Little Vision Come Shake Me Up

Hi. We're Wolf Parade from Montreal Canada.

There's something ancient and noble about an unwashed, half cut, travelling band of entertainers from a far off land coming to perform their tricks to the collected rabble, from whatever random elevated podium, scaffolding, or beer crate and plywood platform, which by dint of even the slightest difference in elevation between it and the floor, gets called a stage. The same stage where on any evening anywhere, opera, poetry readings, theatre, witch hunts, fight nights, magic shows, a Furey Brothers gig, public executions, motivational speeches, technology demos, cock fights, sumo bouts, world changing speeches or, as witnessed at the Pavement gig recently, middle aged men, get flung from with wildly varying levels of dexterity. Call it showbiz, call it stagecraft, call it a ritual. I'm such a fanboy, I even get daxxled by an empty stage of backline humming under the lights or the ruby red twinkling of the standby lights on the amps. Ahh what a well placed mic. There's art in it, there's lights on it, there's atmosphere around it, there's thousands of years of tradition in it, there's the combined weight of the audience's expectation upon it filling the room until the band walks on. And there's release (and if we're really lucky- entertainment) in it.

Hello. We're Fugazi from Washington DC.

Fugazi always introduce themselves with their hometown appended. As did Black Flag. It's a nice touch. And how could I forget Shellac of North America?
And so with a thumping headache in a work shirt, slacks and comfortable shoes, me and mister Van Basten saunter into one of those well appointed but yellowing, neglected old Dublin pubs where the sun sets in the glasses over the bar, where there's exactly 12 steps between your barstool and the urinal and every patron propped at the counter is an unabashed, never wavering alcoholic and/or Man Utd fan. The kind of bar where, as a contingency, knitting sits in a plastic bag under the stool waiting to be withdrawn when the talk turns to mickey muck, the ponies or Jimmy Keaveny. A sunlit drunken version of "I Know Him So Well" (It took time to understand him) was our pre-show entertainment, the stage in this instance a rickety barstool, this at 8pm of a Thursday evening. Pock marked plastic bags were appearing billyo as we left and the third rate second division game on the box in the corner was still nil all. There were some excellent vintage Barney Rock era Dublin jerseys, originals as far as I could tell, on display aswell. Could have been 1982 but for the polyeseter panic.


I got a savage bout of culture shock on entering into the false darkness of the venue for Wolf Parade, not 5 doors down from the pub mentioned above. No obvious alcoholics, no Dublin jerseys, no knitting. Just buckets of young wans falling over each other to appear unobserved and disinterested. Met up with Anonymous Dave and his lovely girlfriend Evelyn both looking dashingly windswept and interesting. Highlights of the main event were This Heart's on Fire and I'll Believe in Anything - still the best song in their songbook. No Fine Young Cannibals unfortunately. Everyone except the drummer had their own keyboard. Dan was playing one of these aswell. Still one of the very few guitarists I've witnessed (on several occasions) playing a single guitar through an entire gig despite hammering eleven shades of shit (per song) out of the thing. Without a doubt Dan is the Barney Rock of Indie Rock.

And here's one he made earlier - download "Ghost Pressure" from their new album : Little vision come...come and shake me up. It's a cracker.


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This One's Called "Old Camera Blues in Red"