It's not every day that one exchanges emails with a music legend. Well, Cult MTL got lucky this weekend and conversed with one of the most respected lyricists and singers of our generation, just ahead of his show in Burlington, VT. Read about his continued boycott of Canada, his relationship with the music industry and his feelings about Smiths-reunion rumours and "the noise generation," right here.
Congolese band Staff Benda Bilili perform at the Rialto Theatre tonight, bringing with them a brilliant sound produced by homemade instruments, and played by street musicians beset by poliomyelitis. Despite their many challenges, the band has gained international fame with music that moves the masses.
A lot of his fans give producer Flying Lotus “can-do-no-wrong” status, and that won’t change with album number four.
Is it deserved? Rappers wanna rap to it, singers wanna sing to it, and FlyLo gives it up to the right participants. A lotta producers of this magnitude have made the decision to have nothin’ to do with those types, or least keep it limited to their own creative terms and instincts, but Lotus has been generous with his time and talent, and the payoff is audible on Until the Quiet Comes.
The guys-with-guns genre is played out. What’s a guy (In Bruges director Martin McDonagh) to do but to follow it up with a self-indulgent, rambling meta-movie that points out exactly what is wrong with the genre?
Humans is Robbie Slade and (Montreal native) Peter Ricq, two fun guys working in “No Fun City” (Vancouver), who happen to sound almost identical on the phone — it took me at least 10 minutes to figure out I was speaking to two people.
During our last three-way conversation (for the Mirror), we discussed their awesome puppet video “Bike Home” and Slade’s one-time summer job as a firefighter in northern B.C. This time, they were lost in Hamilton when I called, and the conversation shifted from their new music to tales of another summer job (on a nude beach) to what to do when encountered by rival Humans.
It looks burnt around the crisp, flaky edges, but it’s plenty moist inside, more so the closer you get to the gooey centre — which is why I unwind and eat it from the outside in, saving the plushest bites for last.
Rawi Hage’s latest novel, Carnival, snakes through the streets of an imaginary city, inhaling and exhaling a cast of petty crooks, sex workers and thugs. Hage’s protagonist is a cabbie named Fly, who, as his name suggests, is perpetually in motion.