/folk, Middle Cyclone saw her exploring off the beaten path, taking more risks you would hear in her other day job, New Pornographers.  The Worse Things Get follows a more straight-forward direction, leaner on experimentalism and quite removed from her folkier roots.  The songs are intensely personal, unabashed in their delivery musically and vocally.  At age 43, Neko Case sounds just like she did in the nineties.  For as prolific an artist as she is, recording over the last twenty years with the Sadies, Cub, New Pornographers, and even releasing a country album with Carolyn Mark as The Corn Sisters alongside her considerable solo discography, she is as genuine as it gets. 

9.      Boards Of Canada – Tomorrow’s Harvest

From an artist like Neko Case who releases new music in some form frequently, to a group like Boards of Canada who have been eight years removed from only their third album in about fifteen years, 2013 saw a number of high-profile comebacks from veteran acts staking their claim in popular music’s current uncertain state.  This Scottish duo (no, they’re not Canadian) has been second only to the Avalanches in the realm of electronic music whose masters have held lengthy hiatuses.  Boards Of Canada make an electronic equivalent to post-rock, painting landscapes befitting of motion picture soundtracks.  They drew their name from the Canada Film Board’s atmospheric vignettes, and the music you find on their triumphant, breathtaking 2013 effort is both evocative and emotive.  Like most of their back catalogue, particularly their now-classic album Music Has The Right To Children, Tomorrow’s Harvest isn’t a singles’ album, the most noteworthy probably being Reach For The Dead in that regard, but is meant to create a meditation-worthy atmosphere without being too docile.  This album was a summer soundtrack for me, best enjoyed on the patio on a sunny day.  Playing it again with sub-zero temperatures and two feet of snow on the ground, I found this album spoke to me in a different way than it did a few months ago.  Few artists can knowingly create music like that.

10.   Queensryche – Queensryche

It is hard for classic metal bands to get any respect in the new millennium, especially when your classic metal band in question has gone through the messiest divorce between members since Pink Floyd in the mid-eighties.  While it might be wise to stylize this incarnation of the group as “Queensryche with Todd La Torre”, the fact is most fans have accepted them as the heirs apparent to the legal right to use the name as opposed to now-former front man Geoff Tate’s version, which boasts an impressive if illegitimate lineup touring as the real thing.  Historically lots of bands have changed singers, and with mixed results, but in most cases the fans support the group who most authentically carry the intangible legacy of their sound.  “Toddryche” has done this best, crafting an album that does the impressive task of recapturing their classic feel while progressing in a genre that is merciless toward any kind of change.  In January of 2014, the courts will decide who gets to keep the legal right to use the Queensryche name.  Honestly, had the Todd La Torre version lost the right, and they would likely continue as a band using their “Rising West” name, under which they have performed in the past, the album would have still sounded great while Tate’s version of Queensryche would have still released lighter-weight, middle of the road rock music for which Tate himself has received harsh criticism.  It’s not lost on anyone that La Torre sounds a lot like Tate, nor is it lost on anyone that Tate’s QR release this year, “Frequency Unknown” is abbreviated FU.  The fans know what they want, and the courts, hardly experts on classic metal, will likely follow their lead.

11.   Cowboy Junkies – The Kennedy Suite

Having just finished their career-defining four-album cycle The Nomad Series, continuing to tour heavily well into 2012, Cowboy Junkies managed to assemble a Canadian all-star cast to record one of the most remarkable concept albums in recent memory.  The Kennedy Suite is a song cycle composed around the many people involved in or witness to the assassination of John F. Kennedy, which happened fifty years ago this November.  I can tell you how the songs are masterfully written, their lyrics thought-provoking and provocative, and that the guests who sing and play them are all in their finest form.  What I think is actually more interesting and impressive is that it was a high school music teacher and life-long JFK enthusiast who conceived of the whole thing.  It was Cowboy Junkies who curated the recording and invited everyone from Sarah Harmer and Hawksley Workman to Skydiggers and the Good Family to examine the songs, decide who best fit for each, then bring them to life.  The album succeeds on so many levels; the lyrics are clearly historically researched, the music mirrors the characters’ feelings, and the album art is stunning, with a song-by-song narrative, photos and liner notes to enhance the experience.  All the participants sound great; noteworthy performances are the Junkies themselves on Disintegrating, a song from Jackie’s perspective that sounds reminiscent of Portishead (and the lone album track Margo Timmins actually sings), Bullet For You, sung by several people all from the perspectives of several would-be killers, and the crowning jewel Arlington performed by Jason Collett.  I was dismayed to find this album difficult to track down.  Having so much great can-con talent, and a lengthy segment on CBC’s The National about it, I’m sad to see major retailers not stocking or promoting it.  This is a must have, and had I been able to track it down sooner, would likely have ranked it higher.

