Life on Mars

Spit five blocks from King to Queen and see the dichotomy of gender. Clubland lipstick lovers are from Mars; hip young things hiding in Ray-Bans are from Venus. And so the parade of Queen St. cool kids felt out of place today as it made its way towards the other planet.

Free booze and BBQ brought them south to King St., lured in by Fred Perry, Vice, and Red Bull. On top the Cheval roof top patio the barbeque smoked, sent out the signal. On the decks was Tim Harrington from Les Savy Fav, gearing up for his gig at Wrongbar.

NXNE passes dangled from necks but didn’t bypass the growing line. The crowd packed in tight together, sweat stains sinking in as the sun beat its rays down. Amongst the madness we hid up top the tables, leaning into the fake grass covering the walls. Sipped on beers towards daytime dizziness, waited for the phone call.

When it came the gig was up, time for the Raveonettes, Iggy, and the Stooges. Floated through the empty indoor air conditioning, down to the street. Followed a couple out the door, listened to their convo.

She looked around, leaned in to him, and said: “I forgot we were on King St.”

Raise the high roof beam, carpenters and season

The sun hit high noon and the rooftops called our name. After a photo stroll through the market and a birthday dinner, we begin the weekend concert series on top a shop in Chinatown.

Out the apartment window girls in flowery summer dresses stand by boys in band tees and skinny jeans, sunglasses covering all their eyes. The band plays behind too many too-tall heads, the sky rains confetti.

We b-line up the street to an apartment we know, fill another roof. Birds pull the curtains dark, we drink warm beer and watch the day die. Slipping south into our afternoon locale, we fill into a bar back room for another.

Two more cab rides, tracing tracks across the city. Scarf down take-out, wake to two white boxes in the fridge. Re-read the cookie paper, 6 13 28 34 37 40. It says: “Next summer you will dance to a different beat.”

Put the last of the leftovers in the microwave, nod head and accept the fortune.

Just a backyard bash

Sliding open my apartment door, I step onto my balcony and am instantly surrounded by light and noise. It's long past sundown, but my fingers glow an eery blue, basking in the fluorescent light bouncing from building to building. Advertisements don't adhere to any set of hours, this glow is omnipresent. 

The noise is usually traffic, tourists, Toronto. Tonight, it's more than that. A text message floats into my inbox, announcing the headlining band is hitting the stage. Applause thunders in confirmation. I slip back inside, out the door, into the elevator, past the concierge, and swiftly exit. 

The noise is half a city block away, and as I move closer it sounds less garbled and more like music. Finally as I turn the corner, the band is in my sight: the Black Lips have taken the stage. It's Thursday June 19 and the second night of the annual music festival North By North East. This year, the festival has set up a free stage in Dundas Square. The space is an admittedly terrible piece of public  to host a show in: Jack Astor's, Guess, and the Hard Rock Cafe each add an extra brand of patio pop to the mesh of noise in the air. But it's what I call my backyard, so it's hard to turn down this caliber of free show. 

Melissa Auf Der Maur, who recently announced she's putting out another album with Courtney Love as Hole, has already played. So have Burning Brides, Xavier Cafeine, and local indie pop darlings Spiral Beach. The square will host Wintersleep and the Cliks tomorrow, Japanther Saturday. The Cool Kids will close the free stage on Sunday night. 

The Black Lips play refreshingly average dance rock for about an hour. At the front of the stage, nifty yet nerdy seeing glasses are everywhere, a trend only beaten in numbers by the male moustache. The women are going crazy. Faux-lesbians are kissing and petting between the bassist and the lead, security is chasing a go-go band-aid straight off stage. When the guard finally grabs her, she jabs her feet up and swings them around the guard, turning her defeat into a crowd pleasing high kick. 

The escapades are entertaining, but less than could be expected. If one's to believe what the band tells their record label affiliates at Vice, they recently got chased out of India by the boys in blue, and/or the Tamils, for a slew of reported reasons, like getting naked and making out with one another, which apparently doesn't go over so swell with eastern authorities. 

None of that happens tonight. The back of the crowd is bored, the pedestrians are irritated, the security is annoyed. The band says goodnight, girls still jumping over the barricades and rushing towards the stage. I escape around the corner. The walk home is short.