Back In Red

Having finished my courses, I returned to work this week. I didn't get much vacation, and with the office in a bit of financial chaos, I decided to head to the Roy Thomson Hall patio for an early evening concert. This Tuesday, it was local singer/songwriter Lydia Persaud. For the first set, she played from her debut LP with soulful songs including Well Wasted and Stay Down. The combination of Persaud's voice, which can be both low and sultry, and light and clear, and the funky groove got the curious crowd engaged. She sealed the deal with an emotional solo turn on With You. The set ended with a fun cover of Ann Peeble's I Can't Stand The Rain.

I should have stayed for the second set instead of braving rush-hour transit to get to a Yoga class. Not only did I missed the class, but the delays killed the pleasant mood I had after the show.

Ave Maria

On Wednesday, I headed to The Velvet Underground for L.A. outfit The Marías. With all-day classes, I was too tired to come early for the opener Paul Cherry. I arrived to a packed house but I was able to sneak to the side and got a reasonable good view of the stage. At every concert lately, I am reminded how old I am now when looking at the young crowd.

I didn't know what to expect from the band; I attended on the strength of their 90s emo cover of Baby One More Time that came across my Youtube feed. I was pleasantly surprised by the Lana Del Rey (I know I've been using that reference lately) meets chill 70s soul. It never fails to surprise me how inclusive a crowd becomes compared to the usual show when there is a person of color front and centre. With the eponymous latinx singer commanding the stage, the Velvet tonight reflected the real ethnic diversity of Toronto. If she brought the quiet intensity, co-founder and drummer Josh Conway was all laid-back fun, even leading the crowd in a dance routine.

Near the end, I was once again reminded of my age when I had a small back spasm from dancing, and I was just making small movements. Hmm, no matter how much fun tonight has been, maybe sitting quietly in a lawn chair at an outdoor show is more my speed now.

Summertime Sadness

Perhaps the intensity of my courses has me feeling a bit overwhelmed. Saturday morning, I got a bit verklempt listening to Eugene and Maurice (The Burning Hell) and reading about the death of Nigel the gannet. Then while having lunch at Portuguese steak-house Porta Nova, I asked after a few regular servers that I haven't seen in a while including today. It turned out that it was simply due to the vagaries of shift scheduling. But one of them was in fact doing her last shift that night and returning to Portugal. Her work visa has expired and she missed her family back home. The timing of it got me feeling melancholic again.

So I was in the perfect mood for the dreamy indie rock of Soccer Mommy at The Opera House. A packed house cheered for opener Kevin Krauter whose proud parents came from Indiana for the show. His laconic voice moseyed over songs that exuded a stoner chill vibe. A couple of new numbers had a bit more oomph. A cover of Weezer's Island In The Sun ended his set on a sing-along. Given the age of the crowd, this was unironically Dad Rock territory.

It looks like Toronto has embraced Soccer Mommy like Japanese Breakfast. For both performers, Toronto was their biggest audience yet. For the face of bedroom pop (her album landed on several best of the year lists), Sophie Allison led her band to a surprisingly rocking start. It was a richer, fuller sound tonight than her last visit. Combined with her delicate voice, this gave a Lana del Rey vibe to songs like Blossom (Wasting All My Time). Yet it was just her and her guitar halfway through the set on Allison, Still Clean, and Bruce Springsteen's Fire that was the highlight. Soccer Mommy will likely continue to reach a bigger fan-base with a new album in the works.

Shining Bright

On Friday, I came at the tail end of Devin Cuddy's set at Indie Friday at Yonge-Dundas Square. The emcee then spent the next 20 minutes schmoozing with the crowd to kill some time while they set up for the headliner. What an exhausting job, but I guess some people love it.

The set-up this year was much better. There was a professional camera-man filming the stage for projection on the big screen. More importantly, the sound system was big enough to fill the space and professionally mixed and balanced.

I don't want to be like some journalists who throw in extraneous details about a female performer's appearance. But Kandle is a gorgeous singer/guitarist especially for her close-ups on a 50-foot screen. And good looks opens doors in all circumstances: few artists in mainstream pop are physically unattractive. So you might think this could be leveraged to propel her to pop stardom.

But her music is a tough sell. Almost every song was a slow, bluesy pop-rock number. For her fans, this indie authenticity was the draw. But for the first-time listener or curious passerby, there was no feel-good song to tap your toes and maybe dance a little. So despite Kandle's exhortation, no mosh-pit or party spontaneously appeared. In fact, the crowd kept thinning out from the square; by the end of her set, only a scattering of people remained.

Not So Plain

I was still a bit frazzled from my self-improvement classes. And with them starting again on Monday, I didn't really feel like heading out Sunday night. But I mustered enough energy to head to The Drake Underground for two touring artists.

French Vanilla from L.A. was a 4-piece band playing a catchy brand of sarcastic pop-punk with the jittery alto sax being a great accompaniment. It was as if the B-52s was reincarnated as a Daria-esque singer and a caffeinated sax player. Their S.O.S. cover was even more bonkers than The Burning Hell's from last week. I overheard some hipsters snidely commenting about French Vanilla's ridiculousness. But given the respectable line that formed at the merch table afterwards, some people tonight obviously enjoyed that insouciance.

Headliner Stef Chura was surprised that nobody tonight was at her last show in Toronto given that both nights had a good-sized crowd. I could understand why. I saw her last playing in a 3-set show at The Horseshoe with other "bedroom pop" musicians. Of them, Soccer Mommy is blowing up. But I don't see the same thing happening with Stef Chura. She sings in a nasally tone with sharp bark. And the music was a sort of noisy, layered, heavy-than-expected garage pop. You either love this or you hated it, there isn't any "I liked a few songs" middle ground.

Stay Angry Or Kill Them With Laughter

On Saturday, I was at The Tarragon Theatre for the Fringe Festival. I saw two shows by filipinx performers. The first was a solo outing called Amanda vs the Internet Trolls (Tales of a SJW). From her beginnings as an Youtube uploader who still drew nasty comments for her feminist content despite having an obscure channel, Amanda detailed her family history including numerous encounters with racist attitudes both personally and professionally. Sometimes funny, sometimes strident, the show was a bit scattered, but there were some good shots. I wonder if any Caucasian audience member will take to heart her admonition that the first, smallest step to dismantling white supremacy is for white people to feel uncomfortable in any situation where there are only white people: a party, meeting, music show, and so on.

The second show was lighter in tone. It was a series of sketches presented by the Tita Collective about life in the filipinx community. One running gag is that they sometimes explain a term (a tita is an aunt - "now you know"). So now you might empathize with how someone from a different background might feel about some opaque North American sitcom detail that is simply assumed to be obvious to everyone. But you don't need much inside knowledge to laugh at gossipy church ladies, a girl of colour being of two minds about dating a white boy, or an ambitious/pushy friend trying to sell you MLM schemes. There were some jabs at the filipinx's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" attitude toward queer folks. Throughout the show, there were plenty of singing since these performers were also playing a fictional girl group called Tita Girls modeled after the Spice Girls. I couldn't help but contrast these "aunties", who despite immigrant travails, were surrounded by community versus Amanda's family, 3 generations who seemed to have lived without any local filipinx connections. Prejudice may be a little easier to bear if you have people who sympathize.

Wherever You Go

I decided to have a staycation in Toronto. But instead of lazing around, I am taking a self-improvement class of sorts. With so much material to absorb, I've been feeling totally beat at the end of the day. But Thursday night, I ventured out to The Burdock for some music to clear my brain.

Opener Carew had a nice indie pop sound with interesting lyricism. I didn't love the looping violin at the beginning of some songs. Even without the mistakes, often the loops weren't quite in sync as they were laid down which became more apparent as the playing progressed, they didn't add much to the song. Maybe this string ornamentation sounded better on the EP.

The Burning Hell seem to tour constantly in North America, UK, and Europe. I wouldn't be surprised if they have done close to 50+ shows annually for the last several years. So it was no surprise that they were tight and in the groove on stage. They played several new songs and some quite oldies, all of which featured Mathias Korn's brainy lyrics. There was a melancholic feel to some numbers including an ode to Nigel The Gannet and a beautiful love song about Maurice Sendak and Eugene Glynn featuring Ariel Sharrat on lead vocals. But with bass clarinet solos (Sharrat), bouzouki and guitar virtuosity (Darren Browne), no Burning Hell show is really a downer. So for the encore, Browne took the mic and they gave us a shaggy but feel-good cover of ABBA's S.O.S.