MONTREAL — In a city where French and English co-exist on the streets and in the stores, it’s only natural that they would play nice together on the stage.
The third and final day of the fifth annual M for Montreal music festival and conference offered a balanced menu of Francophone and Anglophone music, comprised of the usual ingredients: Plenty of rock, pop and roots; a little hip-hop, electro and metal; a few servings of cheese; and even a slice of Gene Simmons’ tongue. Mmm-mmm. Here’s how it went down:
• Yann Perreau: The day begins with an afternoon showcase of Francophone artists from Quebec and elsewhere. Full disclosure: My French is shamefully lacking — which is to say, practically nonexistent. I know basic greetings, days of the week, numbers, how to ask directions to the library and a few random phrases like “One never has enough records” (which has come in handy more often than you might expect in my job). Anyway, the point is I have no clue what any of the next half-dozen acts are saying. They could be urging me to have sex with Satan while butchering small animals and eating children. Though somehow, I doubt Yann Perreau’s lyrical content includes any of that. Most likely, he’s singing about cars, girls, dancing and how much he would love to pick you up in his car to take you dancing, girl. Between his curly locks and boyish looks — he’s somewhere between a young Hasselhoff and an overgrown Elijah Wood — and his ultra-commercial, Tom Cochranesque pop-rock, he seems like somebody you’d see at a casino, not a club.
• Les Surveillantes: Winnipeg in the house! This folk-pop outfit are the first Manitobans to play M for Montreal, says musical director, master of ceremonies, MVP and festival mascot Mikey Bernard. Of course, he’s not exactly a walking advertisement for Friendly Manitoba. “Winnipeg is somewhere in the centre of our country,” he explains helpfully to the crowd. “I’ve never been there, but Winnipeg has lots of cool stuff. There’s … Propagandhi. And Dale Hawerchuk. I think.” Really, Mikey? That’s all you got? No Weakerthans? No Guess Who? No Guy Maddin? Sigh. Anyway, Les Surveillantes do the Peggers proud with their set. Crowded around two mics like an old-time string band or barbershop quartet — they’re sort of a bit of both, really — they croon jaunty, harmony-rich acoustic-folk ditties about life in the north and love in the grocery store. Between songs, they even offer up charmingly witty banter with a self-deprecating undercurrent. Just like a Manitoban.
• Alex Nevsky: I can’t tell you whether this singer-guitarist is really named after the historical figure. All I know is that strummy folk, jubilant piano pop, a dash of Bowie folk-glam circa Space Oddity and the occasional blast of edgy rock are all part of his remarkably varied repertoire. Oh yeah, you can also hear a definite Beach Boys influence — though it’s not enough for them to get away with those gaudy printed shirts that serve as the band’s uniform.
• Geneviève Toupin: Another Manitoban — this time former St. Claude singer-songwriter Toupin, who left the province for France and now lives in Quebec. Her rootsy blues and dulcet vocals would probably sound at home anywhere — especially when she strums her banjo and is backed by her superb slide guitarist. But when she moves to the piano and switches to ballad mode, she becomes too generic and Sarah McLachlanish for her own good.
• Monogrenade: The band consists of a pianist, a cellist and a rhythm section. As soon as the former hits the keys, you get the sense he’s been classically trained. And as you might expect, what follows is a series of rich rock compositions featuring dreamy vocals set to artful and tasteful arrangements, with the cello adding all the required gravitas. But before it all becomes too unbearably pretentious, the band switches gears — or more specifically, the pianist switches instruments, strapping on a lefthanded guitar and rocking out noisily. Bottom line: It’s hard to categorize them. And that’s always a good thing.
• Damien Robitaille: Another apparent casino refugee, Robitaille has the same middle-aged haircut and salt-and-pepper beard as your brother-in-law (and me, for that matter). But judging by the reaction of the women in the house, he’s the Tom Jones of Montreal. They squeal and hoot when he takes off his tie, scream and wail when he removes his jacket, and love every second of his act — which, to his credit, features a decent mix of gospel, soul, blues and Prince-style funk. Is this for real? Your guess is as good as mine. I suspect something is definitely being lost in translation with this guy. In any case, I’m just happy to learn I could still have a chance of being a sex symbol somewhere on this planet.
• Jesuslesfilles: A little psychedelic garage-rock never hurt anybody. Especially not when it’s played by a high-volume outfit with a male-female vocal duo a la John Doe and Exene. Or maybe that should be Grace Slick and Marty Balin. I couldn’t tell because the sound was so cacophonous that I couldn’t make out a note they sang. Nor could I discern whether anybody was particularly adept at their chosen instrument. So all i can say is: For a band named Jesus Girls, they sure make a helluva racket.
