Poll closed: "What is your favourite album of the 1990s by a Canadian artist?"

Sloan's milestone album Twice Removed won a narrow victory over Our Lady Peace's first album, Naveed, for the most cherished 1990s Canadian recording. I have to say I was surprised that Fully Completely only received one vote. Further, I would love to know what album I left out as someone voted for the option that I had "outrageously missed the obvious #1".  My apologies for missing your favourite. I don't want to know because I am offended (I put that option there for a reason), I just really want to know!  You can add a comment to one of the blog posts, even anonymously, and let me know what album I overlooked.

Love letter to Halifax

Exactly 17 years ago (around the last time the Toronto Maple Leafs started their hockey season four and oh), the following could be found in the pages of Maclean's magazine: 

"At the Double Deuce Roadhouse, a half- minute motorcycle ride from the Halifax waterfront, the patrons work hard to look as though style is the last thing on their minds. This is, after all, the pinnacle of cool in a city that is suddenly being called one of the coolest on the continent.

Is this the workaday provincial capital, university town and naval port at the heart of the depressed Maritimes? Not according to a recent issue of Harper's Bazaar, the New York City-based fashion monthly, which placed Halifax firmly among a new group of alternative North American hot spots, including Seattle, Wash., Austin, Texas, and Chapel Hill, N.C. In recent months, the British music magazine Melody Maker and the American entertainment weekly Billboard have raved about Halifax and its exploding music scene."

Suddenly billed as the "Next Seattle" by New York and L.A. record execs after the release of Sloan's grunge hit "Underwhelmed", Halifax was decidedly overwhelmed in the early 1990s by the wave of international attention it was garnering for its new-found cultural and musical renaissance. Grunge music had taken North America by storm, and the alternative rock crafted in the basements of that wintry Maritime province was helping satiate the appetite of the masses. To help adults make left and right of this 'next big thing', the CBC produced what are now comically dated news pieces like this one:


"Moms and dads, do you know where your children are? They might be here. It might look like a brawl, but it's called Slam-dancing, and they're doing it to the sounds of Sloan."

Sloan's place at the apex of this movement was not undeserved, given that in a period of two years they had gone from their parents' basements to being signed by David Geffen Records with a North America-wide release for their first full-length record, Smeared. However, while the world looked on in search of the next Nirvana, it is wholly inaccurate to describe the Halifax of the early-90s as Seattle Lite. In reality, the mix of bands that came out of Halifax during this period were playing a wide range of "alternative" music: the hook-heavy garage pop of girl group Jale; the Sonic Youth-like stylings of Eric's Trip; the 70s jangle rock of the Superfriendz, and; the low-fi pop of girl band Plumtree (whose song "Scott Pilgrim" is the inspiration behind comic novel and movie Scott Pilgrim vs. the World).

The story of Sloan is illustrative of the 'mistaken identity' under which Halifax suffered during this period.  When Sloan furnished its Beatles-esque second LP, Twice Removed, to the execs at David Geffen it was met with reticence and disdain as the Brass wanted Sloan to produce more of the grunge sound that had catapulted them to States-side success. But Sloan simply wasn't the next Nirvana, no matter how much David Geffen wanted them to be just that.  While the label was bound by contract to put the record out, it was not well promoted.  Sloan front-man Chris Murphy tells a story about arguing with the band's A&R representation during this time, where he was told that Sloan would get the attention they deserved as soon as another newly-signed band's record had been released. That other band was Weezer, and Murphy says he returned home and flicked on MuchMusic to see an amazing video for this song called "Buddy Holly", and knew instantly that Sloan had no future on the label.  After nearly breaking up, Sloan was forced to leave the city they called home for Toronto so they could start their own label, Murderecords, on which they could release their next album.

As the most successful band to emerge from that burgeoning Halifax music scene, Sloan never again gained a substantial foothold in the U.S. market. But their story is one of many Canadian artists whose particular brand of entertainment is distinctly Canadian, and never ascends to the universality compulsory for popular embrace in the United States.  Sure, Canada has had its fair share of Joni Mitchells, its Guess Whos, and now its Arcade Fires, but there is a litany of quality acts from this country that have been fondly, if selfishly, embraced  by Canadian audiences for their ability to catalog that most mysterious of ideals: what it means to be Canadian.

And it is here that I believe the legacy of the early-90s Halifax music scene can be illustrated by taking a good look at one song: Joel Plaskett's "Love This Town".

Plaskett was front-man for the only other Halifax group to have some U.S. success during the 1990s with his brash 1970s inspired rock band Thrush Hermit. After the group split at the turn of the millennium, Plaskett continued to make records with his newly formed unit The Joel Plaskett Emergency, as well as producing solo efforts of delightful folk rock. One of those efforts was 2005's La De Da, on which "Love This Town" can be found. A quaint love letter to his Halifax stomping grounds, "Love This Town" packs in a host of germane references in a few short verses.  Let's explore...

In the first verse, Plaskett talks to us like the weathered patriarch of early-90s Halifax that he is:

"Listen up kid, it's not what you think/ Staying up too late, had a little too much to drink/ Walked home across the bridge when the Marquee shut down/ There's a reason why I love this town"

Plaskett actually hails from Dartmouth, and the bridge upon which he is stumbling home drunk is actually the MacDonald Bridge across the Halifax Harbour from the big city. The Marquee was a premiere and infamous venue for up and coming acts in Halifax that shut its doors permanently after running into financial trouble due to the difficulties of bringing touring acts to the East Coast. The importance of this venue cannot be overstated, and Sloan makes that point on their 1999 recording "The Marquee and the Moon". Both the Marquee and The Moon were popular music venues in Halifax where, as Chris Murphy tells it, young bands would have to show their chops by playing a round of gigs at The Moon before they could make their way up to the big stage at The Marquee.

Whereas Sloan had not forgotten its Halifax roots, Plaskett had not forgotten the sting felt by Haligonians when Sloan packed up its studio overlooking the Halifax Harbour to make a new start in Toronto.  Plaskett sings:

"I saw your band, in the early days/ We all understand why you moved away/ But we'll hold a grudge, anyway"


Even Sloan seemed to be aware of the conflict inherent in trying to be a commercial success, while still being true to their Maritime origins.  In "The Marquee and the Moon", Chris Murphy sings about how the hype surrounding his band made it difficult for them to keep focused on being themselves:

"But could we have stopped it/ We all get co-opted/ To some kind of system it seems/ To me, 'buzz' is onomatopeia"


Plaskett takes a more positive bent in his recollections of the neighbourly charm of Halifax, when he recounts that "there'll be drinks on the house/ if your house burns down". This line is a reference to the veteran singer-songwriter Al Tuck (signed to Sloan's Murderecords), who had kept on with his weekly Wednesday night gig at the Halifax Tribeca club despite the fact his house had burnt down that morning.  Plaskett also references his old friend "Miniature Tim" who has made some appearances on stage with Joel whenever he plays in Toronto.

In his typical tongue-in-cheek manner, Plaskett also ribs Kelowna for coldly embracing him during a tour stop there in 2005. Playing in a big tent at a Kokanee-sponsored ski and snowboard event, Plaskett was met with a drunken audience of frosted-tip teenagers fresh off the slopes and fresh onto Red Bull and vodkas.  The following verse sums up his sentiments:

"I played a show, in Kelowna last year/ They said 'Pick it up Joel, we're dying in here!'/ Picture one hand clapping, and picture half that sound/ There's a reason that I hate that town"

To cap it all off, Joel coos about "Davey and me/ Face down in our soup", which is a reference to his long-time drummer Dave Marsh and the illness they both suffered on tour with Thrush Hermit years earlier.  In 1999, Thrush Hermit released its final record, Clayton Park, to critical and commercial success, but the band amicably decided to split. Before officially shutting it down, Thrush decided to play a farewell tour with friends The Flashing Lights and The Local Rabbits.  Unfortunately, Thrush Hermit was forced to pull out of the tour due to the deteriorating health of both Plaskett and Marsh; a virus which confined Plaskett to a month in bed, which he later memorialized with his solo record In Need of Medical Attention.

The music created in those heady days of early-90s Halifax provides some fantastic listening nowadays, but there is doubt as to whether much of it is timeless material. What is certain, is that the legacy left behind from that brief glimpse of international attention on the sometimes-forgotten East Coast of Canada has inspired a host of great Canadian artists to emerge in the decade since; artists who have no reason to fear wearing their "Canadianess" on their sleeves.  And for all those reasons, I agree with Joel wholeheartedly: there is a reason that I love that town.

He ain't heavy, he's my brother

When I was a tween, I would say "I hate music." I'm not sure why. It might have had something to do with realizing in grade school Music class that all I could accomplish was humming the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme down the end of a recorder while pretending to move my fingers over the appropriate holes. I couldn't sing worth a damn and my best friend started playing guitar at about the same time girls were growing breasts. I will never hear Collective Soul's "December" played so frequently again in my life (sorry, Tim). Unless, of course, smooth rock with Christian undertones has a resurgence as a serious panty-wetter.

So I've often wondered how I went from being so sternly against something, to it becoming a huge part of my identity. The first explanation is that I am a stubborn, opinionated SOB (my sign is Capricorn, ladies) who is either really really for, or really really against something. But after thinking about it for a while, I realize I owe it all to my brother Noah (yes yes, of the Ark variety - my parents aren't religious in the least, so I think my brother and I are biblical by-products of my parents' spiritual guilt).

There's a few reasons why I say my brother was the reason, and they come to me like photos in a View-Master; Click, click...

It's 1992. I'm 8, and Noah is 13. It's the summer, and my parents are at work. My brother has just finished giving me his classic beating, complete with the knees-on-shoulders tickle-fest that concluded with him hanging spit balls into my involuntarily open, laughing mouth. As a post-abuse olive branch he pops a Maxell tape into his BOOMBOX. My 8 year old brain was like, "what the fuuuucckk, I neeeeeeedd one of those!" (No, seriously, my brother had me cussing 5 years ahead of my time. When I was 2, I told a toddler in a passing shopping cart she was "a piece of shit.") Anyway, that was the first time I really heard pop music. It was MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This," and man was he right. I straight b-boy'd that shit. My bro and I had a track pant dance party for the ages. When my parents got home they thought we had gotten into the cola.

It's 1995 and my brother has a massive shag, an over-sized Cookie Monster shirt (it was in back then) and wears bug-eye sunglasses and a chain wallet. He thinks he is Chris Murphy from Sloan. He is taking a break from skate-boarding with his friends in the Church parking lot and must be tired, because he's letting me hang out in his room. He puts on an old CD from a cracked case with a gold and green cover; "L7" printed big at the top. The chorus floods into my brain and I can barely think, because there's no room left. When we pretend that we're deeeadddd, yeah when we pretend that we're deeeaaaddd. It's grunge music, and I'm about 4 years too late, but I'm starting to GET IT.

It's 1997 and I think my brother probably hates me. I got my first stereo for Christmas, and it's better than his. The carousel holds 60 discs and I don't own a single one. Noah is in the middle of high school and has little time for his awkward, know-it-all brother to be hanging around with him and his friends. But then it happens. For reasons I have never discussed with my brother, and of which he probably can't remember anyway, he asks me if I want to come with him to a concert in St. Catharines. My first fucking concert. With my brother. A 20 minute drive away! It was a massive deal. So I strapped on my own tiny chain wallet and baggy jeans and jumped in my brother's white Grand Am; rust creeping out of the paint bubbles on the hood and the upholstery smelling of sweet tobacco. We walked into The Hideaway pub with its cramped stage tucked in the corner, framed by that cheap nautical woodwork customary of the watering holes that dot the roadsides of this country. As I sat up on the back of a chair to get a view over the grown people in the room The Local Rabbits took the stage under Christmas coloured pot lights, all sideburns and wavy hair. From the opening of "Sally Ann's Style Denial" I was awash in the chug of that guitar riff, while the cymbals splashed and a squeaky voice got sentimental over acid washed jeans. Even through the ear plugs my mom had insisted I wear, my ears were on fire. This was my first taste of the full body slam of a sonic wave rushing from an amplifier, and I loved it.  The Rabbits played their funky brand of 70s-inspired FM jazz rock for the better part of an hour, Peter Elkas' Greek mane remaining perfectly coiffed throughout the sweaty, smoke-filled set.

During the intermission I stood by while Noah shot the shit with some guys he skated with; some of them had beards and ear piercings and they talked like they had the world by the balls.  I took the couple of bucks my parents had sent me out the door with and bought a black crew neck tee from the merch table, "Thrush Hermit" written in bold across the front overhanging two pink lightning bolts.  To this day, the coolest piece of clothing I have ever owned.  

Noah whispers in my ear "Here they come, let's push to the front." I feel rad. We slide through the crowd as Ian McGettigan comes chicken-walking out with his bass slung over his shoulder, his head shaved into a crude mohawk with racing stripes notched at his temples. The drums roll in and Joel Plaskett blasts down the end of the mic "From the back of the film! He said shut up or I'll shoot you," his jeans nearly falling off of his gaunt frame. I wouldn't have realized it at the time, but this was one of the last shows Thrush Hermit would play together until their brief reunion tour this past year.



That night, I had witnessed Thrush Hermit perform a tome of Canadiana at a time before you could access new music with no consequences from the blistering black market Napster built. This was the time of the jewel case, CanCon regulations, Sook Yin and Bill Welychka, federally funded Canadian indie labels, paper tickets from record stores, college radio, alternative magazines, and word-of-mouth. You couldn't go surfing into the great beyond to find the latest Wavves download or Girl Talk mash-up. There was something hokey but endearing about having to come across it in your own backyard.  Flipping on MuchMusic and seeing bands like The Kill Joys and Age of Electric getting their share of the obligatory 35% Canadian content rules, when you knew this stuff would have no business on t.v. in the States. Now it takes little investment to coolly observe an emerging music trend from afar by reading an article or two and streaming a song on a blog. Back then you needed to spend some time and some dollars to go out and find what it was you were looking for; but when you did, you really felt you were tapping into a scene. Though it had been burgeoning for the better part of a decade by that point, Thrush Hermit had circled me in to the sounds of Halifax's musical renaissance, even if claims of the "Next Seattle" had long since faded into the ether.

It was that night I fell in love with music. It was that night Noah went from being my older brother to being my best friend. It was that night that led me to scour his cd rack and find the likes of Fugazi, Liquid Swords, Bad Religion, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx, Black Flag, In Utero, Weezer's blue, and the Spin Doctors. It was that night that Joel Plaskett was hanging around after the show, his skinny face hidden behind a pair of granny tea shades, and I got to shake his skeleton bone hand. It was that night that brought me here to write this blog. And it's with that, that I come to my next post, where it all began for me with the music that made me love music: the alternative rock of 1990s Nova Scotia.