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> > The final weeks of Not My Dog have been lovely and bittersweet, and the last few days have been exceptionally charged
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> There's a crew of old friends whom I haven't seen together in the same room in some years. Gillian, Warren, Damon, Russel, Chris, Adam, and Stoo Bye, who made an impassionate speech urging everyone present to spread the beautiful magic of this place everywhere we went, to dream of the Dog, to know that what we had and did here was rare and special. Along the back wall, the boys talked about the room's acoustics. Like the Motown sound. I meditated on metronomic drums for Quique Escamillia, managing not to do my Harpo Marx routine until the final downbeat.
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> > On Thursday afternoon, after a day shift at the diner, we gathered up a possee to move the nmd piano into its new home at the Skyline.
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>let's see, I first met Warren McGoey at McKenzie's open mic on a Saturday afternoon, across the street from high park.
I was there when We Are French played their first, unofficial show, with C. harrison on bass and Stu Bye on drums.
> That was in this same doggy bar about eight years ago. This is only the second time I've taken in a set by the current incarnation of the band, and as usually happens at We Are French performances of late, I am taken aback by the diehard fans amongst the audience, the community, who know EVERY SINGLE WORD to the songs Warren writes and sings. The only classic I could recognize was Join Me, which was a cathartic chant taken up by the capacity crowd.
I've always had a hard time controlling my impulse to dance and scream when listening to We Are French, and tonight I let go,
playing tambourine like it had a hankering for spankering, dancing in the densely packed Dog as though I had the tiny floor to myself, which I usually do. Did. Jeez. MIP came up to take lead vocals on one tune.
At other times, bassist AJ used a power drill to create an additional layer of noise, and lead guitarist CHarrison screamed obscenities. The entire band is dressed as Vikings, in furs, horn, and blue facepaint. "Mischief" McGoey, ever the charismatic showman, incurrs the crowd to shout, amongst other things, WE ARE DOG!
I am quite sweaty and satisfyingly spent when the affair is called to a halt, and take to the street for a group debriefing, photo ops with Laura Stevenson, Damon and Darian of the Muckabouts, and Rob Sills, the man to whom the most dangerous drinking game I ever devised was dedicated.
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> > Hair of the Dog (above) also provided some lovely new wave dancing music and put up with my moxie for the tambourine.
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> > Friday @ 3030: Beams
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> > Another heavy hitter, alongside Stew and Warren,oone of the most prolific and powerful songwriters out of the old blob is Anna Mernieks, currently fronting a seven piece rock act known as Beams. The electric mandolin of Dave Hamilton clangs with chorus and flange like a rhythm guitar, his brother Keith handles vibraphone and musical saw, then hijacks the lead vocals for a crushing, high energy rendition of the Talking Head's 'psycho killer'
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> > Me and Allie Marshall were transported to our days as cheerleaders for the Papermakers, a hard hitting duo Anna once fronted with Katie Plant, we clown and stake squad space on the dance floor, boldly swinging arms and mixing mosh with ballroom steps to follow the choreography of Anna's wistful verses and joyous choruses. A newlywed couple comes up and is serenaded with an exceptionally beautiful number called 'you are an ocean'.
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> > Saturday: Julie Doiron and the Wrong Guys
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> > I find Nic and Nora in Christie Pitts around 8 pm, during Hooded Fang's set in the beer tent of the final Bloor Ossington Folk Festival. Didn't we see them play at steam whistle once? Nora asks me. I went on tour with these guys! Maggie says. There's a few people swaying at the side of the stage, a couple bopping like they mean it, but with nothing approaching the enthused abandon Beams inspired in me and Allie. Julie Doiron is up next and I am excited. Seeing her four years ago at the Garrison with members of the Cancerbats was a revelation in emotive intensity. Eamon McGrath's abstract leads billow and scythe through the swinging country grunge that Doiron is justly known for. Many dance and pogo, and I pull myself away with some difficulty. This is also the last weekend for BOFF, after six or seven years, a move back to Winnipeg, and you had me saved already!
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> > Wonder Woman finally takes me to the thrift stores around Parkdale. There's where u buy sheets and pillows, she points out. And that's where smokes are cheapest, and that's where u can get a winter jacket...
She takes me and Bix to a sale at the thrift store. She knows how to work the coupons. They try on many things and I find Nora a copy of Doiron's second album from 1997. The CD section at thrift ships can be dangerous for me as pretty much all music from the 90s has a comforting nostalgia for me by now.
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> Nostalgia. Nine years of memories and open mics. Well, a few years off and on, as it is in any epic relationship. It wasn't until she was being toasted that I spotted Tanya, the original Queen of the Dog, cheek to cheek with Nicole in the crush of emotional regulars and curious first timers. Me and Russ fucked a lot of things up, she announces, but we did one thing right.
I ate both the feet of a roasted pig. I slam-danced and roared out one last freestyle, made one last new connection as the last last call rippled through the crowd. I left my phone at home and used senses to soak up the scene, that eclectic babble of activated social space, I changed shirts twice as they were claimed by curry and sweat. I was there and I was glad. That's all that I can say, but if you have any dreams you'd like to sell, or memories to share, email the Tinderbox and ungirdle your burden. dmzmgmt@gmail.com
> Subject line: Legends of the Dog
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> Salons.
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