Montreal indie label SSG get naked and launch their dangerous rock onto a safe market

by RUPERT BOTTENBERG

Poor Simon Nixon. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Years ago, Nixon, alongside the MacLean brothers Cam and Brad, had a hoary funkmetal act called Rocktopus. Based in Toronto, the band certainly put their backs into it. They even clocked in road time backing up Bad Brains, but ultimately... no dice. "We had one single on Lone Wolf Records," says Nixon, "but that never went anywhere."

Rocktopus evolved into the bong-beat stoner rock of a second band called Perm, but that has been relegated to side-project territory. Because these days, Nixon and the boys have The Paper Route to fuss over. Figgs fans take note: the trio have struck a perfect balance of mod rock smarts, punk punch and the unshakable powerpop hookage that comes with being raised on FM radio.

So maybe Nixon can finally pick out a wedding gown. The Paper Route are primed to release their debut CD, Go Get It, on Montreal's own SSG Records. In case you're wondering, the acronym is more than a snide reference to seminal American indie label SST. It's derived from the given names of founders Suroosh Alvi, Shane Smith and Gavin McInnes, also known as the triumvirate behind national free tabloid Vice, the garish print monthly available at a skate shop near you.

One has to wonder whether Nixon knows what he's getting into. "Oh, I'm really excited about SSG. I think it's gonna be an amazing thing," he says, the very picture of naïveté. Perhaps he hasn't quite realized that his band has hitched a ride in a hot rod that's bombing through hairpin curves at 180 per. And the three stooges in the front seat are smacking each other stupid while fighting over the wheel.

At the end of the summer of '94, Alvi found himself unemployed and uncertain of his direction. Like many other young men in their mid-20s, he had invested most of his time in slouching about, chain-smoking and scowling. A close friend brought Alvi into the offices of Images Publications where a free monthly paper, focusing on local English youth culture, was beginning to take seed. Within a few weeks, Alvi was editor-in-chief. The first issue of Voice of Montreal hit the stands in October of '94.

Soon thereafter, Ottawa cartoonist Gavin McInnes became assistant editor, childhood friend Smith was on board to sell ads and the Village Voice in New York sent a lawyer's letter regarding the paper's name. The three bought out the publication, and a shinier version called Vice came into being.

It was at last year's Canadian Music Week, the annual industry shmoozefest in Toronto, that the next step became clear. "We'd spent a week watching the shittiest bands we'd ever seen," groans Alvi, "and we were saying to ourselves, 'Who puts this shit out? Who puts all this money into marketing bands this bad?' By the last night of the conference, all the industry people were asking us which shows we would be going to that evening. They knew that we were on the level, that we were down with the kids. They were effectively using us as A&R people, but without paying us."

Alvi remembers the specific moment when the the light bulb of inspiration flamed over his head. It was during a set by Sonic Unyon's SIANspheric, the only decent band they had witnessed. "I turned to Shane and said, 'We should start a label.' He said, 'Yeah, let's call it SGS,' and I said, 'No, let's call it SSG,' and it was done. Boom."

All very well, but a record label is nothing more than an abstract idea when there are no bands to sign. Alvi explains that SSG's mandate is identical to that of Vice. "We want to satisfy a niche where we see that there's something missing, where there's too much drivel and not enough quality product." Catching Smith off guard gives a more insightful perspective on SSG's impetus: "Originally," he remarks, "the idea was, 'Let's just make fake bands.' Like Oasis. Oasis is a fake band, let's make our own Oasis. Then we could do a big cover story in Vice, 'The New Oasis: the Biggest Thing Out of Montreal.' Then we could go to the offices of the major labels and say, 'Oh, look... we've got the next Oasis!'" McInnes interjects, "After we'd sold that band, we could fly back to Montreal, round up our musician friends and bully them around, saying, 'We need a Dinosaur Jr., a Veruca Salt and a Rolling Stones by Monday.'"

Always the voice of reason, Alvi reminded the other two that, in fact, they already knew a number of good bands, so there was no need to invent any. Along with The Paper Route, SSG has snagged a few other class acts. Shakin' punk 'n' rollers Tricky Woo have also recorded a disc's worth of their hi-test retro rocket fuel which SSG are launching at the same time as The Paper Route's. Then there's Bionic, whose surgically precise angstpop lies somewhere between Jawbox and Jawbreaker. Their debut disc will be SSG's third release this fall.

