I wanna be sedated

I think I’m heading through the twisted k-hole of a mid-life crisis. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. I guess it’s not really a real mid-life crisis; I’m not that old, and I don’t have a driver’s license, so I probably won’t buy a banana yellow Miata like my friend’s dad did back in the ’90s. And it hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m switching up to a more youthful look like big-ass jeans, a backwards bandana and an oversized bedazzled Scarface tee (that’s what the kids are wearing these days, right?), and I certainly have no plans to revert to the ill-advised high-top fade I tried to rock in high school.

But I do feel panicked. Maybe it’s because, while most single people revile Valentine’s Day, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that it’s ’cause we all have a little voice in our head that goes, “Hey, guess what? You’re dying alone!” Or maybe I’m panicked because my system is still in shock from Jack Frost kicking me in the groin every time I go outside. Who knows. But either way, I am currently in constant throwback mode. Mostly in my music listening.

There’s no sense in beating around the bush, so I’m just going to come out and say this: I like techno. For a long while, fall-out from post-rave ennui and my nausea with the plur movement relegated the word “techno” to the Embarrassing section of my taste spectrum, right between my secret love for the Hamster Dance and my not-so-secret love of the Spice Girls. Now, thanks to Daft Punk’s crossover sample craze (their new live album is also absolutely bananas btw), it’s shifting up and I find myself dusting off drum ’n’ bass classics by Goldie (who’s been spotted around Montreal lately, apparently visiting a girlfriend) and old Detroit gems from each of the Belleville Three. Even chilled out classics like Boards of Canada are getting repeat plays on my stereo (although Moby still gives me major douche-chills—I dare you to watch his segment in that American Hardcore doc and NOT want to slap the crap out of him).

But it’s not just techno. It’s rock too, and not just old classics. Sure I’m dusting off some ’90s jams I used to love, but that’s mostly thanks to that Guitar Hero game that has me doing Pete Townshend-like windmills and squirrel jumps from my couch to Living Color and Smashing Pumpkins.

But I’m also discovering shit I never was into in high school. Being a devout metalhead, I completely missed out on the tightly focused rage of D.C. hardcore like Minor Threat and the testosterone-driven angst of the West Coast’s Black Flag, two scenes that I have since been happily drowning in.

But there is one band in particular that I have fallen in love with. A band when I first heard the no-filler genius of their album Rocket to Russia, actually made me stop and go, “Where have you been all my life?” That’s right, I’m talking about the Ramones. But it’s not just their songs—a combo of wall of noise and raw energy with sweet bubblegum pop that felt like watching Stand By Me and Repoman superimposed on each other. It’s the whole package. The look, the attitude. Dee Dee, the misanthrope junkie and brilliant songwriter; Johnny, the conservative taskmaster and driving force of the band; Joey, the misunderstood gentle giant who triumphed over his awkwardness; and Tommy, well… he was kind of whatevs, I guess. These guys are an inspiration to all the weird, gauche, loser ne’er do wells trying to wrestle with their hormones in the social jungle of high school. This is my band. And they looked sooooo badass.

So yes, in celebration of youthful abandon, my pseudo mid-life throwback crisis, and in the name of all awkward and desperate people out there, I’m throwing a Valentine’s Day Party in Mile-End (435 Beaubien W.) tonight and y’all should come. It’s a Rock ’n’ Roll High School themed dress-up party. There’s gonna be some throwback music courtesy of Pat Dynamite, some soul music courtesy of a special super-secret DJ (which means the original DJ is stuck in L.A.), a Ramones cover band, the Gabba Gabba Hosers (yes, I’m in it. THAT’s how much I like the Ramones) and there’s even an awkward slow jams room with tunes by DJ Fritzi and Jay Watts III.

So yeah, it’s going to be crazy, so come early. Cover is a paltry 5 bucks with a portion of the proceeds going to Mile-End Mission. Costume is mandatory, people, so bust out all your bad prom dresses, nerd outfits, letterman sweaters, powder blue tuxedos, leather jackets and lobster costumes.

DID SOMEBODY SAY SHAMELESS PLUG? Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca