Words At Arm’s Length

It is a joyous day that brings me quality music, and I gasped (yes, literally gasped) when I saw that the new Parenthetical Girls album had leaked. Their 2006 album Safe As Houses was sent to me by my good friend Aaron and it’s been a favourite of mine since. I’m happy to say that the new album shows a huge step forward for the band, as the influence Xiu Xiu’s Jamie Stewart has had seems to be waning a little bit in favour of bolder sonic ventures. The buzzing synths that set the tone for the previous LP have been replaced with a full-on Modern Opera/Contemporary classical mix on the new Entanglements, and hot damn is it ever good.

One thing that remains intact on Entanglements, though, is a narrative thread that binds the album together. Safe As Houses told the story of a dancer whose tryst with a young man and subsequent pregnancy turn the album’s title into a cruel irony, as even the dancer’s own body works to break her, and no amount of maternal connection can repair the damage:

L-O-V-E scratched your name into me
F-A-C-E and its traces of me
Curls ’round your cheeks, Christ, you looked just like me
When you took nine months to destroy my body. (“I Was The Dancer”)

Much of the album is told in retrospect, first from the perspective of the mother, then that of the daughter once the mother lies down on some train tracks and allows a train to trisect her , but the mother’s obsession with her own body and subsequent miscarriages (especially in “Oh Daughter/Disaster”) and her eventual rejection of her body through suicide (“The Weight She Fell Under”) prevents the daughter from gaining any real comfort, and only finds solace when lying on the graves of her dead brothers (“Stolen Children”). To me, this narrative shows the danger of labelling a woman as “ruined” due to a pregnancy out of wedlock, and how that “ruin” is inherited through the shame brought on by the concept of illegitimacy. A woman’s worth is “ruined” by allowing herself a sexual encounter, and because she’s absorbed this narrative and stereotype, the transformation her body undergoes is revolting to her, and her resentment carries on through the daughter that dared to grow inside of her. This is all told rather melodramatically on the album, but with the tone of the music, it works splendidly. The constant buzz of the synths anchor the album in melancholy while the falsetto male vocals telling this first-person female narrative adds a strange, strained edge to the sound that really reflects the twisting of the daughter’s psyche. Really, a male voice is perfect, as it “talks over” the female narrative and reminds us where the root of the problem supposedly lies.

Entanglements takes a more divorced look at the “ruin” of the female protagonist. The focus is less on the physical destruction of the woman and moreso on the social, emotional and psychological level. I think this album is a huge step up over the story on Safe As Houses because the female character is far more complex, and culpable. The grandiose string and flute arrangements on the Rogers & Hammerstein-esque “Four Words” match the breathless abandon of the female character as she is enraptured by thoughts of love. Her ruin comes at the hands of her own lust, as she, a 25-year-old, leads her object of affection, a 14-year-old boy,  to his “coming of age” (“Unmentionables”). The narrative spirals from there, as the woman battles her shame and anger in confrontations with her parents and the rest of society, and eventually she unravels in the disturbing “The Windmills of Your Mind”. This song messes me up on so many levels, as Zac Pennington’s vocals list off a set of similes and metaphors for the woman’s mental collapse in way reminiscent of Maria listing off her favourite things in The Sound of Music. It’s eerie and it’s awesome.

While I do think that the complete and utter ruin of a woman as a result of pregnancy is an incredibly cynical view and tends to peg these women as victims, I can’t help but admire the craftsmanship of both albums, especially Entanglements. Yes, they are extreme examples, but if you consider anorexia and bulimia’s soaring popularity and the slut-shaming that still goes on in discourse surrounding abortion, these two stories really don’t seem that far off. A cautionary tale, perhaps, of what conservatism and ridiculous expectations of physicality and decorum can do to women, and a reminder that we’re swinging back in a dangerous direction.

Neither of these albums are easy listens, but I find them to be incredibly rewarding musically and lyrically. If you can find them, give them a listen. You won’t regret it.

Fuck ‘em.