12.   Cult Of Luna – Vertikal

Perhaps Sweden’s Cult Of Luna are mislabeled as a post-metal band, given that they lean closer to a hybrid of death metal and doom, creating emotionally heart-rending opuses, most frequently at mid-tempo to slow dirges.  Having most closely resembling genre mates ISIS and Callisto, they have developed a rabid fan following, and most notably with 2006’s Somewhere Along The Highway tapped into the North American market.  Vertikal most closely resembles that album, running for almost 70 minutes through ten-minute-plus epics, delving deep into the listener’s psyche, commanding you to face your inner-most fears.  The album is not entirely full of despair though; in its quitter moments, and there are a few of them, you almost get the sense that things will maybe be okay, even if the process is a painful one.  In September, they released three additional tracks from the Vertikal  sessions and released them as an accompanying EP entitled Vertikal II.  Rather than make you buy the ‘special edition’, the band opted to make these tracks available at a reasonable price, as a glimpse into the recording and thought process while they were recording possibly their finest album to date.  On a side note, someone recorded the entire Somewhere Along The Highway album on the piano, then posted it to YouTube.  If you’ve ever wanted evidence that a post-metal band has creative merit, look it up.  Cult Of Luna fans have known this for a while now.

13.   Austra – Olympia

There has been no shortage of quality electro-pop coming out of Canada in recent years (Purity Ring, Grimes to name a few), and you can safely add Austra to that list. Known for their work ethic and enticing live performances, they were nominees for the Polaris prize for  their debut album, 2011’s Feel It Break, the year Arcade Fire won for The Suburbs.  Katie Stelmanis is the band’s secret weapon though; her shrill voice trembles and shakes as she sustains notes, lending to a signature sound that sets Austra apart from their peers, an ace up their sleeve to be sure.  The Toronto trio really impressed me this time around; Olympia is a bold follow-up, building off  their earlier efforts and expanding their minimalist ideas with surprising depth.  There are plenty of potential singles throughout, but I was immediately drawn in from opening track What We Done, which over five minutes begins with what feels like a track you might hear from the earlier album, before it careens into a full-fledged dance track.  While it is easy to identify similar bands, Austra have done well to create their own niche. 

14.   Grouper – The Man Who Died In His Boat

This album was another earlier in the year contender for the top ten.  I’ve only just begun to discover some of Liz Harris’ earlier work as Grouper, the Oregon based experimental artist who gained widespread acclaim for her 2008 masterpiece Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill.  Her music is docile, moody, and haunting, her voice muted as though she recorded through a number of filters and possibly several feet away from the microphone.  Her songs are self-contained stories, though you would be hard pressed to hear her enunciate words clearly due to her style and production, but it hardly matters.  Like Boards Of Canada, you can draw a lot from her work depending on when you listen to it.  While Tomorrow’s Harvest was a great summer listen, The Man Who Died In His Boat fit last February just fine, providing a warm atmosphere when the weather was at its worst.  It is the only album in my top twenty in which I don’t identify any specific high or low spots.  While not for everyone, and certainly not your soundtrack for going out clubbing, Grouper’s music has its own charm, and if you’re looking for something to provide a sonic embrace, you could definitely do worse.

15.  Deafheaven – Sunbather

In recent years, I can think of only a handful of what can be described as being black metal bands garnering as much acclaim as Deafheaven did this year with their sophomore album, Sunbather.  Like those bands, being Wolves In The Throne Room and Liturgy, Deafheaven have earned it, and only by bending the genre with so checkered a past in exciting, new directions, equally gaining and alienating fans along the way.  Black metal has long been a DIY genre, purists claiming that lo-fi noise and corpse paint are not only favorable but essential for any authentic black metal band to be even noticed.  Like punk rock before it (black metal’s earliest modern ancestor), the genre had no choice but to evolve as the bands expanded their interests and abilities, eventually drawing in influences from various styles.  Deafheaven draws most of its influence from early-nineties shoegaze and post-millenial post rock soundscapes while keeping the harsh, shrieking vocal delivery of their black metal roots.  Not settling for mediocrity, Deafheaven changed the game significantly, from the album and song titles to the minimalist pink cover art to the contents within.  The songs are mostly epic pieces, running well beyond ten minutes, hitting the pinnacle with album-closer The Pecan Tree, maybe the most stunning long song released this year.  I’ll admit that I only gave it a spin when I started hearing the critical buzz, but I’m glad I caught it in time for my own list, since I missed Wolves In The Throne Room’s Celestial Lineage (to which I think Sunbather resembles the most) and Liturgy’s Aesthethica in time for their respective year-end tallies. 

16.   Pelican – Forever Becoming

Chicago’s other post-metal sons, Pelican, have followed a more turbulent path than their brethren Russian Circles.  First past the post with s run of modern classics, starting with the self-titled EP, and back to back LPs Australasia and my personal favourite The Fire In Our Throats Will Beckon The Thaw (which made my top three in 2005), Pelican recorded some of the most striking instrumental tracks in recent memory, rightfully being labeled as pioneers of the post-metal genres along with ISIS, Mogwai and Godspeed You! Black Emperor.  The follow up, 2007’s City Of Echoes, and their first full-length on Southern Lord Records, 2009’s What We All Come To Need (which I really enjoyed), found the band being dragged back down to earth, with critics singling out their drummer’s questionable skills and a lack of focus in their songwriting as signs of cracks in the armour.  Still, they have persisted in their craft and returned four years later with a bold statement.  The songs are still heavy, the musicianship, now excluding founding member Laurent Debec showing no signs of weakness.  They released Deny The Absolute as a promotional track, and it was a strong statement:  we’re dedicated and not messing around.  The songs are similar in length to their last few albums, but they seem tighter and more focused this time around.  Pelican continue to claim mastery of a genre that has had its share of growing pains, and as a trio, they are arguably stronger than ever.

17.   Vampire Weekend – Modern Vampires Of The City

I was really happy to see Vampire Weekend succeed so well with their third album this year, particularly since it is trendy for critics and indie music snobs to distance themselves from critical darlings three and four albums into their careers.  Reviewers can equally build up and destroy bands with their words, and I feared the worst for Vampire Weekend, more so when lead single Diane Young dropped, so stylistically different from the material they built their reputation upon with their first two albums.  I really enjoyed the Buddy Holly-esque bop to that song, but what impressed me about Modern Vampires Of The City is the depth of maturity both musically and lyrically.  You can find this album high up most year-end lists, most notably ranking #1 on both Rolling Stone and Pitchfork’s year-end chart, and there is plenty of evidence to support those claims.  Album tracks Hannah Hunt  and Don’t Lie have received the most buzz from critics, while I prefer the single Step for it’s quiet groove.  I think this record is stronger than Contra, but it isn’t without its flaws, minor as they are.  Ya Hey has the same world beat flavor they’ve done before, but it just falls flat.  Finger Back was kind of forgettable as well.  Otherwise, it is a quality album, but not quite strong enough to make my higher spots.  At some point, radio should give them their just due, because they have earned it, and much quicker than many of their contemporaries.

18.   Flaming Lips – The Terror

The Flaming Lips have tried really hard to create music in the most unconventional means for the better part of their thirty-year career, but the last few years they’ve completely lost their marbles.  Since 2009’s Embryonic, they’ve a) covered Dark Side Of The Moon, and somehow managed to incorporate Henry Rollins and Peaches in the process; b) released split EPs with Neon Indian and Prefuse 73, to mixed results; c) released a compilation of duets with everyone from Yoko Ono to Kesha, again with mixed results; d) released a continuous 6-hour long song; e) released a continuous 24-hour long song; f) released music on flash drives encased in various flavours of gummy candy-shaped skulls and fetuses, again with mixed results.  At some point, fans just want a proper album, and while they’ve been arguably experiencing a high creative peek, they seem to be releasing things just because they can.  Substance still matters, and thankfully The Terror delivered.  Still abstract by deed like Embryonic was, this album is more focused, maintaining a somber, cold reality throughout.  Wayne Coyne’s vocals are generally in his higher register and are usually layered beneath the electronic programming.  Unlike Embryonic’s songs, which were more self-contained, The Terror is a front-to-back listen, with Be Free… Away and the 12 minute centerpiece You Lust really shining through.  I was a little disappointed that bonus tracks saw release in some territories and not others, and the album itself wasn’t widely carried either.  As much as I enjoyed this album, I found that emotionally it was an intense experience that required a certain mindset.  Still, it is well-executed, and a worthy addition to their already bizarre discography.

19.  David Bowie – The Next Day

While Davide Bowie hasn’t released in album in almost a decade, the last few he recorded before this lengthy hiatus didn’t much interest me, and felt somewhat tired.  No surprise, given his dedication to his craft and diversity throughout his three-decades-plus career.  He most recently impressed me with his Earthling album in the nineties, when he had fully embraced electronic and industrial music, collaborating even with Trent Reznor before it became trendy to do so.  The Next Day, whose front cover is modified from 1977’s masterwork Heroes, is the sound of David Bowie at this stage in his life more inspired than he has in almost fifteen years.  His vocals fit his songs better, and he is ever interested in pushing the boundaries, as best evidenced by the startling title-track’s Catholic-infuriating video.  The quiet moments (Where Are We Now, The Stars) are beautiful, and show Bowie the class-act still able to bring down the house.  I had not expected to rank a Bowie album so highly so late in his career, but here it is, leaving me hopeful that he can even continue to record at such a high callibre.

 

Honourable Mentions:

The following is a list of the many albums released this year that were also impressive and worth checking out.  Some of these don’t qualify for my list, being compilations, EPs, or live releases, but they’re still pretty dandy.  Some of these didn’t make my top twenty just because I didn’t give them enough time, and some reached my attention a bit late for proper consideration.  Who knows, maybe in a few months, some of them would have been top ten material!  Regardless, you would be well advised to check them out if you find the time.

Jimi Hendrix – People, Hell and Angels

Elvis Costello and The Roots – Wise Up Ghost

Atoms For Peace – AMOK

Savages – Silence Yourself

Palms – Palms

Sting – The Last Ship

Monster Magnet – Last Patrol

Elton John – The Diving Board

Pearl Jam – Lightning Bolt

British Sea Power – Machineries Of Joy

Basia Bulat – Tall Tall Shadow

Waxahatchee – Cerulian Salt

Man Man – On Oni Pond

Midlake – Antiphon

Yuck – Glow and Behold

Voivod – Target Earth

Intronaut – Habitual Levitations

Coheed and Cambria – The Afterman:  Descent

Iron and Wine – Ghost On Ghost

Sigur Ros – Kveikur

Dillinger Escape Plan – One Of Us Is The Killer

Dream Theatre – Dream Theatre

Death Angel – The Dream Calls For Blood

Soulfly – Savages

Foxygen – We Are The 21^st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic

Stryper – No More Hell To Pay

Best Coast – Fade Away EP

Flaming Lips – Peace Sword EP

Cult Of Luna – Vertikal II EP

Neil Young – Live At The Cellar Door

Lorde – Pure Heroine

Sky Ferreira – Night Time, My Time

Charli XCX – True Romance

Nine Inch Nails – Hesitation Marks

Deerhunter – Monomania

Grails – Black Tar Prophecies Vol. 4-6

Eluvium – Nightmare Ending

Queens of the Stone Age - …Like Clockwork

Tim Hecker – Virgins

Oneohtrix Point Never – R Plus Seven

Jon Epworth – Shop Sounds

Rebekah Higgs – Sha La La EP

My Bloody Valentine – mbv

Chelsea Wolfe – Pain Is Beauty

 

Disappointments :

Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Mosquito:  A band I thought I could rely on, they came back with an underwhelming effort, bogged down by the terrible lead single Sacrilege.  They seem a long way from Maps  or Gold Lion these days.

Megadeth – Super Collider:  Bay far the worst album they have ever released under the Megadeth name, and yes, I’m including Risk in that tally.  Call their comeback officially over.

Sleigh Bells – Bitter Rivals:  The songwriting is infantile and directionless, and the charm of their unique sound seems to be wearing off quickly. 

Justin Timberlake – The 20/20 Experience (both of them):  The man who may once have been the final hope for pop music came back after seven years only to release… this?!  If I want to listen to disco/funk, I’ll listen to George Clinton.  This album felt lazy.

Beck – Song Reader:  While this would probably be a decent album, I’d rather hear Beck actually record it, rather than miscellaneous unknowns on YouTube.  Seriously, an album released only in sheet music form?  Thankfully, a proper studio album is due this spring.

 

Songs of the Year:

1.      Wild Belle – Keep You

2.      Alice In Chains – The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here

3.      CHVRCHES – We Sink

4.      Daft Punk & Panda Bear – Doin’ It Right

5.      The National – Demons

6.      Jason Collett – Arlington

7.      Vampire Weekend – Step

8.      The National – Fireproof

9.      Austra – What We Done

10.   F*ck Buttons – The Red Wing

 

“Hollaback Girl” Award for Worst Song of the Year:

Named in honour of Gwen Stefani’s mind-numbing track, this prestigious award is handed out annually to the worst song that was actually popular. 

Kanye West – Bound 2

There were plenty of bad songs this year, but none came close to this inexplicable work of utter nonsense.  For a song to be labeled a true ‘Hollaback’, it has to be completely awful in every aspect, and Kanye’s Bound 2 is so bad, it may have actually invented new ways to suck.  Kanye West has long been lauded as a master of lyrcis and flow; how on earth does this song demonstrate anything remotely close to skill in its lyrics or its delivery?  I can’t even say the melody is bad, because there is no melody to speak of.  It sounds like a handful of unrelated sound clips cut and pasted together by an art student in his bedroom.  And then there’s the video, which of course has to have him exploiting his socialite wife topless on a motorcycle in front of an obvious green screen.  Everything about this song, which was the album closer on an album that almost equally stunk, somehow was critically acclaimed and topped several major year-end lists.  Honestly, I’m tired of this asshole and the cult of personality the media has built around him.  He is vastly overrated, and someone needs to holler out that the emperor is not wearing any clothes.

 

 

And now, because neither Steven Tyler nor Aerosmith released anything this year…

 

An open letter to Sinead O’Connor:

 

Dear Sinead,

 

Long have I followed your career, and likewise defended your bold courage to anyone who is willing to listen.  I grew up with your successful early albums, and was moved by your voice, not to mention your single tear in the Nothing Compares 2U video.  I understood why you ripped up the Pope’s picture on SNL.  I found that statement to be a wonderful platform to protest the apathy of the Vatican toward sexual abuses in the church.  You were fearless when you quite literally sacrificed your career in the defence of those who could not defend themselves.  You taught me that we all have a social responsibility to help others first, and for that I hold you in the highest esteem. 

