NXNE Roving Report: Day One

Ah, another edition of Toronto's North By Northeast, easily one of my favourite festivals of the year. After navigating a rather long registration process, I headed home for the most rock 'n' roll of all activities, a nap. A three-day festival is definitely a test of endurance for ears, feet and backs, and catching sleep when you can is paramount. Feeling well-rested and ready for action, I made my way to Chester subway station and headed downtown towards the mayhem.

First up was a surefooted, though slightly late, step into The Velvet Underground on Queen West where I caught about 20 minutes of Japanese drums 'n' bass rock duo Moja. The old d'n'b combo is, on its surface, simplistic. But it's life's simple things that are easy to fuck up — like making Jell-O, or advanced astrophysics. It's an especially hard sell in Toronto because we'll always inevitably compare whatever's on offer to the (sadly) defunct Death From Above 1979. People (and by people I mean me and every single one of my friends with good taste) still mourn the loss of that truly exceptional band, even two years after what many sa, was an inevitable parting of ways for Jesse Keeler and Sebastien Grainger. Moja, however, outdid themselves. I didn't understand a single syllable of the modulated and effects-laden vocals, which I think stemmed from either the aforementioned distortion or my inability to speak Japanese. Who knows? Either way, it was an awesome show. The duo were particularly tight and started my night off with a good solid kick to the tympanum.

I then hoofed it to The Rivoli. As a caveat, my partner and I were trying to secure our very first house on Thursday night. As such, every second I was out pounding the pavement, I had a cell phone pressed to my ear weighing the pros and cons of being broke for the next four million years with my beautiful and understanding significant other. Taking a breather from that stress, I made my way to see Smothered In Hugs. I had to see what a band with such a dichotomous name sounded like. Lo and behold, as their name might suggest, they're a mixture of sweet and sour, like Andrew W.K. fronting Coldplay. The P.E.I-based band traded in some anthemic melodies paired with dirty rotten vocals that screeched and growled more than they soared and emoted. It was intriguing for a handful of songs, but the diametrically oppositional nature of their music started to grate on my already raw nerve endings. Realizing they were only three songs in, I was beset with a feeling akin to the moment I found out that they would in fact be making a Sex And The City movie (who couldn't love a woman who's face looks like an old shoe and her truly unfunny and vacuous friends). After a bracing shot of tequila, I pushed out through the sizeable crowd and back on to Queen Street, which was an absolute zoo of festival-goers, fire trucks and the usual denizens of the strip between Spadina and Bathurst.

At this point, we were closing in on our house, but I had to sign back a counter offer to secure the place before our 11:59 p.m. deadline. So prior to wading into the sweaty mess that was Reverb, I signed off on our new house on the trunk of my real estate agent's car while he was parked illegally along Queen. I felt like I'd stumbled into an episode of The Sopranos. I then traversed that line from the sublime to the truly ridiculous.

Tel-Aviv, Israel's Monotonix lived up to their reputation of true derangement that yielded more than a few slackened jaws. Their shtick is pure spectacle and their music is pretty awful. I got the sense they really didn't care. The band started by setting up in the middle of the crowd and moved the drum kit a half-dozen times, closer and closer to the bar, before they were finally on top of it. All the while, mildly hirsute lead singer Ami Shalev vacillated between screeching into his mic and shoving it in his ass (this isn't meant as a metaphor, he literally stuck a microphone in his butt). The Iggy Pop idolatry was a little off-putting and, as the band flailed and climbed anything they could (including people), and dumped garbage and beer on each other, I got a little freaked out. I couldn't fault them on their showmanship, but there was a palatable relief that pervaded the space once they'd finished, especially given the lack of musical talent that went hand in hand with the hyperactive shenanigans.

Leaving Reverb more than a little unnerved, I headed for calmer pastures at The Cameron House for Toronto-based quintet, The Giant Baby. Their puzzling moniker aside, The Giant Baby took a surefooted, ass-whoopin' kick at the old school rootsy rock 'n' roll can. Flying through their half-hour set of boot-stomping anthems, the airtight crew played like a stadium act stuck with a small stage. There's a universal appeal to their tales of drinkin' and brawlin' that worked as a perfect counter to the literal shit I'd just witnessed at Reverb.

Next up were Major Maker downstairs at the El Mocambo. After accepting the CBC Galaxie Rising Star Award (last year that honour went to the phenomenal Handsome Furs), the group best known for soundtracking a pervasive Maynard's candies ad ("Rollercoaster" is undeniably hard to get out of your head) showcased the rest of their oeuvre, which is more than solid. Sadly, they were saddled with an abysmal sound mix that favoured a deep chest-thumping bass over their slick and polished melodies. You know there are serious issues when you see the guy manning the sound board make two trips to an electrical panel because of tripped breakers. That said, Major Maker had their moments of brilliance. It was just hard to wade through the oppressive amount of sound.

Thursday night is always a (relatively) drink-free night and an early one if I can help it, so I headed towards home, catching the last subway east of the night. I'll admit that I left with a strange compulsion to buy wine gums, though. But since the house purchase went through, I figured it was best to leave it alone and save the cash.