Drop me in the middle

"If you can't see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror; look a little closer, stare a little longer; because there's something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit.

You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself, you signed it: THEY WERE WRONG."

Blinded

I can smell the red in the room
I can taste the bitter yellow
I can feel the orange of the nurse's sleeve

and the blue she gives me

(to wash away the yellow)

There's a putrid green rising in my throat
I try not to let it taint the purple

(upon which I lie; soft and clean)

But all I see is white.

MUSIC: The Dirty Nil / Northern Primitive split

Today is one of those messy days. It's at least 15 degrees (Celsius) warmer than it should be and the rain has been coming nonstop, leaving an ugly grey sludge on the blacktop and turning McTavish Street in Montreal into a huge waterslide. These guys can empathize. The first half of the video, and side B of the 7", is Northern Primitive, a reflective alternative band reminiscent of early .moneen.. The other half is less likely to subdue themselves.

The Dirty Nil hail from Dundas, Ontario, the same place I go apple-picking with elementary school students every year. No offense, but there's little there but old country roads, Caribou, and several waterfalls. It's safe to say that the garage punk trio is a strong contender for "hardest-rocking 0.00012% of the escarpment population". Their angsty-screamy gang vocals and fuzzy distorted riffs put them somewhere between post-hardcore and post-grunge. They call it "hammer rock".

At a low volume, "Zombie Eyed" is loud enough to magnify the worst headache. At a "motherfucking loud volume" (as they insist), the discordance disappears and every slide is a wonder to behold. The Dirty Nil could afford more emotional contrast--angrier on the explosions, softer on the realizations--to really drive their lyrics home, but short of that, singing with a smile is the next best option. The song concludes on a who-gives-a-fuck note (Luke: "I guess I'm just zombie-eyed" x5), so smile widely on.

The Dirty Nil is: Dave Nardi (bass), Luke Bentham (vocals, guitar) , and Kyle Fisher (drums)

Go download "Zombie Eyed" and "Positive Bondar", courtesy of the artists and Indoor Shoes.

On tests, studying, and last-ditch efforts

Why, there's a course in two cue cards.

I don't cut class and I do most assignments.

Essentially, this results in my catching up with my favourite TV series or reading a never-ending chain of novels during exam week. Unfortunately, these tend to be solitary activities, due to everyone else being holed up with an apocalypse-size stash of pretzels and chocolate. (I'm not even going to concern myself with the bellyache that amount of pure salt/sugar might induce.) Honestly, exam week tends to be the most carefree time of the year--few social commitments, minimal school time, and no ridiculous holiday hours at work.

Why cramming is a last-ditch effort

Twenty hours is a lot of time to prepare for a 3-hour test. There is no use in losing sleep or sacrificing real food. A trip to the grocery store should take you 30 minutes, max. You should only be cramming if you feel it necessary to reteach yourself the course from scratch. Seriously, this sort of intensive studying is cruel and unusual punishment, not to mention unnecessary.

Don't stare at your notes

Use keywords: not glossary-style definitions, just focus words which lead to greater ideas and smaller details. Think of each as a door, or as a can of condensed milk. Stack them neatly. If you're an auditory learner, record yourself saying those words in a foreign accent. If you're visual, rewrite the words and notice patterns. Kinesthetic? Prescribe actions to the words. Keep your mental work area spotless, and open those doors/cans when they are called upon.

It works, because we like to make connections. Shakespeare leads to Romeo and Juliet leads to tragedy leads to Tragedy of the Commons leads to Wikipedia leads to bibliography formatting leads to selective media leads to hegemony leads to propaganda leads to Richard Wagner leads to onion rings. Believe me, it's all there, in that East-Australian-Current-stream-of-consciousness. Just pull from the pool.

Don't underestimate yourself

You know the material. Sure, you probably haven't cracked it open in weeks, but you haven't forgotten everything. It'll come back. Don't skip other classes, just review in those classes. Review in your head. Bring reference notes, if you must. It's a challenge: do you know your shit without your notes open in front of you? Plus, you won't miss anything important in those other classes. Also, make use of unfinished homework. You might as well see if you can answer them. If not... well, now you know what to touch up on.

Take a break

I wouldn't suggest taking any more than a memo with several keywords on it to the testing room, if anything. The earlier you do the work, the less time you'll have to invest. It might take an hour to condense a course, but a few 10-minute review sessions beats hours of reading indecipherable scrawl powered only by caffeine. Watch a movie the night before or go for a run. What have I done so far? Spring cleaning, three episodes of Pretty Little Liars, two novels, new playlists, my Trinity college application, and a few too many CollegeHumour videos. It's really not that big a deal.

Beta Love: honey, where'd you put the Ra Ra Riot?

It was mid-November when I first heard the title track, "Beta Love"; 20 seconds in, I'd forgotten what Ra Ra Riot used to sound like. Their evolution, for lack of a better descriptor, has been positively brill. Maybe this round doesn't strike your fancy, but regardless, they've executed it well. Wes Miles sings dancepop better than dancepop sings dancepop on this album. It starts strong; the first track opens with a vocal solo before every other percussion gimmick joins in. "Come and dance with me, you bittersweet fool; I wanna be your toy, I wanna be your toy" is a dead giveaway that they're really just messing with us. But we'll gladly accept a light-hearted album in the middle of winter.

"Binary Mind" oscillates between big smirks and genuine smiles. The single snare bounces are unexpected, adding about fifty dimensions to the effective, but pedestrian handclaps. I gushed about the next song already, but the string arrangement on "Beta Love" complements Miles's warm vocals possessively. The sweet lounge keys and drums on "Is It Too Much" make elevator music appealing. Bisecting the album, is some sort of fun./Hot Chelle Rae/Phoenix hybrid transition (blame it on the strings, but it's not a bad sound).

And then, out of nowhere, "What I Do For U" brings sexy back. Urban Riot's got dat wobbly bass, give-me-everything lyrics, and a sparkling falsetto. Sadly, the most diverting track on Beta Love is also the shortest. It segues into a soulful ballad in the form of "When I Dream" where the vibes and strings meet in a frozen, slow-mo collision. Cue fireworks.

If there's any hesitation to drop their previous sound at all, it's exhibited in the final sets. "Wilderness" is silver screen material (can you see/hear the time lapse potential? Take a minute and mute the following: snowscapes, artsy waterfalls, Manhattanhenge... its possibilities are endless.) My only complaint is that the 11-track, 30-minute album ends too abruptly. Beta Love is short and sweet, but there are several moments which could've been further explored and extended.

In the past, Ra Ra Riot (and The Dears and Freelance Whales, if I may so casually group them together) has reminded me of rivers and of 19th century prairie schooners. They've been cute, holding my interest briefly with each new release. The Rhumb Line a little, The Orchard more, and this time, they've my full attention. They sound happy. There's not a wayward track on this album, and while I'd love to see more of this synth-based Ra Ra Riot, I think I'd rather see what they do next. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

For now, let us bask in the paradise sun. (Sorry Catherine MacLellan, it looks like I'll be playing Beta Love on the East Coast drive, weather be damned.)

01/15/13 remedial services

We wear cities on our fingers
and orchestrate disasters;
as we peel back layers
of gut-wrenching speeches.
Of heart-felt desires.
Fasten our eyes upon words, short of phrases,
rest upon the table where our plates lay bare
like holes in the patchwork.
Starved of glamour; we are
spent and stolen; it is
by invisible few who carry the sidewalk--
it is stolen into concrete crevices
from grimy hands and foreign lands
(and hushed, guilty consciences).
Here, factories and floor plans
offer apathy and guidance.
But without reception or a working compass,
the world is lost on us.

Look ma, no hands; writing again

Here's an excerpt from chapter one of About Face, piloted on Goodreads. Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice has been revamped to redundancy, but seeing as it's such a classic, versatile storyline, I had to give it a shot. Plus, it'll be an interesting exercise; the closest I've gotten to writing with an outline. Well then, let me entertain you, and tell me in the comments below whether or not I should continue this disaster.

Sitting on the balcony opposite his wife smoking a Marlboro was Hugh Tarlow, greying hair aside, he looked not a day older than 40. Nonetheless, he had decided, upon his fiftieth birthday, to retreat from the limelight, much to Jocelyn’s dismay. Truthfully, Hugh was not a complicated man. He enjoyed sex and lavishing his wife in expensive gifts. He did his own bills, so he knew their financial circumstances, but he lived in the moment. He would not say it as extravagantly as she, but he loved those girls who had become a part of his life in the last couple of years. Hugh had never had children of his own to mentor and spoil.

“Oh, I wish there was something we could do,” his wife whined melodramatically. She was a petite Korean-American woman who was now tugging the steam curls out of her auburn hair. He was convinced she was the real deal. “If only that Boule girl had tried a little harder to make things work with that bastard.”

“I daresay Miss Boule has done a great deal already, my dear.” He tracked her agitated movements over the top of his newspaper, today’s issue of the Los Angeles Times. “I’ve repeated this many times before: perhaps if our girls put out a little less, promoted themselves more respectably—”

“They could make a living by playing boring, uptight lawyers in biographical films for the rest of their lives.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ve one girl destined for such already.”

“Blythe is something special, is she not?”

Jocelyn gasped. “How can you pick favourites this way?” Her tone held the slightest hint of jealousy. “Blythe has nary but a formal education to her name, and a questionable one at that! Why, each has their own weapon: Sasha, her beauty; Shay, her charm; Nelly, her innocence.”

“And what of Clare will you offer, her aloofness?”

“Nay, it gives her a certain air.” She made a circle with her arms, like a ballerina.

“I pray you are not selling Elinor’s innocence. God knows this industry.” He shook his head, tapping his cigarette on the crystal ashtray.