Day 5

Our earliest wake-up yet. I’m up, showered and changed before the others wake up. Time to start packing. It seems I packed just enough clothing to get me through the trip, plus two extra pairs of socks. Once packed we hang about in our room until Vicky arrives. We assemble, and we march out. I feel a bit melancholy as we do, knowing full well that this shopping trip will be our last venture before we leave the Second City.

We return to the bakery for a full-on breakfast. Their bizarre ordering system seems completely ridiculous to me as it forces the staff to do a scavenger hunt for one’s table after one orders at the register. Delicious french toast, though.

After breakfast we break again, the girls and I heading to Burberry and Aaron and Mike off to unknown areas of the city. The Burberry store is pure class and way out of my price range, but I enjoy the thought of wearing a $700 shirt and paying for it out of a $300 wallet. Burberry clothing appeals to me because of its simplicity. Clean lines, solid colours, bold prints. I resist the urge to splurge as even the ties are in the $100-$200 range.

Next we go to Coach, where I can practically hear Becky’s heart race. She and Vicky eye the purses while I eye the one male shop attendant. Becky finds a purse and I can tell she’s a little bit in la-la-love. It’s definitely a lovely piece of hardware, but she wisely holds off until she has time to think (swoon) about it. The girls move on to Forever 21 and I break off to check out Hugo Boss and Kenneth Cole. I start to feel antsy for whatever reason as I shop. I go back to Forever 21 to hang out with Becky and Vicky but the anxiety starts to get worse and I need to get outdoors. I excuse myself and tell the girls I’ll meet with them later.

Off I go on my own, in the rain, in downtown Chicago. I start to feel a bit better, thinking that maybe the confining atmosphere of the clothing stores was what was getting to me. It’s cold out, but in a refreshing, non-recirculated air kind of way. I decide to follow Luke’s directions to Reckless Records, manage to walk the wrong way down the right road for a while, but find my way once I discover that Chicago too has Transit maps in their bus shelters. Hooray for that flash of inspiration.

Reckless Records is smaller than I expected, but its selection is marvelous. Here I find a souvenir for my brother (a rare Pearl Jam single) and Of Montreal’s Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? on vinyl, all for under $20. Not too shabby.

I return to the hotel, briefly stopping at a Macy’s on the way but feeling again like I’m navigating a sealed crypt, and discover everyone has already returned. Becky reveals that she’s now a majority shareholder in Coach with the bag she purchased and Vicky models her Burberry wallet. Mike and I pound back a few Rye and Cokes in the room before we check out and have some dinner. Life is good.

Dinner is great. We go to Harry Caray’s for our final Chicago meal, which is coincidentally Aaron and Becky’s 6-month anniversary dinner, which they celebrate in grand fashion. Sadly Kitty must depart early for the bus. We say our goodbyes and she leaves for her own adventure on the Greyhound back to Toronto. Meetings and partings. The food arrives.

The five survivors emerge from the restaurant well-fed and serene. The next task is bringing Vicky to her car so she can return to Madison. We part ways with another friend and head back to the hotel. We try to find the Macy’s I went to earlier but to no avail, so Aaron and Becky go to another one located on the Magnificent Mile while Mike and I hold the fort and talk turkey.

Bags gathered, we cab back to O’Hare airport. The drama begins when we arrive. Line-ups as far as the eye can see, and thunderstorms brewing overhead. We wait in line, finally get through security, and to our gate. Relief sets in for a moment, until we hear that Chicago is under a tornado warning and that all passengers should stay away from the airport windows. Delays are expected. Aaron and Becky peruse the shops at the airport, then return to allow Mike and I to do the same. I discover a place to sync my iPod and download spoken word poetry. Sonnets performed by snooty-sounding Brits, as well as Romeo’s “But soft!” soliloquy. Comedy gold.

Gate change number one. Not so drastic, just one over from the one we’re at already. Second gate change, slightly more intense. The attendants say that there are a few seats left on an earlier flight to Buffalo, so we decide to stay at our gate. Then we learn that that earlier flight is actually OUR flight, and we have to run from gate B8 to gate B19 in one of the largest airports on the continent. Slight irritation turns to extreme panic.

