by JOHNSON CUMMINS

Sitting down in front of the keyboard and trying to pick up the pieces of Pop Montreal seems near impossible. The festival went by so fast, and was so overwhelming over its five short days, that it just seems a bit like a blur right now. I’m sure I’m not the only one who is in dire need of sleep and aspirin, as it surely must’ve wrung out even the most resilient with the prized, gold-sparkle wristband. Picking out specific highlights, for me, is eclipsed by the sheer after-tremors the entire festival has had on the city as a whole.

My original intention for this week’s column was to do reviews of all of the shows I saw, like the Illuminati, the Mongrels, Dearly Beloved, the Diableros, Sudden Infant Dance Syndrome, Pressure Kill Common Style, Lily Frost, Mardeen, DJ Crawdaddy Simon playing an all-Texas ’60s set, the Hot Springs, the Royal Mountain Band, Trigger Effect, the Patrick Watson after-party with Gary Lucas and others providing the family jams, Film Pop with the Besnard Lakes providing the soundtrack to obscure art films, Disco Tigers, Born Dead Icons, Fucked Up and of course Roky Erickson, but I think that would be completely missing the point of the festival. That, and my drunkenly scrawled notes all look like a mixture of hieroglyphics and Greek right now.

Although, personally, I found the magnitude of talent didn’t reached the peaks of previous Pops (Dirtbombs, Black Mountain, Mission of Burma—I mean, c’mon!), the festival proved itself by being the best little fest happening, spilling out way beyond the pages of the program. Pop Montreal once again earned its wings by providing a sense of community for the music fan, a forum encouraging discussion of music as well as exposing fans to other genres they may have not have dipped their digits into before, all while expertly walking the tightrope between the necessary corporate sponsorship and community orientation.

My heartfelt and hungover thanks to all the volunteers who helped make sure the trains ran on time, helped out with registration, hosted after-hours parties, did security, sold merch and contributed to the selection committee’s listening to probably a ton of godawful demos—as well, of course, to the people in the Pop Montreal office, who worked all year to make sure this thing went off without a hitch. Despite young Daniel Seligman sometimes being the harshest critic of this little column, I will have to (albeit begrudgingly) extend my hand to Pop’s head honcho and say the next Boréale Blonde is on me. Now fercrisakes, Dan, get some sleep.

GOODNIGHT, IRENE… jonathan.cummins@gmail.com

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