October 8, 2003 Mogw @ the Commodore Ballroom ~ " * ft | Fa , i. a 3 Justin Ray Culture Critic Four axe-wielding Scotsmen gaze intently at their shoes, playing the most preten- tious and toenail-shattering art rock there is. Laconic frontman Stuart Braithwaite bounces from toe to toe, deftly blending one song into another. The crowd rocks back and forth—jaws numbly hanging open, eyes glazed and droopy—until the occasional “thank you” prompts them to scream their lungs out. Ah, we're not being hypnotized after all. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Even before the show begins, the Commodore is abuzz with hipsters and music nerds alike, sporting ironic meshback hats or Amazon.com shirts. For some, Mogwai is just another buzz band they heard about from the Georgia Straight. For others, they are the Einsteins of modern ambient rock, bringing about a rock apocalypse with four guitars, a drum kit, and some elaborate equations. Geniuses, perhaps, but they are approachable and modest nonetheless. Mogwai has been called one of the best live bands ever, and for good reason. Even without an opening band, their live show is stunning. But there are no lyrics, so how does one approach a concert review when the songs are unrecognizable to the non-fanatic? Preferably with earplugs. Put simply, Mogwai is the loudest band I've ever heard. Also, the quietest. There is very little ground. Here, quiet and loud complement each other nicely, one emphatically contrasting the other. Just as your ears recover from one blast, you're blasted again. And again. And just when you think three overdriven guitars are enough, Mogwai starts sampling riffs and playing over them, then resampling them and looping those. Somehow, the layers work together like blocks in a Jenga tower. They get deeper and more intense, threatening to collapse. The feeling is tense, brooding, and strangely reassuring. Eventually, the encore performance builds to a bone-shaking climax, and all five members of Mogwai walk off the stage, leaning their instruments up against their amplifiers, completing the perpetual loop of noise. Is there more to come? No. In a bit of an anti-climax, two roadies stroll out and casually turn off the amps. After a brief pause, canned Euro-pop fills the air. The performance was beautiful, loud, and abstract. I cannot help but wonder if it was all just a dream. Def Leppard Larisa Saunders OP Contributor If you were anywhere near the Pacific Coliseum last Tuesday night you may have heard the sound of my adoles- cent fantasies whizzing back through the atmosphere from some distant place in time, bursting into flames, and slam- ming into my brain in a horrific crushing halt. When I was 12, I was the consummate Def Leppard fan. 1 was too young to be one of the big-haired, big- breasted groupies always well represented in the videos, but I was prime Tiger Beat material. The tape remnants of Michael Jackson _ posters younger adolescent fantasy, yellowing and ragged, were covered by the glossy new Def Leppard spreads. I knew all the sordid tales; empathized about all the setbacks and personal tragedies, and had all their albums. Err, records. Yup, some of the early stuff was only to be found on vinyl, and despite the amused looks of the record store clerks—if it was Def Leppard, I had to have it. It would seem that I went to see Def Leppard approxi- mately 15 years too late. Oh, the big-haired, big-breasted groupies were there. And they sure are troupers, those girls. While most of us sat in our seats and drank our beer, they dutifully reapplied their lip-gloss and looked serious about all things Def Leppard. Many of them wore the T-shirt. Myself, after having read the price tag, a whopping $50 for a British flag tank top, decided, yes I’ve been here, but no, I really don’t need the T-shirt to prove it. Yikes. My friend Kim is a real trouper in her own right. She’s a few years too young to remember the real heydays of Def Leppard; the days of concerts in the round and the rumours of the nasty behaviour beneath the stage during guitar solos from Culture ¢ theother press © and the like, but she’s old enough and wise enough to spot the beer line up and knows when it'll come in handy. “Here you go,” she said handing me two plastic cups, “We're gonna need these.” Classy drinks for a classy band. During “Pour Some Sugar on Me” (a Def Leppard classic) Joe Elliot gave us a little one-two-three mock jerk-off. Like I said— classy. | wonder if he just came up with that on the spot—seemed so off-the- cuff. Of course, I feel I need to mention the brevity of the action, because between punc- tuating the songs with heavy air-fist punching and mike- stand twirls, there really wasn’t a whole lot of time for improvisa- tion. There were the classic maneuvers seen in all Def Leppard videos: the windmill- guitar strums, the back-to-the-crowd-because-I’m-rockin’- to-the-funky-drum-beat postures, and even the standard sharing of one mike between lead singer and guitarist move. All executed like old pros...like old, old pros. They played all the old classics when it became evident that no one really knew any of the new stuff. Apparently they have a new album. But alas, despite all the best inten- tions and all those shorn hair-band locks, gone are the days of sold-out stadium shows. Def Leppard didn’t even sell out the Pacific Coliseum. If it weren’t for the presence of Todd Bertuzzi I would have lost all credibility with Kim. I guess the bottom line is this, sometimes fantasies are best left undiscovered...or at least in their proper place. Nothing spells disappointment like seeing your once- favourite rock band die at the hilt of their own sword. “It’s better to burn out...than fade away,” as the lyric goes. And boys, I couldn't agree more. Molson Canadian House Party Ericka Meyer OP Contributor Molson Canadian House Party, what can I say? That’s what it was, one big party. You had to win to get in, or work for certain companies that receive these kinds of perks. The crowd was a happy bunch who was there only to party. It was apparent there were not many die-hard “fans” of the bands, as everyone was milling about the crowd talking to every one else. There was a concentration right up front though, and yes, of course that’s where I was. At least for some of it, but when I got kicked in the head I started hav- ing residual flashbacks of my poor cauliflower ears from the previous Monday at White Stripes, so once again I had to give the security guard a tap and do some surfing out of there. Maybe I’m just getting old, I don’t know. The show was held at the Agriplex in Cloverdale. No, not a house, but an open stadium, complete with bleachers, beer gardens, stage, and a big, sandy mosh pit right in front. The opening act was Gob, who surprised me and put on a high-energy, rockin show. The highlights being, “Oh Ellen” and “Give up the Grudge.” They had more stage presence than I thought they would, being a bubble-gum- mish band. The next act was Swollen Members. They were the Mac- daddy of the three bands that night. A unique sound that didn’t quite fit with the other two bands. A little heavier, a little slower, more bass—you know more serious moshing music. They ended their show with their hit, “Lady Venom.” Ml i | | um 4 Back to bubble-gummish now, Sum 41 headlined the show. I don’t really have much to say about Sum 41. They were exactly what I expected. It’s just too bad it wasn’t an all-ages show, as Sum 41 is more suited to ten-to-14 year olds. They came, they played, and they left. (As I am writ- ing this now, I have a vision of a crowd of preteens, led by my eldest son, taking me down mob fashion.) Ah well, I guess soon my boys will be joining me in the mosh pit. I’m not sure about their taste though, as my old- est said to me the other day, “Mommy, I like most of your music, Marilyn Manson is getting a little old though.” Kids these days, what do they know! http://www-otherpress.ca e Page 15 =a