We arrive at the gate with plenty of time to spare. Crisis averted. Suddenly, Aaron points out a familiar face walking past our gate: the lead singer of the Black Kids, who just performed at Lollapalooza. I creepily follow him until (Chance!) he stops at a magazine rack. I casually walk buy and pick up an issue of GQ, then turn to him. “Aren’t you the lead singer for the Black Kids?” I ask coyly. Why, yes he is, and of course he’ll give his autograph. Reggie is shy and practically inaudible when he speaks, but this being his band’s first major world tour, I’m not entirely surprised. I thank him and return to the group with my token.

We board the plane, finally, and I trade seats with Becky so she’s not alone on the aisle. Oddly enough i sit next to a guy named Alex who also traded seats with someone else, and as we learn of the further delays we’ll be forced to suffer through, he and I get to talking. And talking. And talking. Music, travel, anime (of all things), video games, it’s all out there. I make him listen to the Go! Team on my iPod and shablam! Friends. When we finally take off, we can see lightning jumping from cloud to cloud and I force myself to keep talking so I don’t freak out form the turbulence. We hear the word “emergency” over the intercom without much context and more panic sets in. “What luck,” I think to myself, “to have such an amazing trip only to die before I can put up my Facebook photos.” I pray that if I die, they at least find my memory stick intact.

Just kidding on the Facebook thing. But it was pretty scary.

We land and I say my goodbyes to Alex, promising internet contact. The four regroup and we await Aaron and Becky’s baggage, which arrives safely. We chill out on a conveyor belt waiting for our airbus until it begins to move, scaring the bejeezus out of me, and we park ourselves on more conventional seating. The arbus driver arrives, and we get our stuff in just in time to see the driver get a ticket for leaving the bus unattended. The traffic cop is a total dickhole and our driver fumes for most of the drive home. Most of us pass out.

We get to Aaron’s place and say our goodbyes to Mike, I give him a customary smooch on the head and he drives off into the sunrise. But oh, when will I ever see him again (a few days later, apparently)?

Aaron does me the kindness of driving me the rest of the way to my place on the way to Becky’s so I don’t have to carry my monstrous backpack any further. We part, promising future merriment, and I lurch into my house, wildly unhappy to be home but too happy high from the trip to care. I barge into my own room to discover my father sleeping there, apparently booted from his bed for snoring. I ride the couch for 20 minutes until he relinquishes my beautiful chamber, and off I drift, dreamless, into a good morning’s rest.

Day 4

Awaken again to a room full of dreamers. Virginia Woolf and The Sleeping Years are my companions this morning, until I shake it off and head to the shower. And off we go.

Breakfast is a mercenary operation. Aaron and I rustle up croissants and bagels from a nearby bakery, and return to the hotel with our bounty. Another schism today as Victoria arrives and Becky and Aaron stay behind to meet her at the hotel. Mike and I forge ahead to the festival, stopping on the way to first purchase sunscreen, then discover a free supply on the way there. Blergh.

The Octopus Project are the first band of the day. Their vocal-less experimental pop goes down surprisingly easy in the morning sun and actually gets me moving a little bit. Their on-stage banter is rather cute, with shout-outs to Kanye and cultish call-and-response moments. Sadly, their set gets cut before they can perform their last song.

Just in time for Kid Sister to be nearly 20 minutes late for her set on the adjacent stage. Irritation. The DJ goes on and on and tries to keep the crowd going, but I can’t help but think: “I could have seen another Octopus Project song instead of this garbage.” When Kid Sister finally does arrive, she puts on a rather spirited performance, but she’s already lost Mike and I and we saunter away from the stage to meet Kelly and Luke.

