FOR THE LOVE OF METAL
Growing up in Calgary in the pre-Noctis Valkyries days, I was deprived of live music in my formative years. Though the burgeoning oil metropolis was ever-expanding, it was not a regular tour stop for bands, especially from outside of Canada, as it was at least four hours to the nearest sizable city.
Let’s just say that in the five years I’ve lived out east, I’ve been making up for lost time.
It takes a certain breed to travel roughly 600 miles, round trip, by Greyhound bus only to spend a total of 18 hours at the destination–a third of which was spent sleeping. But given the right motivation, I have done so on occasion and will do so again. Last nite, the occasion was the nearest stop on Accept’s North American reunion tour, in support of their new album, Blood of the Nations.
Last weekend, when I was on my way to the bank, I passed a cheap sign on Bloor St saying “1000s of vinyls, thattaway.” Intrigued, I followed the arrow up a residential street (I think it was Brunswick) to a parkette with a buncha milk crates laid out on the ground. This is why I love The Annex.
In case you didn’t know, I just got back from the West Coast a couple days ago. Saw Sleep in concert at the Roseland Theater in Portland, then caught the Seattle Seahawks’ season opener at Qwest Field. These were the best two days in recent memory.
Sure, I listened to all the metal gods growing up: Maiden, Priest, Sabbath, etc; but there was another band I had an obsessive appreciation for, one that didn’t belong on so lofty a pedestal–yet I put them right up there.
That band was Teutonic metal pioneers Accept.
I bought into the Bills in Toronto series when it was first announced, opting for the three-game ticket package. Aside from a close, competitive exhibition game against the Steelers in ’08, the Bills hardly delivered on my somewhat-considerable investment. This season, sensing that the Toronto natives were getting restless, the organization threw us a bone by bringing Peyton Manning and the Indianapolis Colts to town.
Unfortunately, it was another freakin’ exhibition game.
If you book it they will come, right?
Wrong. In the city of Toronto, home to hundreds–if not thousands–of bands and dozens of events every evening, putting on a gig is no guarantee of attracting any audience whatsoever.
Although it’s still over a month away, I’ve been counting the days till September 11th for a little while now. But I’m not some sick creep who gets off on seeing the Twin Towers fall, nor an American patriot who watches the all-day memorials playing ad nauseum on cable news networks.
Do I remember where I was when the planes hit? Yes. Do I care to remember it? No. But September 11 is about to become a much more memorable date for me moving forward…
After reading the review of their recent Toronto show (I was at High on Fire, BTW) and coming across their Against the Seasons album while digging through my CD collection for this all-CanCon thing I’m doing on Sunday afternoons, it occurred to me that I have no fucking clue what happened to the Woods of Ypres shirt I bought in 2005. I know I didn’t get rid of it, but somehow, the fucking thing seems to have disappeared…
I’m sure that y’all remember your first beer, first kiss, first Iron Maiden record (Number of the Beast FTW!) and so on, but there are some firsts that aren’t quite so pleasant.
Yesterday was the first time I had to pay customs on a package arriving from the States. It fucking sucked.