Okay so this night was smack dab in the middle of The Weekend Of Getting Extraordinarily Drunk. I swear I'm not usually such an alky, but this was a special occasion, for I had a lovely guest along, and hey, you gotta show yer pals a good time, right? And what better way then with good Canadian booze?! Amazingly both he (not familiar with my camera and groggy) and myself (familiar with my camera but groggy) managed to snap some pretty okay/telling photos of the full evening. Come along with us as we trek from the peculiar Brian Jonestown Massacre show, to the standard Railway Club night that turned into a peculiar .... something.

I guess I have had weirder show nights. But I can't really think of any right now. And if I hadn't been already familiar with the Brian Jonestown Massacre and all their whacked-out, high-strung turmoil, I probably would have actually not enjoyed myself at this show in the slightest. I would have just thought, "What is this whackjob doing wasting my time and money?" and probably written a letter to someone angrily... Luckily, I was prepared for just about anything, and I ended up feeling like I had really caught a good character night for this troupe. It was a decent middle ground - neither eventless, nor resulting in Anton Newcombe kicking everyone in the head. We poured on into the building, which was already fairly full, grabbed up a couple overpriced Richards beers, and trucked it frontward for a full-on BJM experience. I'd expressed concern earlier to my companion about being annihilated by a blow from Newcombe's foot as he saw someone standing so close to him with a camera. Yeah I was 'approved' but the guy's a bit of a spitfire and I doubt even if he'd been handing out approvals himself, that he'd bother to take note of that. I didn't have to worry about that for a long while though.

A looooong while.

While waiting for the show to start, we made friends with a small Portugese gentleman who had seen every influential band on the planet, mostly across Europe, and was just energized with anticipation for this band we were apparently about to see. For every little thing we told him about bands we'd seen, he'd express, wide-eyed, in his thick Portugese accent "Wwwwwooowwww!" very much like pervy Christopher Walken doing his "The Continental" bit on Saturday Night Live. He'd been through a lot of cool things in his life, and somehow ended up in dead-end Vancouver, being thrilled by my comparatively dull musical experiences. The guy was a true fan, and the greatest thing about him was that he was so excited about heading to the afterparty to see The Christa Min, a Vancouver collective of straggly pieces of other prominent local bands who've come together in recent months to create a new brand of sharp, noisy guitar rock. I have the feeling this guy may be a regular fixture at Zulu Records, where The Christa Min frontman Jason Grimmer manages the popular indie record shop. Anyhow, it's just really cool to see people who've seen so much music and can still get so excited about it. I hang out with way too many snobby scenesters. The guys from the Manvils, who would be playing as well at the afterparty, sprung up back and forth behind us flinging Manvils stickers all over the place. They'd remain there for much of the show, I guess taking off only when they had to get back to their own gig.

The night carried on - it was supposed to be part of an "A Night With..." series, meaning there would be no opening band, and the headliners would play for a couple of hours. Tick tick tick.... no band is showing up on stage. The audience is thickening, the booze is definitely leaking into some skulls and the ears in the room are starving for some music. Suddenly, there's the realization that there is absolutely no gear onstage except the house mics and all that jazz. Well, if there's any band on the planet that would run the risk of not being allowed to hop across our stodgy, band-hating border, BJM is it, and finally, an announcement was made that, yes, they had been held up at the border for a long time. Literally moments earlier, we'd been pondering booking it for the Railway Club, where the official afterparty was being held/High Dials were playing, just to make sure we'd actually get in there. We stalled for just a second, and in that very second the back doors of the club burst open, spilling scurrying band and crew members with armloads of instruments into the room. Within minutes, a show of efficiency rarely paralleled in any 'nothing can happen til we're good n' ready' live environment, the stage was set up, Newcombe was at the mic giving a speech about shitty border control and how cool we all were for sticking around, and bam, instantly we were launched into the swirling, twisted, soul-squandering world of the Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Everything was normal for a while - aside from the clueless Asian lady beside us who was waving CD booklets around at band members to get them to sign some autographs. She was shut down. She didn't seem to realize it. What fun. Newcombe is an engaging performer to say the least. Even when he's in a good-natured mood, he doesn't let you forget that he's juuust a little bit insane. He rolls, crouches, dives, swings, and gyrates all over the floor, with a voice that's less graceful and more heartfelt (or drug-addled), a face that looks partially loaded and partially pissed off at all times, and words rife with personal and worldly politics. This is a passionate man, there is no doubting that. His scattered looks combined with his outspoken demeanour make him a tad creepy. This man, filled to the brim with governmental malcontent and emotional drama, is so cocksure about his opinions that he'll put up one helluva a fight for them - would our world be better ruled by a feisty bunch of Anton Newcombes? Alarming thought. Made more alarming by the thought that, yes, having some guy who punches his own band members for missing a chord on stage making America's national decisions would probably leave the planet in better shape than the guy who's currently in charge. If I disappear tomorrow, you know why. Please call the Canadian government so we can send our huge, world-dominating navy (it's a tugboat and a guy with a slingshot on a moose) down the Pacific seaboard to look for me.

Anyhow, the show carried on. Newcombe removed some clothing and clustered himself at the back of the stage, posing away for a photographer and hurling his body in fits and starts over his guitar, which he'd leaned up against an amp and lain on the ground over top of. There was a squirrelly blonde dude, brown suit, scruffy hair, wild face, looking like he'd be more at home at a Unicorns show than here - he materialized on stage (he'd been around from the very very dawn of the evening, I'd noted his stand-out appearance right off the bat) with drinks and some sweet moves, and spent the next while perched on top of one of the stageside speaker stacks entertaining us all with some vicious interpretive dance. I'd say it was a cross between yoga and doowop. Now at some point... all right I don't think anyone can even really recall what happened here definitively. I'm sure someone does. It's only because I wasn't paying attention to anything going on behind me at this point. Someone in the crowd said something that Newcombe picked up on that didn't jive so well with him. It seems he has super-sonic hearing when it comes to things that will set him off. I think the guy really enjoys trouble - he's made a whole career for himself out of being completely off his rocker. It's so nice to know people can be insane and still be loved. Anyhow, whatever was said, Newcombe took offense to, and that was it. The show, mere minutes old, halted. Newcombe strutted determinately to the front of the stage, mic securely in hand, and laid into this guy who he could likely not even locate in the audience.

There was no calming him down. The crowd was a mixture of shock, delight, and nervousness at the spectacle, as Newcombe, in an oddly calm but bullshitless manner, gave this fellow a piece of his mind. "Do you wanna come up here and tell me that? Tell me that where I can see your face. Don't hide behind your fucking girlfriend and say that shit, we're here to perform a show for you. Oh and by the way, I'm fucking your girlfriend tonight, you pussy..." etc etc. This went on and on for almost longer than he'd been playing music at that point. The band stood around patiently (likely used to this brand of outburst) smirking, the audience searched about maybe trying to find this guy to launch him at the stage and begin an outright mélee, maybe just to make sure Newcombe wasn't talking to them and about to lay some serious ass-kicking, and trying to not do anything to piss the guy off further. Hands in your pockets, eyes at the floor, show some respect, young ones. This was not necessary though, as Newcombe's perturbed attentions were locked securely on the one heckler, who may have well done this all on purpose to set this tirade off and go down in history as "that guy at the last BJM show in Vancouver..." So ten minutes later we were back to some music, after a round of applause and cheers from the crowd which Newcombe ignored blatantly.

While all the writhing, undulating music and bodies was severely entertaining, my companion, who is not from Canada, ergo, not privvy to the High Dials having toured through his neighbourhood 400,000 times in the last three months (those guys need to sit down once in a while!), was yanking at my sleeve and getting anxious to scoot over to the diminutive Railway Club for the afterparty. We shoved aside the starry-eyed crowd and dashed outside where his eagle-eyes quickly scored us a cab, some other chicks' eagle-eyes scored us heading to the same place they were, and together, the four of us smushed into the car and were whisked away for a wee sum to continue the night. I was stunned to see zero line-up for the show, and the room actually not even too terribly full for a Saturday night. Usually around this time, the place is crawling with locals who've made elbow impressions in the bar from sitting there for the last 20 years solid. Of course priority number one is hitting the watering hole, which I must say, was very poorly-stocked for a weekend. I don't even know what fruity beerish concoction dribbled out of a rotting old keg tube I was swilling by the end of the night. Regardless, flavour was barely an issue at that point. On stage as we arrived was Slow Poke and the Smoke. I didn't see much of them or their fun hats, as I was busy trying to avoid certain disaster on the bar's patio from a guy who was very friendly and offering up some unique Canadian souvenirs from a flea market, but who was way too politically-opinionated for his own good towards our politically-innocent guests - that averted, it was back in to the bar, more beers purchased, and the realization that there was suddenly a throng of people lined up apparently all the way to the 7-11 on the downstairs corner outside.

As we piled back up front to take a seat in an awkward and in-the-way spot on the floor, we ran into our Portugese friend from the BJM show, who told us that the show had been over with pretty darn fast after we'd taken off. And then everyone from there dashed across town to the Railway to get up-close with the crazy bastard Newcombe himself (if he hadn't passed out in a gutter by then), hence the sudden daunting line-up out the door. The Christa Min crashed swiftly through the thickening stagefront crowd, set up their collection of keyboards and guitars on the tiny stage, and fell into a sweeping and chunky set of music. Cool stuff - Grimmer's acidic voice punches the air violently, tempered by Alan Forester's snappy guitar-playing fingers, the sizzle of a tambourine, and some jittery keys. It was all over in a blast though, as the High Dials emerged to conquer their third Vancouver room in recent times. You have probably seen some reviews about them on Cord before. In my last Media Club review on these guys, I discussed being stomped on by some audience members who were dancing like mad. One of those folks was Mikey Manville, an extraordinary fan of the Dials' partytime sound, who'd been leaping about on top of me with sheer joy as he danced the night away. The next time through, he was opening for them. And this night, he'd be playing after them with his band, The Manvils. In the meantime, he was locked to the front of the stage with a delirious grin, an ever-refreshing beer, and a tendency to hit the mic and add his own vocals to the mix.

It's all really a blur, probably because I was drunk, but also because the whole room just gets so bloody happy and euphoric, it's hard to pay attention any more. All you feel is bliss and all you can do is dance as hard as you can. I know our new Portugese friend was cutting a rug up front still, his leftovers from the Christa Min set. Manville was still kickin' it. And I had my camera taken hostage for a brief time to lift some of that photographic stuff off my own shoulders (problem - now I don't really know who took what photo...). And partway through the set, I was suddenly aware of the surly-looking drunk ruffian who'd emerged from the crowd just to my right. It was Anton Newcombe! He'd made it! Manville was already on him in a flash, leaping and cheersing and hand-shaking... Manville's like someone who just won an election or a gold medal at the Olympics. He's the most open guy I know. The first night I ever met him, we were at the Morrissey, I told him he was the guy who just about broke my feet at the High Dials gig, and he sat me in a corner for the next two hours telling me his life story. But anyhow, Newcombe. He staggered about expressionless for a moment with a drink in his hand. I leaned over to say something to him, and he turned to me with a slack face, made one smile-like facial twitch that I will take as a great indication that he was ackowledging my existence, and as I held a hand out to him, he grabbed it and then collapsed face-first into my boobs where he remained for a moment before turning with no further glance towards the middle of the audience. Mere moments later he ran headlong into my companion, who was I think just coming back from the bar, and kissed him. Isn't that just touching? Newcombe can hand out the love where it's due. Or I guess if there's boobs involved. Or soft and inviting guycheeks. Hahaha.

Shortly thereafter, Newcombe smashed back through the crowd, yanked up a mic, and began to sing along to the High Dials. Sort of. More like mumble and hum along with the tunes and throw in a few lines here and there. He added his own vocal-instrument track to the remainder of the set. And at the end, much as they've done before, High Dial bassist Rishi Dhir put aside his standard instrument and brought out the sitar. You can feel the murmury hush roll through the crowd when that thing comes out. It's an impressive-looking beast, and everyone knows that when the sitar shows up, there's gonna be a jamout and suddenly we're all gonna be lying in a snuggly cluster making out in two inches of intertidal sandy surf on a sunny California beach, tripped out in some Doors-y little universe where nothing else really matters but that twinging, ethnic noise and how fucking good you feel and how much you love everyone who's touching you even if you've only just met them and can't even remember their name. I'm sure Newcombe feels the same way, and he wants to be part of everyone and everything. He crawled over to where Dhir was sitting on the stage with the sitar in his lap spewing forth noise obediently from the motions of his talented fingers. Newcombe still had that microphone he had earlier nicked from the stage, and continued his choral additions to the now-lyricless rolling jamout. For a good ten minutes or more, the song pulsed between driving swiftness and mellow comedowns over and over, taking the audience in, making people sway... Really cool, the hold they had on the room then. I got lost in the whole deal, clumped myself on the floor at Newcombe's feet to take photos and watch him flow about with his stick-straight hair flopped over his face, shoving the mic right up to the sitar strings.

Another 68 rounds of beers later, after helping Mikey Manville put his collection of guitar cases in a safe spot as he'd just basically slid them overtop of the audience and onto a pile of gear and drinks, The Manvils were ready to carry out the night. Due to the extended outro from the High Dials, they didn't have much of a set time left, and on the small stage, not a lot of room to kick it into high gear like they sure as shit can. The last time I saw them, again at the Morrissey, the stage wasn't larger so much as it was airier, and the movement of the band on stage caused the makeshift stage to drift apart, prompting out of Manville some jokes about being on the San Andreas fault as he straddled the newly-formed crack in the floor. No such stage malfunctions here, The Manvils are an easy combination of cool-drippings and shit-hot-rockings. And Manville himself is a mover + shaker to say the least. He's a tall, lithe guy with limbs that stretch to infinity, and those limbs are just about breaking the walls down with his danceaholic energy. He skitters around on stage, knocking into stuff, shimmying up to his bandmates, leading clapalongs, and eventually throwing himself into the audience in a heap and just letting everyone catch him. My companion of course took the opportunity, now that he had a few more drinks under his belt, to see if his photography skills had improved. It was a dual effort - he was engaged in juxtaposition and sort of focussing, and I stood above him making sure the flash wasn't aimed into the eyeballs of the people behind us. I don't, again, know who shot what out of these photos, but who the fuck cares, we're a team, and you can see how much fun it was. Wooha.

Stupidly, the room had been clearing out a bit - I don't know if maybe this was due to some sort of after-afterparty that Newcombe might have dragged half the audience off to like the Pied Piper he is, or if it's because the bar had run out of decent bottled beer, or if the nearby Marble Arch club attracted the hip set away, or if Vancouverites are getting unfathomably lamer and going home early on Saturday nights now too. I may be outta line, as I'm not certain of the exact time - knowing how long the sets had been tonight, it might have been much later than I thought. I just amazed me that anyone could possibly step out of a room with a band on stage that's rocking it so hard. Sheeeeeeeit they're good! It was a fittingly wild end to a pretty odd night... and as Mikey Manville's shredded voice parted the thick Railway Club air one last time, we bid goodnight to the Best Day Of The Week, hit the Timmy Ho's for some vittles, and refreshed ourselves with a nightcap of beer that actually tasted good.

It was a night to reflect on for sure... I doubt I will ever see another gig that was quite so destroyed (gloriously so!) as that Brian Jonestown Massacre show. Aside from the occasional surly band member that stops a song to complain that there's people in the audience talking, there have rarely been such moments in my experience. Okay, so there was that time that Danzig whacked somebody in the face in the crowd lasso-style with his microphone and then proceeded to jump in and punch the guy senseless after the courteous bloodthirsty crowd actually body-surfed the poor bastard to the front. He was escorted away bleeding shortly thereafter. But that's oafishness for you. And keeping with the theme, there was the time the Dandy Warhols, in the same room we were standing for BJM, stopped their show partway through so Zia McCabe could go to the bathroom. So the band sat down and had basically a coffee break for ten minutes. But still, probably close to half of BJM's truncated set was taken up by Anton Newcombe's diatribe against some fuckiddy-fucked member of the audience who was trying to get under his skin. And admittedly I am half surprised that my pal didnt get a boot in the face either as he, partway through the speech, laughingly started yelling at Newcombe to play some damn music already. No instead, he got kissed for it later. Weird.

Well, that's Saturday in Vancouver for you. Pleasant cross-section of talented musicians who all somehow ended up in the same room together just having a great damn time. Drink up!

Elsewhere

By Andy Scheffler
Photos : Andy Scheffler & Rob Borgeson
Published : September, 2005.