After being cheerfully plowed into by Luke, the four of us walk over to the North End of the park to catch the Weakerthans. Travesty. The Weakerthans have cancelled and the early line-up is re-shuffled. We sit for a while, then split briefly for food and the like. We reconvene at the South End to catch Brazilian Girls and meet with Becky, Aaron and Victoria. Mike is a little worse for wear today and tries to sport a free bandana to relieve himself from the heat to no avail. The seven of us are finally brought together only to split again as Kelly and Luke depart for the Black Kids. We stay for Chromeo, and more ass-shaking and move-busting occurs.

After Chromeo sufficiently wows us, we depart and split again, Mike and I heading to Iron & Wine, and Becky, Aaron and Vicky stopping for drinks. This proves to be a day-long separation in spite of frantic text-messaging due to the slow movement of the crowds and some scheduling conflicts. Mike, Kelly, Luke and I stick together for Sam Beam’s gorgeous rendition of “Woman King” and we head off to the performance I had really been waiting for all day: Girl Talk.

The area around the stage is packed tight. Apparently everyone else has already heard that Girl Talk is a sight to see and we eagerly anticipate his arrival. Some locals share their joint with me while Mike and I wait together for the show to start. And, my word, does it ever get started. Almost immediately the bodies start to writhe and bounce and you can’t feel anything besides other people’s sweat and the boom of the bass. Somehow I get close to the stage and snap some blurry pictures, but the camera is put away in favour of more dancing. It’s like a giant street party and everyone is having a blast. Once all is said and done, I’m a sweaty mess and it’s time for the National and Nine Inch Nails.

Both bands are amazing, of course. The National’s live performance of “Mr. November” gets angrier every time I hear it. A surprisingly chatty Trent Reznor guided us through an impressive Nine Inch Nails set, where near-perfect renditions of “Piggy” and “Hurt” have me bowled over. I never realized what a great showman Trent is, but it really became clear to me how vital and powerful his presence is on stage. He gives a speech about having performed at the first Lollapalooza 17 years ago and the nostalgia is thick. Oh NIN, you make me swoon.

Mike and I reunite with Aaron, Becky and Victoria for the march home. We trade stories about the performances we just saw and head off to bed for another early start, and our last day in Chicago.

Day 3

A late start today. A necessary lapse in our plan, as the ass-kicking we received from the sun and the walking the day before has taken its toll. Poor Becky has taken the brunt of it, but she trucks along like a trooper. We roll on to T.G.I.Fridays for lunch and photo ops. The fried shrimp I eat is incredibly average, but the company adds a nice flavour. It’s at this point that I realize that the trip is worth it. Simple things like sharing a meal become an event, and the chatter in my head is muted for a spell without requiring pen and paper, alcohol, a dancefloor, or a combination of thereof.

The collective hits Lollapalooza with a more subdued plan of attack. The Gutter Twins growl out some bluesy metal but I can’t really connect. Mark Lanegan is looking as grizzled and delicious as ever, but his presence is hardly felt on the stage at all.

MGMT is next. We don’t attempt to penetrate the crowd at all. Sun and beer and frivolity. Again, it’s moments like these that stand out to me for some reason. We shoot the shit about the band’s abysmal setlist until the show finally picks up at the end. We all enjoy a beer and bask in the sun. Life is good.

Schism. Mike and I head to see Spank Rock as I’m in dire need of some ass-shaking and Becky and Aaron head to the edge of the park for some Brand New action. Spank Rock is incredible. I know I should have a problem with the misogyny in the lyrics, but Amanda Blank fucking destroys. She rhymes at Busta Rhymes level speed in high heels and a leather mini-dress. The beats are insane and it reeks of sex in the air. Glory.

Battles is next. Precision in tuning is key, apparently, and it takes a moment for the show to get going. But, oh my Lord, once it does, it is amazing. Everything is pitch-perfect and timed like a Nazi train. Their performance of “Atlas” was one of the most stunning events of my life, in spite of the drunken shirtless boys being removed from the stage by security.

