Harroween

Halloween scares me. Especially this year. I mean, I’m already a bit of a ‘fraidy cat who yelps when he sees a dust bunny, but I’ve also had one of the weirdest weeks of my life and I’m scared this weekend will just be crazier. It all started Wednesday, when I drove to Halifax to play the Pop Explosion festival with my band Grand Trine and our friends Dead Wife (who rule btw). It was my first time. Not just to Halifax, or to the Pop Explosion, but actually driving. Since squeaking past the exam two months ago, I haven’t had a chance to practise my skills behind the wheel. For some reason, I decided that filling a van with six souls and driving half the 13-hour journey in complete blackness while tweaking on a plethora of energy drinks (including one that was the official beverage of Ultimate Fighters) would be a good way to start.

The scenario read like a classic pop culture tragedy: a van full of young musicians just hitting their stride careens off the road because the driver got distracted by what might have been a UFO. Truthfully, there were a few very close calls. While I’m not going to get into specifics, let’s just say that if any of you who were in the van are reading this, you should probably thank the stars we’re not all jamming with Ritchie Valens, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Buddy Holly right now.

Getting to Halifax was a blessing. At least it was until after our first show, when we ended up at an afterparty whose theme was “Creepy Halloween.” The fake severed limbs strewn about the venue served as a haunting reminder of what the highway might have looked like if I hadn’t been bug-eyed from the tall cans of Guru I kept chugging on the road. Vibed out, we left early and called it a night hoping that the next day would be a little less creepy. We were wrong. The venue we played the second night was in the basement of a place called the Murder House. As we were setting up our gear in a basement straight out of Silence of the Lambs, I asked one of the kids hosting the show, “Why do you guys call it the Murder House anyway?”

“Oh, someone was murdered upstairs. Actually, it happened in my room.”

“What? Aren’t you freaked out?”

“No, it’s okay, he was a pedophile.”

At that, we laughed uncomfortably but no amount of giggling could cover up our creeped-outness. Then, in the middle of our set, the single light bulb illuminating the entire dingy basement suddenly went out, forcing us to play the rest of our songs in complete darkness while dreadlocked dandies moshed about, toppling the guitarist over and giving the singer a black eye. The whole thing felt like a David Lynch nightmare.

But while I’m dreading what Halloween may bring, I’m also excited. I’m not sure what it is—maybe it’s some French proclivity for debaucherous masquerades leftover from the old country; maybe it gives everyone the chance to embrace Queb clowniness without the gnawing self-hatred that would normally occur; or maybe because it signals the last hurrah before the icy grip of winter yoinks our collective nut sack; or maybe it’s just that getting dressed up allows for an anything goes attitude, as in, “Hey, I can get wasted and be weird and do things I don’t normally do because I’m not actually me,” and “What! It wasn’t me that grabbed your butt, it was ’80s zombie heartthrob Gory Haim!” But whatever the reason, this town completely loses its shit around October 31st and all’s I can say is that I’m stoked for this year’s festivities.

I’m excited not only because I’m going to debut my Black Sabbath cover band at a party I’m throwing with Pop Montreal this Friday (check popmontreal.com for deets) but also because, like every year, many Montrealers turn up the costume dial to 11. To be fair, I used to dread Halloween for that same reason; people’s creativity would shine through their detailed, home-crafted Ghostbusters outfits or their actually-transforming Optimus Prime uniform with working headlights, leaving me stuck in the corner desperately trying to convince everyone that “I’m not Rod Stewart in brownface, I’m Genghis Wrath of Khan… get it!?” But now I have embraced my sucky costume skills and am just falling back on confusing references to local landmarks like going as Steven Segal’s (a play on the action movie star and the push-and-shove grocer on St-Laurent—I’m thinking a ponytail and a shopping cart full of dried fish) or FAO Schwartz’s Deli (I walk around handing out toys made of smoked meat) or maybe Orange Julius Cesar… any other ideas?

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA