Virgin Fest Montreal Not For Oldtimers

Parc Jean Drapeau

Montreal, QC

on Jun 19 2009

Erik Leijon (CHARTattack)

06/23/2009 2:28pm

I celebrated my birthday precisely one week before the commencement of Montreal's inaugural Virgin Festival. I'm not tragically geriatric by any means, but it's becoming increasingly evident I'm less capable than I was a mere half-decade ago.

Case in point: Going to local Irish pubs reminds me how young people can shovel down Irish Car Bombs at the same rate I could prior to developing painful acid reflux, and how their fresh, non-battered ears can handle ambient noise my cauliflowered nubs can no longer stand.

The laughably expensive and culturally corrosive Virgin Fest Montreal was hyped on new forms of media I know nothing about and delivered in an incomprehensible language of mixed messages. It was like an entire day of acid reflux — not just in the excruciating digestion of the music, pricey wares and needlessly vain VIP sections, but also as a humbling reminder of how my receding hairline and ballooning waist look so out of place amid a sea of teenagers.

One thing we all agreed on, though, was our collective admiration for headliners Black Eyed Peas.

It would be far too easy to take the curmudgeonly route and vilify the generational gap with the caustic wit that has created such a huge divide between music critics and young consumers, so instead I tilted my baseball hat slightly askew, took my cellphone from my pocket and began to manically type in a vain attempt to look communicative, and tried to understand the primal appeal of the likes of Simple Plan, Hedley, Ten Second Epic and The New Cities.

I was young once, and although my graduating high school class was lacking in terms of wireless technology and social networking, I swear the issues I dealt with as a awkward pubescent were as timeless and as permanently scarring as the ones facing youngsters today.

Edmonton's Ten Second Epic were probably the most traditional of the four pop-punk groups featured on a cloudy day one. Andrew Usenik perfectly captured the band's humble, fan-appreciative demeanor, while guitarist Craig Spelliscy played to the largely francophone crowd by thanking them in French.

Pop music has become largely keyboard-driven in recent times, but the bouncy, guitar-heavy sweet tart rock of their third album, Hometown, walked down a more familiar path of New Found Glory, and the group's knack for hooks was undeniable. At this point, the ominously-enclosed outdoor area (which covered considerably less real-estate than Osheaga, which is held on the same island) was only lightly peppered with young-ins.

Diminutive former Canadian Idol contestant Carly Rae Jepsen also performed in front of a sparse crowd, but her impressive coffee shop-meets-country twang carried well across the dense, humid air. With just a guitarist in tow, Jepsen's forceful-yet-lithe vocals felt fresh amid the more aggressive acts.

It also seemed strange with Lady GaGa turning her brassiere into Chinese New Year later that weekend in Toronto, that the very modestly presented Jepsen almost seemed like an anomaly. Many of the kids in attendance were likely under legal drinking age, yet in their hypersexualized postures it was clear they had committed more lewd acts with a cellphone than I could ever imagine.

Virgin Fest even accommodated this progression in mindset and taught teenage girls the art of stripper pole dancing alongside a yoga seminar. It was here I noticed a young, portly boy, his hands palsied from sugar-induced hypertension, with a huge "FTW" tattoo in darkened block letters on his lower left calf.

I quickly remembered if I had been dumb enough to get a tattoo at 16, I would have spent my university tuition laser-removing a barcode from the back of my neck. I also had to urbandictionary.com FTW upon getting home. Irony abound.

Proceeding acts Hedley and The New Cities largely melded together to these unaccustomed ears, but as someone who once saw Serial Joe in concert, let it be known I can empathize with young bands largely receiving their musical education in front of so many witnesses.

Hedley frontman Jacob Hoggard was also a contestant on the understandably turfed Canadian Idol, and it shows. The bearded Hoggard was an overmotive, loud and distracting attention-grabber, and rarely gave his bandmates a moment of stage front in between out-of-breath shrieks and wails.

There's nothing wrong with craving the spotlight and being a stentorian showman — Iggy Pop has made a living out of it — but the catchy, radio-friendly choruses the band are known for are largely lost on stage with Hoggard seemingly screeching to his own tune.

Synth-pop-punkers The New Cities were even more wet behind the ears, as the two keyboardists were mixed so high their performance felt more like being surrounded by classic arcade machines than a band destined to write the next great hummable hit.

From frontman David Brown's creepy, bulbous eyeballs and thick francophone accent to the ill-timed rock star poses from the lead and bass guitarists, The New Cities seem like they've starting running before they learned to walk. The abrasively loud and tuneless set did nothing to prove they have some potential infectious cuts in the mix.

By the time elder statesmen Simple Plan began rolling hit after recognizable hit, one thing that became very evident was how all the bands had mixed their vocals much higher than your typical rock show. It makes sense given the limited musical palette of their pint-sized followers, who at this stage in their musical growth likely care more about words and visceral feelings compared to a well-manicured arrangement.

Now three albums deep and over a decade removed from playing house parties (as Reset to you children of the '90s), frontman Pierre Bouvier et al. are far too experienced to let a hometown gig fall to the same relative disinterest as Hedley or New Cities. Although they're not as powerful as one would expect due to the still small crowd, familiar songs new and old hit their marks effortlessly, especially the acoustically-introduced "Perfect" and the insanely catchy "Addicted."

The group's attempts to modernize and mature their sound on their eponymous third album failed to ignite any fervour among critics, but as a live spectacle they've retained their youthful feistiness, even as pre-recorded loops threaten to overcomplicate their innate ability for compactness. Only their poorly conceived cover medley of Flo Rida and Lady GaGa tunes seemed like a misstep designed to kowtow to mp3 playlist afflicted souls.

Opening night ended with formerly underground, now abhorrently ubiquitous hip-hop troupe Black Eyed Peas. Like the sting of heartburn following a Mexican dinner, in spite of recent history I was still inexplicably shocked to not being treated to Bridging The Gap-era BEP (i.e. pre-Fergie).

Not only has that B.E.P. Empire crumbled in what one can only assume was the most Phunkalicious, Retardation-encouraging exhibition of lady lump-shaking known to man, but sound architect Will.I.Am's newest obsession seems to be centered around Daft Punk.

The new material from The E.N.D., especially "Rock That Body" and "Party All The Time," are sleek, steely DJ-ready club bangers. Even with rarely-used hype man Taboo taking minute-long respites backstage mid-song, the energy of the dance-heavy set remained high. Will.I.Am broke out his laptop for a setlist dividing DJ set, and included a silly but amusing dance remix of Kings Of Leon's "Sex On Fire."

Fergie also performed "Fergalicious" by her lonesome, and "My Humps" remains as much a guilty in the flesh as it does in the privacy of home. The festival only seemed full and youthful during the final act.

In a sense, Virgin Fest is the continuation of what seemed to be the horrifying cultural nadir of my generation, Woodstock '99. It was on those muddy fields of Rome, N.Y., that music and business finally converged into one inextricable corpse, signifying the death of album sales and affordable tickets.

I feel bad for young people today, who won't be able to enjoy their favourite band without remembering the iPod commercial their music was featured on, or will feel pressured to wear a band T-shirt and adjust their Facebook status as a means of proving their fandom.

Virgin Fest didn't create any of these trends, but it serves as a concrete example of how music was deflowered.