Rage! The foursome unites and finds a safe haven from which to enjoy the chaos that is Rage Against the Machine. Aaron and Mike locate some illegal beer dealings and get us fast and cheap service. We boys get a bit sauced while we rock out to the band. Becky mostly looks on bemused. Rage stops the show three times to ask the crowd to take a few steps back. Apparently people are getting crushed against the stage and I’m just thinking “Roskilde”. I wonder if Zac and the crew have to walk this line every time they perform, revelling in the idea of whipping the crowd into a frenzy but always knowing in the back of their minds what happens when human nature takes over.

We amble back to the hotel. Kitty, Mike and I decide to continue to get our buzz on at the Chili’s down the street. I make an inappropriate comment about groping the waiter, which is overheard to his amusement, and I leave a note on the bill ensuring continued good nature. We return to the hotel, and I curse the Tropical Sunrise that Kitty ordered for me at the bar. Tequila and I continue our incompatibility and my sleep is again fitful as Day 4 approaches.

Day 2

I awaken in the morning well before the others. The first signs of sunrise press against the edges of the window. I read by the glow of my iPod until the sun feels free to enter the room. My friends awaken one by one, except our Briar Rose, who sleeps on until Kitty pulls the drapes and lets the light in full force. I chuckle a bit as Becky curses under her breath. Would that we could all sleep a bit longer, but the festival awaits.

The most infuriating line-up awaits us as we arrive at Grant Park. 75,000 coming to the festival and they only manage one entrance? We wait, eagerly anticipating our first act of the day: Bang Camaro. After watching flocks of people cut in line we manage to arrive at Bang ten minutes into their set. The testosterone is thick in the air and I breathe it in with fervor. Five musicians, thirteen lead singers, countless guitar solos and nothing but chorus chants. Glorious!

Next is Holy Fuck, a band that shouldn’t translate well in an outdoor setting. Some loss in translation occurs but the band is stellar as usual. I dance and shake out some of the cobwebs. It feels amazing to dance outdoors in broad daylight, like I should be doing it all the time. I can feel the heat bearing down on me and yet I don’t stop until the band does. So much for pacing oneself.

All ideas of conservation end once the Go! Team starts playing. The band plays and MC Ninja rhymes and I completely lose my shit. I lose Becky and Aaron in the crowd as well, and Mike maintains his trademark band-watching stoicism, but I jump and dance and scream along to the lyrics (the ones I know, anyhow). Sweat and sunscreen pour down my face. So worth it. Easily one of the best sets of the festival.

We take a minute to recuperate in the shade and I can feel sunburn setting in already. We attempt to re-apply sunscreen to our very damp skin but it seems futile. Off to Gogol Bordello.

We are rather subdued for the next set in spite of the raucous show Gogol Bordello put on. Mike isn’t handling the heat very well and retreats to the shade for a spell. I have a flash of inspiration and Becky, Aaron and I decide to lie in the grass under Becky’s umbrella. The first cloud of the day passes over the sun and for a moment we have relief. A tease, it seems, as the rest of the clouds pass underneath and the late afternoon sun beats on.

Cadence Weapon is next. Aaron is very pumped to see him and the excitement starts to rub off a bit. Set conflicts start to sting as Cadence only gets about four songs into his set before Becky and I leave to see CSS. C’est la vie.

CSS is by far the funniest band at the show. Lovefoxxx bounds onto the stage in a red unitard covered in flowers, and spends the rest of the show screaming profanities and being adorable. Becky and I have a blast, especially to the older material. Becky’s enjoyment is put on pause (or slightly enhanced) by a drive-by titty-grab from a fellow female festival-goer. We laugh it off and continue dancing. We intend to leave a bit early, but the band plays their two best songs at the end of the set.

The Radiohead set is a clusterfuck. Tens of thousands of people crammed into one side of Grant Park. Becky and I try to meet with Aaron and Mike to no avail for the first little while. Text messaging occurs, showing the other boys in some type of shankage-related peril. We finally reconvene near the port-o-potties and watch as much of the show as we can from there.

We exit the park, taking some pictures along the way. I feel a bit defeated but mostly satisfied with our day. We discover a convenience store on the way back from the park and stock up on alcohol. A slightly less intense deep dish pizza occurs as we enjoy some drinks and some TV. Lights out again, and I wait a while before I shut my eyes to sleep.

Day 1

I await my friends, who have made a detour to pick up snacks and last-minute supplies for the trip. I am packed, waiting impatiently as I watch Helena Bonham Carter and Aaron Eckhart exchange nostalgic banter in Conversations With Other Women. Impatience melts away as I realize the movie is actually very good. My friends arrive as the credits roll. Timing is everything.

Aaron’s place. Deliberations and iPod sharing, snacks and snark, quips and chips. Plotting our paths through Lollapalooza’s setlist is proving difficult, even in the ideal “I don’t eat or poop” world we have concocted. The conflicting time slots seek to tear our foursome asunder, but in the end, I believe we will prevail. Aaron tries to make “Bliphop” happen. Spider attack. A sleeping Becky is roused to panic. First attempt at thwarting the eight-legged foe is thwarted, but subsequent attempts fell the beast.

The airbus arrives. The driver appears to be incredibly well-versed in alternative music in spite of advanced age, baldness. Namedrops Aphex Twin, disses Thom Yorke. I am torn between love and loathing.

Buffalo airport shows some signs of life at 4 a.m. We impatiently await the desk clerk while snacking on Teddy Grahams. We check in successfully and board our plane. Flight was relatively uneventful. Terse Asian man next to me caused some slight discomfort. |————–| <– actual size of plane. Three seats across with one aisle of single seats and one aisle of double seats. Tall businessmen struggle with low ceilings, much to my amusement.

Flight arrives on time. We cab to the hotel, and I fall in love with it upon entering. Spacious, inviting modern decor. Pretentious, classy, beautiful. Kitty awaits, introductions are made, and we are mercifully allowed to check in at 7 a.m. After some brief unpacking and freshening up comes a long-awaited nap. The room is gorgeous, the beds are a dream and the TV is enormous. Could live here forever.

Giordano’s upon awakening, for the most epic pizza of life. Enough cheese to choke a Wisconsin man and crust as flaky as a seminar presentation partner. Ninja waiter serves water like he’s killin’ it. Eight slices between 4 people and I come closest to finishing with one full piece plus one piece minus crust eaten. Regrets are felt immediately. Back to the hotel to sleep it off. Fear of poisoning my bedmate with airbone toxic events fade as toilet humour becomes more and more prevalent throughout the trip. God bless Mikey T.

Rendezvous with Kelly and Luke becomes ridiculously overpriced drinks at the hotel bar. Once finished, the cameras come out. Millennium park becomes photo-op central, then off to the Art Institure of Chicago for some culture.

Breathtaking. “Armida Abandoned by Rinaldo” by Tiepolo and “Nightlife” by Motley astound me. Something in Rinaldo’s expression confounds. Is he laughing or in agony? It’s hard to tell, and I doubt Tiepolo made a mistake on this one. Pictures are taken of the paintings, but the moments are gone. The instant of gratification upon first seeing a piece of art can’t be recaptured. The flaws disappear on a computer screen. You can almost feel the ferocity of Van Gogh’s brushstrokes on the canvas when you see his work up close, and I realize the impermanence of things, the chilled distanced of the paintings once I turn my back from them. I find the landscapes to be too lonely, while “Nightlife” tears my eyes out with its radiance.

We return to the hotel room. I bust out the iron and ironing board in preparation for an outing, and I end up doing all the boys’ shirts. My domesticity amuses. We share a delicious Mexican meal with terrible service and rightly undertip the waitress. Back to the hotel once more, where Becky and Aaron submit to the exhaustion of the day and the ridiculously comfy beds. Mike and I share a drink at the trendy pick-up bar around the corner form the hotel. Bad techno blares from the soundsystem while a black man with a trumpet plays along. We leave the place, unimpressed, and return to the hotel. I lay awake a while and notice how lonely it is at night when everyone else sleeps.

…I’d just like to point out that the only search-result hit my blog received while I was away was for the term “arm fuck”.

Makes this whole blogging thing worth it.