As a young artist, you rebelled against the record industry by shaving your head and wearing drab clothes, because you understood that popular culture wants women to look and behave a certain way.  You wrote provocative songs about politics, war, love, loss, abuse, and redemption.  You refused to to allow the American national anthem to be played before a show because you felt that nationalism breeds hatred and war, and you were right.  As years went by, you compiled a remarkable discography, appeared on dozens of other artists’ songs, and continued to tour around the world, speaking out against social injustice.  As the sex abuses were brought into the public, rather than appreciate the message you tried to deliver twenty years ago, the world continued to view you as a pariah, a provocateur, and a trouble maker. 

In recent years, you have been public about your personal struggles with mental illness and depression.  You reached out to Miley Cyrus, after watching her transform rapidly into a confused, irrational sex symbol for a troubled generation in dire need of a role model.  Sadly, this was a mistake.  I read your open letter.  You made no insults, only offering advice in regards to how industry bosses abuse their young female talent.  You cautioned her to be wary of older men advising her to bare herself, simulate sexual acts, and objectify herself in the name of her art.  You know as well as anyone that her handlers want a hit album, and they will have her do just about anything to produce a bottom line.  Miley even admitted that she admired you, and why not?  You are a fine role model for young women who wish to portray themselves as strong, independent, and mature.

The problem is, you can’t fix what doesn’t want to be fixed.  Rather than listen to wise counsel, Miley mockingly ripped you apart, making fun of your recent struggles with mental illness, and even lashing out about Amanda Bynes, a troubled young actress who did not deserve to be humiliated any further.  Miley acted no better than the ignorant sheep who burned piles of your albums in the pack mentality of school-yard bullies. 

After all the shocking images, videos, and interviews, Miley Cyrus, that second generation spoiled brat of questionable talent and moral fibre was actually applauded for her responses to your letters.  What you don’t understand, Sinead, is that the world in which we currently live, the Miley’s are the heroes.  We live in a world where tabloid news is more important than actual news.  Kids know who Paul Walker was, but not Nelson Mandela.  Teenage boys think teenage girls have to act like the girls in porn.  Girls think they have to lower themselves to that standard in order to impress the boys.  The ‘blurred lines’ are a joke.  Pop culture fully endorses these kinds of behaviours, and Miley Cyrus has developed a distorted view of what makes a young woman strong.  Not everyone can do the things you have done; not every girl would cut her hair or stand up to bullies like you did, but she could choose role models with more substance.  We all knew that kid in class who was popular despite the fact they picked on others.  Miley is playing that part.

It was naïve to think that you could make a difference trying to use your experience and understanding to help her understand the damage she has done.  If only you could have heard the morning radio show announcers laughing at you; it made me angry to hear them try to actually defend Miley’s antics as strength.  All I see is another naïve little girl doing the ‘twerk’ dance for perverted old men in suits waiting to get paid while she swings naked on wrecking balls and licking hammers.  She looks desperate.  Desperation is not a sign of strength.  But, like I said, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.  Take heart in the generation of young women -- real women with intestinal fortitude and intelligence, who have grown up with your inspiration.  It is these people who will actually make a difference in the world, not some rich, snot-nosed kid who feels she has to flip off the establishment and shake her ass in Robin Thicke’s crotch.  Write music, play for the crowds that want to hear you, and if you must, counsel Amanda Bynes, who most certainly would be more receptive to a helping hand than a foam finger.

Sincerely,

Brandon

 

That’s the way I saw the world of music this year.  I hope you found something to hold close in 2013, and that the new year brings you happiness, prosperity, and less Kanye West, because God (the real one, not Kanye) knows we could use a break from that ignoramus.  Cheers!

*

 

When I initially started writing The Hole In The Fence, I had envisioned music writing being woven in with essays and fiction, but early on I felt that the blog was best served to follow one style.  I usually post my year-end music wrap-up in a Facebook note, but for whatever reason, I had trouble copying and pasting my word document into the note window.  After timing out four times, I gave up and posted here so I could then forward it to Facebook, where most of my friends and family can acces it easily.  However, my letter to Sinead is sort of an essay, and not entirely out of place in The Fence as it were.  So, if you're reading this and you're not accustomed to seeing this side of my writing, I hope you enjoyed it.  If you didn't, rest assured that The Fence will return to its regularly scheduled observational style in the new year.