“One, two, three — say I’m sorry”
“I’M SORRY”
“I still fucking love you”
“I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU”
At the start of the “concert” film This Movie is Broken, you can hear Canadian musician Kevin Drew call out to a swarm of people washed up on a feverish wave at the Toronto Harborfront. There’s a garbage strike on the mainland and so, the band has shifted their venue — and made the concert free for everyone. He wants them to go for themselves, let it all out in a scream. Only, when you’re really living, you acknowledge something: that constant euphoria, or even its offspring called happiness aren’t the only surges to embrace on the emotional spectrum. There are parts on this color wheel that fade from one to another and they’re all fucking great. That’s what I discovered via the Canadian baroque/ Indie pop-rock band, Broken Social Scene. And I’ve loved them so long — thirteen years and a few days more. They’re a beautiful mess, they embrace it and anyone who loves their music learns to do just that.
From dotting the soundtrack of the visceral and very political Ryan Gosling character drama Half Nelson in 2006 until the concert in Los Angeles where I finally caught them live, I’ve followed, very obsessively, I might add, the sound of their music and the voice of their “broken” collective: one of not quite unsung, but not sung enough musicians like Lauren Feist, Jason Collette, Emily Haines, Ariel Engle, David C. French and many, many wonderful others that come and go – but come back they do.
I’ve heard their sound enmesh synthetic percussion and bass with an electric lullaby hush in Passport Radio, I’ve had late teenage erotomaniac fantasies whilst embracing all versions of the legendary Lover’s Spit (if you’ve ever wanted to dance alone with a pillow – just saying), I’ve found redemptive strength in the vocal-less Da Da Da and Last Place, said goodbyes and embraced painful separation with Skyline, Boyfriends and Hug of Thunder, found hope for the world in Fire Eyed Boy, Gonna Get Better and Meet Me in the Basement. Of late, I’ve seen the promise of a future in All I Want and Can’t Find My Heart. I must also mention here, one of their most popular tracks, the surrender of the mopey Sweetest Kill.
Their lyrical vocabulary includes the swear words of a seventeen year old, just as much as the anthem force of a visionary. Their mission statement seems to be the celebration of failures and human waste just as much as feeling the sweet chills of romance, hopefulness and conscious polity. And while every album seems to be about this duality, Let’s Try the After Vol. 1 and 2, their latest EP, definitely sounds like an adventurous sail toward new territory.
After a twelve year chase to catch them live, it could only be serendipitous that they were doing a U.S tour in June 2019, the L.A leg of which was three nights long at the Fonda Theater. Apparently, the repertoire of not just the tunes, but also the artists, was a little bit different for each night. But this boy couldn’t wait. In this boy’s ideal scenario, it was a night to be had with all the good people he’d ever met and held, but timing isn’t anyone’s best friend. Pretty much no one I knew was free that week, except my actor friend Neville, who said he’d scramble his schedule a little to make it. One’s better than none. J, the guy I was briefly seeing at that point, was riding his own melt, and sleep deprived from writing a play. A couple of hours before the concert, Neville got called impromptu to an audition that could alter his career for the better. As it turns out, it kind of did. He got the gig, and could soon stop serving at the bar he’d often called The Stinky Wizard’s Lair. A departure from such a fate was more than understandable. “You’ve always said it’s the soundtrack to your life. You don’t need anyone for this!”, he said. Neville was quickly replaced with roommate and long-time friend Amelia, who’d never even heard of Broken Social Scene. But it might have been that my unbridled excitement was some strain of flu that she ultimately caught. We chugged down shitty Kirkland ale — or was it Blue Ribbon? We played a B.S.S playlist. Amelia listened closely and decided what kind of outfit would go best with the vibe. “Kind of punky, indie and visual, huh?” she called out from her closet. I thought for a beat. Here’s the thing: I have never found any description of their gwaan wrong or inaccurate, even. They’re everything in the best way. I think we both just went for predominantly black shades.
We made our way past a pink L.A evening sky at the dullard pretty Hancock Park, wondering how many politicians lived there.Was Dee Dee Meyers in a position to water her own plants? Could Antonio Banderas be putting caulk in his own bathroom?
We arrived at the most unassuming street for a concert that in my head at least, was an event not to be ignored. It was super quiet. But that was great. It meant that I wouldn’t have to jostle my way in or spill anyone else’s drink to see them up close. I could listen, sway and fuck off to Blissville. People had bought seats for the balcony! Who sits through a high like this? Were there going to be tiaras?
While we were in a short line to get in, I was dazzled by the marquis that acknowledged KCRW’s association. I couldn’t help observe how diverse the audience would be: literally every shape, size, age and color. A staff person from the theater started to approach everyone. As he asked for our IDs, one of the most pivotal American questions was posed: “Are you going to buy alcohol?” I hate being questioned about choices I haven’t even made yet.
I started the evening by being foolish. I bought one of their hundred or so autographed limited edition autographed posters. What’s foolish about that? One would usually buy a giant rolled up sheet of paper after they’re out of a crowded room. Inside the hall, everything screamed burlesque: the pillars, the walls, the curtains, the motifs, somehow very appropriate. I had no idea how many from the collective would be present tonight, but I was certain that founders Kevin Drew and Brendan Canning would be up front and center. At this point, I couldn’t decide if I wanted more people or for the hall to be empty-ish. Either way, no one seemed to contest my spot. The very sharp Amelia wondered if moving just a little away would help us hear the detail a little more, since closer meant overwhelming bass and probably more reverb. I wasn’t going to move, though. It was wise of her, but clearly, it wasn’t only about the acoustics for me.
The scrambling technicians were no longer to be seen. A bunch of lights came on and off. Now, with the spot resting on stage, I turned around to find the space no longer as empty. In fact, it would have been quite a task to get to the bathroom and back if one chose to.
The opening act, no matter who, was bound to be a blur for me, a less than – for what was to follow. Like many others in the room, I didn’t need warming up. It was Los Angeles native Sasami with a welcome, distinct rock sound that reminded me of Mazzy Star and PJ Harvey if I’d really understood them in my early teenage years. It’s nice to start something with a pleasant surprise. And everyone in the band (mostly girls) wore some of the most spiffy jumpsuits I’d ever seen. The real memory I have of this moment was watching a rustling movement in the wings. A gentleman peeked out — a familiar gentleman. It was Brendan Canning himself: severe, chill, watchful, the most youthful musician I can think of at 50. It was like two paths had converged into a new one. As it turns out, favorite bands are, indeed, flesh and blood.
Sasami cleared out. The way I’d like to remember it, there was less than a minute, within which Broken Social Scene strolled in. We were all one in our impatience at this point. Before a band lead makes an opening comment, it seems to me that there’s always this moment, where they’re overwhelmed by the applause and just want to get the show on the road. It’s hard to remember that musicians are just as eager to do what they live for. So while, the audience clamored deep-eyed Kevin Drew from a distance, basically going “Me me me me ME!” with arms in the air, you could see that he was itching to talk. He spoke of how L.A had always been a place to return to, many of their gigs took place right there at Fonda, Hollywood over the years.
Kevin was flanked by others, some that I could recognize: Brendan, of course, but also Ariel Engle, Andrew Whiteman, David French, Justin Peroff and a few more that I hadn’t been acquainted with just yet. It was chow time! If my gut had ever been anything to go with, I sensed that they would open with an instrumental tune, none other than the most appropriate Pacific Theme. It was also the first track they played at the historic Harborfront concert during the city-wide garbage strike in Toronto. In the interim silence, the tuning started to suggest that I was right. Pacific Theme it was – in its languid rhythms slowly inviting gentle strings, more percussion. It holds the harmony and keeps embellishing it with neat little twists as the octave switches to highs. You can tell that it is one of the band’s favorites because it sounds perfect in all of its performative variations, each time. My lift off began at the moment the brass interlude came in with a trio. Up close it sounded so crisp, you could feel the wind blast through you. And the three trumpet players couldn’t have been more tuned. For once, I didn’t mind the hollering and the cat calls all around me. They all got it. We were all riding that giant wave now, in absolute surrender.
Bruno (Greg Calderone), the protagonist in the band’s semi-fictional fractured concert movie rambles inside his head during the performance, “I think too much. That’s what Blake says. Don’t bubble wrap all the good things. Let it go. Let it break. Let the friendships you love evolve and surprise you. Embarrass, amaze you. Get a vice. It’s working so far. Bruno, stop thinking.” This might have been my own Bruno moment, wherein I wanted to stop time. It was time to turn off the dated DVR machine in my head that went on taping everything. The only thing I thought of before I allowed myself to feel, was “WHAT IF I HAVE A DISSOCIATIVE PERSONALITY DISORDER?”, looking down at myself from another place? The trumpets carried me away once again. From here on out, it was simply a battle between my head and the music. The music mostly won!
If it counts for anything, the set list for the evening was a mind read on part of the band – every song I wanted to hear sprinkled with surprises and fresh tracks from the new E.P. Here’s a minor taste of the list, each item punctuated with thoughts that it evoked:
Can’t Find My Heart: “That’s it, that’s them! Their signature sound – romantic but wordly! When did this one come out? What other tunes have I missed? That muffled, echoing guitar wail is everything. Whuuuut? Another brass interlude? FUCK! I love that I love this and I’m here!” Goes like, “There’s no needle for loving/ There’s no needle for eyes/ There’s no needle for us/ Can I take you home?”
Someone screamed from among us, reading everyone’s mind, “YOU’RE FUCKING GENIUSES!”
All to All: “They get that love isn’t the only thing to sing about. Shit, we need to embrace the hurt so we can learn, but make sure no one else gets hurt. HERE IT COMES… the wail. Now the brilliant siren chorus! “(Hard, made) you made your life on everything/ (Try, wait) you made your life on everything”
All I Want: “There’s an Indian, very eastern Yogi vibe going on with this one. It’s a departure, but it’s so idiosyncratic that it is its own tune. There’s a hidden prayer, a plea, a surrender and an ode to something precious that you love but could also be challenging. I love that Andrew Whiteman acknowledges in his vocals that we often want the world to “Summon up the violence of a child/ Chop down my foundation/ Bring down the house around me/ Like Samson on my head”
7/4 (Shoreline): “I want to drive to this forever along a never-ending coast and feel the wind on my face” “It’s comin’/ It’s comin’ down hard”
Cause = Time: “This is so much more powerful live. Now I can hear the anthem in it”
Protest Song: “There’s always a happy way to end a war. We’re here, now. We’re fighting.” “Just leave it/ We all left where we’re from/ We’re just the latest in the longest rank and file that’s ever to exist in the history of the protest song”
Superconnected: “Yaaaay! This is always the perfect credit roll to the end of a struggle story”
Stay Happy: “This is just as playful as they get. I love how they tease with the trumpets. In the recorded studio version, that bit sounded like something else. It just got classier.”
Art House Director: “I should hum this more often. So much range in this one.”
Hotel: “NO ONE ELSE could come up with this one; it’s one of those tunes that make you feel proud to know the band.” “Sleep looks like a mescaline sun/ But calm is a word that I dream about”
At this point, my trip ran into an interruption. A girl excused herself to get closer to the stage. There was something rough about the jostling, so I mumbled a passive aggressive “Sorry!” I shrugged. She turned, nursing a glass of bourbon, took a long hard, bewildered look at me. Then, with a slur, she assured me, “Yer got nothin’ to be sorry for!” She was also very concerned. “They haven’t played Sweetest Kill yet, right?” Not yet. But I duly noted that this was the first time I was asked this question. In a matter of minute, we became concert buddies, while Amelia acquainted herself with the music.
Boyfriends: “Good, so I’m not the only one that thinks falling on love is just a dumb waiting game; a conspiracy plotted by the evil internet people. This one sounds like a post modern epiphany that everyone will certainly ignore.” “They say they’re gonna love you till the end of time, but they’re not/ No, they’re not/ Say they’re gonna try and keep an open mind, but they’re not/ No, they’re not”
Fire Eye’d Boy: “Like in the video, this really does sounds like a letter to a loved one from a battlefield. Never forget history. Never say goodbye to your warrior” “Until the day I die/ Colombia I blame/ Got us back, back to life/ To take off again”
Gonna Get Better: “No one needs to know everything to come. The most sturdy stepping stone is calling a spade a spade. There is so much comfort in this one, and a wonderful groove. Hello, Ariel Engle!
Sweetest Kill: “My concert buddy’s about to pass out with excitement. That glass of whiskey is empty. Sure as shit, she turns to me. “ THAT’S MY FUCKING SONG.”
“HOW LONG? IT’S BEEN MINE FOR THE LAST TWELVE!”
“IT’S MY FUCKING SONG!” she insisted. We moped along to the fucking song together.
“And they can try to wear you down/ Put you out/
Get you through your will that won’t work/
I thought you were the sweetest kill/ Could I even know?”
There was howling in the room. You could tell this was a Broken Social Scene classic, loved by all.
Kevin Drew stopped a moment to take in everything. “Let me look at all the beautiful people out here tonight. We love you. Where are you?”
My concert buddy took my arm and raised it like an elephant’s trunk.“RIGHT HERE!” Kevin turned to us. “I see you. Wait there’s more – holy shit!” He’d shaded his eyes with his palm.
“YOU’RE FUCKING GENIUSES!” the fanatic shouted — yet again.
Skyline: “This is a theme for the end of purgatory and sweet release. All good shit must eventually be flushed down for better shit. The wisdom to distinguish things you cannot change is powerful and propulsive”
Almost Crimes: “This one, just like Can’t Find My Heart, sounds like the arrival of something wonderful. Absolutely meant to be caught live in all its infectiousness. “I told you we’d make it, on for another/ I told you we’d make it, on for all night”
Ibi Dreams of Pavement (A Better Day): “This is the last. It is also a reminder that time is malleable, and still wins.”
Amelia had excused herself to the ladies room and had forewarned me that if she couldn’t make it back through the packed house, I should meet her either outside or elsewhere. On another day, I would have offered to go with and wait for her.
The set list, if you ask me, was the perfect graph. It had some of their greats, but not necessarily in the order that you’d expect. Whether it was intended or not, there was room to come down for a bigger high, there was as much elevation as the sustenance of mellow, blissful moods and contemplative tones. Like they’ve always been known for, this night was just as much of a beautiful mess by beautiful people. And it wasn’t quite over.
The Encore:
Hug of Thunder: “Modi just got re-elected. How will we look back at this moment in time, especially with regard to what’s going to happen in Kashmir?”
And happen it did. It’s still happening. The trigger for this foreshadowing in my head were the words, “There was a military base across the street/ We watch them training while we eat”
This band is worldly in its consciousness, and yet they’re just the thing you need for your bedroom while doing or thinking of — pretty much anything. The last one had to be a gentle banger:
Lover’s Spit: What once sounded like a post GRID celebratory ballad is now the ultimate, literally messy and most intimate love song. It will never be forgotten for its unabashed swell and surrender to the ultimate human rush. “You know it’s time that we grow old and do some shit/ I like it all that way”
As the fabled, modern workaholic myth goes, I was in a place where this fanatic experience had given me something “more than coffee but less than cocaine” The best I could think of for the next fix was to get home, get alcohol and blast the E.P by the fire pit. But that was later… after I’d tracked Amelia, whose phone I couldn’t reach. I dragged my feet past the exit. While obviously still reeling, I saw her number flashing on my screen instead.
“Hey, do you wanna go home right away?”
“Um, yeah. The gig’s well past over, so…”
I watched bootleggers selling Broken Social Scene T shirts for ten bucks, any size you wanted.
“Okay, so I was just watching from the balcony and taking pictures and videos and stuff, and I started talking to this guy, I don’t know — he offered me a seat at the VIP section, and now apparently there’s some kind of — shit, I’m drinking. When did I start drinking?”
“Spit it out!”
“Yeah, so this guy says there’s, like, an after-party or something and he could get us in — well, one of us at least. Do you want in?”
“Like… ‘hang out with the band’ after-party?”
“I don’t know. He won’t confirm or deny”
“That’s a giveaway confirmation. What about you?”
“ Well I don’t care either way, but I saw what the band means to you, so if you want in, he’ll come get you and I can take a Lyft home.”
“I don’t know — I don’t wanna just hang if it’s not the band, you know?”
“I mean, either way it could be nice to meet other fans and maybe the band will show up. You decide, I don’t know. This is kinda your night.”
“Okay, I’ll chance it. It’ll be better if you could stick around too, though.”
“Okay, good. We’ll come down and he’ll see what he can do.”
Minutes later, some tall guy with a team badge leaned out the door and discreetly gestured for me to come to him. I almost set foot, when the guard exploded with his, “Uh – uh — staff only at this point, sorry!”
“What? He’s with us, he was just in.”
“Oh yeah? So was two-thirds of Hollywood. Where’s his badge?”
I protested in the lamest way: “HE left it in the men’s room.”
“Yeah, I totally know him.” the guy with the badge chipped in, putting an arm around me. Cringe.
“Oh, totally, huh? So you just watched him leave his badge and didn’t say nothin’. Thanks for the emphasis, but I gotta do my job. Sorry, sirs”
“Come on, it’s not like I’ll break in and buy alcohol. They’ve closed all the tabs, man” I went lamer.
“Buy alcohol, I don’t give a shit. But I can’t let any more people in. Staff only. That’s final, you gotta understand. Have a good night.”
I could see the nice Canadian come down with a genuine sense of loss. It was also mine. He left with a tired wink and retreated to Amelia, who was yawning by the lobby. She shook hands to thank him and came right out. You know what they say about all good things.
Once we were home, we took a long hard look at the signed special edition poster: a broken, beautiful, fucked up, sexy collage mess. There was a good strain of medicinal herbs waiting to be vaped. I’m not sure Amelia ever sought out the band’s music after that night, but they had definitely made an impression. She showed me the video she took of the band asking everyone to scream out loud for themselves. But she was now living with someone who’d been more than impressed with them for over a decade. The vows were renewed in person.
I crawled into warm sheets straight out of the dryer, with Princess, our Siamese feline darling warming my feet and purring — almost helping me relive the throb of the phenomenal music I wished more people would love in the near future. I put on my own Broken Social Scene playlist where I’d last left it.
“Used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked you for that/ Now you’re all gone, got your makeup on and you’re not coming back”
Neville was calling, obviously to check in on the experience. I declined for that moment. Minutes later, I got a text from him. It said, “I totally get it, bub. Let’s hang tomorrow at the Stinky Wizard’s Lair.”
REELING 