• La Patère Rose: The evening’s festivities are held in the Metropolis club, a gorgeous 2,300-capacity theatre that has tiered stands, several bars and a vast balcony with stadium seating. Believe it or not, it is even large enough to contain Gene Simmons’ ego. The KISS bassist is in town to attend the festival and shoot footage for his reality-TV show — supposedly he was also here to scout bands for his record label, but since he’s only taken in one showcase, I presume he’s auditioning them in the comfort of his luxury hotel suite. Anyway, Gene descends from on high for one last gig: Hosting the final evening soiree. In this case, “hosting” translates to “going onstage for 30 seconds to say Bonsoir and mouth a few platitudes, and then getting the hell out of Dodge.” Before Gene flees the stage for good, he introduces this quirky electro trio. A year ago, I watched La Patère Rose — a singer-pianist, a keyboard player and a drummer/DJ/ sound manipulator — enrapture a small audience in a theatre. Tonight, in this much larger setting, they fill the space equally well. With her whisper-to-a-shriek vocals and indulgent antics, singer-pianist Fanny Bloom could easily fall victim to the quirky-pixie-at-her-piano syndrome. But the stylish accompaniment of Roboto and Kilojules add just enough depth and sophistication to get the job done. Bonus points for the Lene Lovich-style cover of Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer — and, once again, for their synchronized dance moves.
• Pascal Picard: Quebec City singer-guitarist Picard is a folk-popster with all the usual trappings. She’s got the girl-next-door vibe. The sunny melodies. The chiming guitars. The breathy vocals. The gently rocking band. And her set list has all the mandatory touchstones — the sunny singles, the lungbusting power ballads, the reggae number, the angry blues-rocker. Yeah, she’s pretty and talented. But honestly, she seems so generic she might as well dress in a plain brown wrapper with a bar code tattooed on her forehead.
• Priestess: I hoped these Montreal metalheads would raise some serious hell after the blandness of Picard. (Check out the video below and see what they’re capable of.) But for some reason, they just didn’t bring it. Actually, they didn’t even seem to know where they’d left it. More Maiden or Megadeth than Metallica or Motorhead, the quartet’s speed-demon riff-fests are anthemic and driving enough — though honestly, they’re often pointlessly complex, as if they’ve just tossed in extra notes just to make the songs sound different from one another. But the bigger problem was that somebody had apparently outfitted them all with neckbraces and then nailed all their feet to the floor; for the duration of their set, they barely moved. Dudes, you’re a rock band. You’re supposed to … well, rock.
• The Dears: Trust Murray Lightburn to show ‘em how it’s done. Armed with tunes from the forthcoming album Degeneration Street, The Dears’ singer-guitarist made a triumphant return to his hometown, leading his quintet through a typically majestic set of proggy indie-rock. Slow-burning grooves gradually swelled to glorious proportions; gentle melodies evolved into grand anthems; dark post-punk intertwined with soulful vocals and romantic lyrics; choppy guitars danced with lush keyboards. And all of it came richly layered, creatively arranged, and artfully rendered — but without sacrificing its rock ’n’ roll heart. Welcome back, Dears.
• Misteur Valaire: One man’s kitsch is another man’s culture. Case in point: This electro-pop quintet. To me, they’re five guys in marching outfits, jumping around to big boisterous beats decorated with loopy vocal samples and punctuated with horns and keyboards. At best, they seem like some sort of weird parody of a boy-band crossed with Devo. But to a couple of thousand people below me on the dance floor, they are clearly the greatest thing since poutine. And admittedly, their sound is relentlessly upbeat, while their high-energy performance — which includes plenty of silly antic, costume changes and dance moves — would seem to be fun for the whole family. Once again, why they’re playing in a rock club is beyond me. Must be a Montreal thing.
• Poirier: I know Ghislain Poirier is a world-renowned DJ and producer. And I know he loves the Caribbean grooves. But honestly? I have a low tolerance for DJs; about 10 minutes of dancehall is all I need; and after about three dozen bands in three days, I’m all listened out. As Poirier spins the bottom-heavy riddims and his rappers make with the rude-bwoy rhymes, I skip out on the afterparty, hit the exit and bid farewell to M for Montreal 2010. See you next year.
darryl.sterdan@sunmedia.ca