It may have been when Bionic's Jonathan Cummins came in as quarter owner and production director of SSG that the idea of fabricating the label's roster went out the window. "Although," says Smith, "we kind of made up UVBC. It was an idea that snowballed out of control." UVBC (which stands for Ultra Violet Booze Catastrophy) is the bloodthirsty bluespunk unit to which Smith lends his debatable singing abilities. With Smith sometimes on stage in nothing but boots, sweaty boxer shorts and a heavy haze of drunken breath, they are also among the most subversive SSG acts slated to bust down the complacent throat of Canada's music industry.

Which is strange, when you have a look at their bud magazine, Vice. You see, when put near Vice's purported cutting-edge confrontationalism, SSG's musical direction comes off as quite, well, traditional. Notice the common thread that unites the label's bands: all male, all white, all rock, all the time. This flies in the face of the aggressive diversity of Vice, particularly their repeated championing of hip hop. McInnes gives half the story. "We have to stick to something we know," he says. "I mean, we're not that down... I say 'Whussup,' I've got the ebonics down pat, but I'm not sure we know hip hop well enough to make the right judgment calls." Alvi takes a more practical approach to the issue. "Unfortunately," he sighs, "there's no infrastructure for hip hop in Canada. It's not economically viable. If we were to put out a hip hop disc, it would be money spent for the cause that would go nowhere."

In terms of marketing music in Canada, whiteboy rawk is the safest terrain short of Shania Twain. Reinjecting danger into the territory requires a conscious effort on SSG's part. Take, for example, the following scenario, which transpired at SSG's showcase concert at last month's Canadian Music Week in Toronto. Explains Smith, "I was talking to the president of A&M Canada. Suroosh kept tugging at my arm, and drunk as I was, I kept telling him to fuck off. Finally I looked over, and Tricky Woo's still playing, but Brother Android [Andrew Dickson, the band's singer and guitarist] is dragging his guitar behind him through the crowd, completely naked, with his little wiener all shrunken up. He had this drugged look on his face, like he was in some kind of stereophonic stupor. Then he collapsed on a pool table, and the band stopped dead. The crowd, which was all industry people, were utterly confused and worried, thinking, 'Should we help him? Does he need a doctor?'"

Surprisingly, this sort of mortifying display has attracted, rather than repelled, the industry. SSG has grabbed the attention of the media across the country, including Maclean's and both Eye and Now in Toronto. More importantly, the production and distribution deal they've signed with Page Distribution, a subsidiary of EMI, is about as sweet as a young label could hope for.

But for all the buzz, there seems to be an important factor missing. Indie cred rule books dictate that, preceding success, bands must pay their dues in the form of relentless touring and sleeping on stranger's floors. SSG seem to be playing a game of snakes and ladders, using the in-house promotional potential of Vice to circumvent the years of gradual growth most acts must endure. Problem is, this trick smacks of the soulless huckstering that the major labels are notorious for. Cornered by the facts, Alvi sticks to his guns. "The last thing we want to do," he says, "is create pre-fab bands, or hype without substance." Perhaps he should confer with Smith on that matter. Nevertheless, Alvi reaffirms the integrity of their decisions. "We're creating hype to back bands we believe in. Hype is necessary in order to make any kind of a dent in the market."

Who knows, maybe Nixon's faith isn't entirely misguided. "Some say the label's come along almost too fast. I think it will survive just fine. I think the bands are strong and I see the label as a communal force--like a frat house, only cool. I think we can still show the majors the middle finger."

The SSG crew acknowledge the inevitability of obsolescence. One day, they'll be paunchy, clueless burnouts, eclipsed by the next wave of angry young turks. Always the clever one, McInnes is prepared for such an eventuality. "When we're 35, we'll be living on Tahiti with our 14-year-old native girlfriends, smoking Cuban cigars filled with Thai weed, saying to each other [affects ridiculous English accent], 'We really did it, didn't we, chaps? We really showed them--the pricks!'"

Bionic, Tricky Woo, The Paper Route and UVBC play SSG's label launch at the Cabaret with CDs launched by The Paper Route and Tricky Woo and a 10-inch by UVBC. Thursday, April 17. Doors open at 8pm. $5. Nudity guaranteed