The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

L.E.S. Artistes March 17, 2009

Filed under: Art,Culture & Society,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 6:04 pm

megdeer1

Remember when my roommate and I decided to try out a breeder bar named Hugs? Well, we remembered it well enough—albeit slightly fuzzily—to go again, this time for a queer party DJ-ed by Tikka Masala, who can normally be heard spinning at the once monthly That’s My Jam! party held at Sputnik in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. While our last trip to Hugs involved much dancing, drinking, and scaring drunken frat boys away from my roommate, this foray yielded a nice surprise: an opportunity to meet with a local artist who was kind enough to invite me to her exhibit last week.

 

I met artist Meg McGreevy while standing outside, indulging in a cigarette (one of these days I’ll quit, I swear), and had coincidentally already seen her work on display in a gallery window while I’d been nearby with friends, getting dumplings in Chinatown. She and I swapped information and I was lucky enough to spend a few hours with her at the gallery on the final day of her exhibit.

 

Meg had several pieces in the Foolsgold show, which were on display at the Stanton Chapter gallery in the Lower East Side.  Foolsgold had been running since March 3rd and, along with Meg, it showcased the works of artists Shanan Campanaro, Lana Crooks, Maria Kozak, Jeremie Tolentino and Alexander Zaklynsky. The exhibit was sponsored by Redbull (lame) to benefit the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, which helps protect and preserve African wildlife (cool).

 

Meg is a cheerful, fresh, and helplessly genuine young artist, originally from Minneapolis, and newly returned from the UK where she spent six years expanding and growing as an artist, studying fine art at Nottingham Trent University. She independently marketed her work at a popular seaside stall in Brighton where she sold bird paintings, sculptures, and hand-painted shirts. As part of the Foolsgold exhibit, she has sold her first major piece of work: a large, life-size deer skeleton painstakingly created out of papier maché (original sketch above). Her other sculpture, a buffalo skeleton, has not been sold, but both pieces were featured in the two storefront windows of the gallery, visible day and night to all passersby. Her work is eccentric and linear with elements of one-line drawing, but bright and alluring. Often whimsical and light, but never boring.

 

One of the most enjoyable facets of Meg’s personality is her clear desire to get to know you, which further proves that she is indeed inspired by life, and in times like these, that’s a seldom seen and wonderful inspiration in itself. Follow Meg’s work—she’ll be doing big things and she wants to hear what you have to say!

 

Photo courtesy of Amanda Kirkpatrick

Photo courtesy of Amanda Kirkpatrick

 

Hotel de la AWESOME March 6, 2009

Filed under: Booze,City Living,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Brooke D. @ 2:56 pm
drinks2

All photos by Brooke D. (Please don't steal, just ask!)

 

Montreal is full of gems. There are tons of places to drink beer, sip espresso, listen to music, browse the wares of independent artists and designers, and work on your slightly aloof (but hopefully not entirely unapproachable) super-engulfed-by-whatever-I’m-reading/writing/drawing demeanor while covertly checking out the cute girl in leg warmers or sensitive musician-type in the fuzzy sweater. It’s good like that. Well, at least The Plateau is.

 

However, dear reader, should you choose to venture just south of your comfort zone (I know it hurts), there’s a big wide world of even more Awesome waiting for you. Now, normally when I think of Downtown, I picture a wasteland of commercial consumerism (the Crap, Suburban Outfitters) and gaggles of Juicy Couture- and Ugg-sporting college kids. Am I right? WRONG!! In our very own city, amongst everything that is cheap and trendy, there is a complete throwback to the lavish lifestyle of bountiful booze, men in pastel suits, high-class hookers, quality service, and perfectly garish decor. I’m talking, of course, of the one and only Hotel de la Montagne.

chandelier

 

Picture this: grand white pillars; enormous crystal chandeliers; a bubbling fountain complete with dramatic and slightly awkward rotating fairy statue; Art Nouveau (knock-off) nudes; stylish “mature” call girls; traveling business men; a skilled piano player tickling the ivories, banging out instrumental versions of bad 80′s Pop and Easy Listening; and, most importantly, a Happy Hour offering 2-for-1 drinks and $2.50 cheese and pickle plates. (‘Cause nothing says class like a jar o’ pickles.) Oh, and complimentary hand sanitizer in the Ladies’ Room. And a rooftop pool and bar during the summer months. If you’re really lucky, you’ll happen upon the hotel bar in full swing, when all the middle-aged divorcees come out in full force to bump and grind to all your favorite hits. I’m not even joking. This place rules.

 

Now. Don’t all come running at once, and by no means should you abandon ship from your fav neighborhood coffee shop/dive bar. I’m just saying that there’s more out there. If you need to call it Ironic or Kitsch or whatever else to justify leaving the Mile End, that’s cool. Do it. Maybe I’ll see you there! (Or at the dangerously amazing karaoke bar up the street. But that’s a post for another day.)

 

pillars1 

 

Muff Muff Give, or Pass That Butch February 25, 2009

Filed under: Dance,Hipster Culture,Music,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 9:07 pm

muffmuffgiveLast week I attended the newest queer party in town. Muff Muff Give, as it’s called, is held at Sugarland (221 N. 9th Street between Driggs and Roebling) in Williamsburg and takes place on the third Thursday of every month. The event was brought into Sugarland’s brick-walled and dimly-lit gay haven by one of my personal favorite party throwers, Gaysha, self-described as “the short-haired Asian sista runnin’ around like a nut, making sure you’re happy.” And it shows. Even after meeting her only a few times, she remembered both my roommate and me and continues to greet us warmly every time we attend one of her events.

 

Gaysha has been promoting several parties over the last few years and I attend the following: Choice Cunts, Snapshot, and now Muff Muff Give. What to expect from a Gaysha-thrown party? GoGo girls abound, as well as the always original DJ Lesbian Van Halen. Drinks, be they cheap or steep ($6 is a little high for a tiny glass of well with a fountain line lacking carbonation, but yes, we’re still in Williamsburg) are always at hand and in general, the atmosphere is rockin’. DJ Lesbian Van Halen can be heard most frequently at Metropolitan, a venue I miss terribly and need to revisit one of these Wednesdays for some never-ending PBR love. DJ Lezzie VH is one of my favorites because there is no standard club fare with her; it’s always different, and even her mainstream picks seem less annoying and overplayed when she spins them.

 

There was art projection on the walls to help set the mood and a rather long bar with some additional enclaves that seem perfect for canoodling—if people even do that anymore. Enter musical guest Tippy. Charismatic, crowd-engaging, and devil-may-care proved to be a winning combination for this MySpace-marketed local entertainer. She’s got groove, she’s got voice, and she drinks Patron on the rocks. It doesn’t get much better than this for $5 at the door.

 

What I find most rewarding about these parties is the attitude. In the wake of a recession, times of hard knocks, and tighter wallets, all with longer hours worked during the week, you can clearly see that having a great time is on the agenda of everyone present despite the fact that it’s a standard weekday (e.g. the roommate and I pranced off the J train at about 4 a.m. for this particular party premiere—on a Thursday night). Syd London, the roving photographer for Muff Muff Give, has uploaded photos of the debauchery on her Flickr page, a.k.a. the embarasswebs, a few of which I’ve reposted here for your “Damn, girl gets around!”-satisfaction.

 

(Please note that no drinks were harmed in the publication of this review. Oh yeah, and I danced my ass off with a large number of queers. It was awesome.)

lezvh

DJ Lesbian Van Halen (Photo courtesy of Syd London)

tippy

Tippy and friends (Photo courtesy of Syd London)

 

Breeder Bars: An Experience February 12, 2009

Filed under: Booze,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 5:04 am

As I’m sure many of you who withstand my usually alcohol-laden retellings of my outings in New York City, this update will come as no surprise that the setting was in fact, a bar in Williamsburg named Hugs. Just a stone’s throw from the L train, my roommate decided she would do a little pre-research for our Saturday night experience. Being somewhat melancholy lately due to the weather, a concave economy, and navigating a single life, I’ve become a harder crowd to bait into going out into Trendyville, Brooklyn. Initially I was against the idea, but soon realized that my roommate would just end up going without me while I had visions of myself eating ice cream on my couch cursing Jennifer Aniston in some re-run of Friends. It was then that I broke down and agreed to dress accordingly, fill my newly-acquired flask, and headed into the cold night.

 

Before I get into my Saturday, I should tell you how our Friday went:

Roommate: “So, do we want to go out tonight?”

Me: “Well, there’s still 2 bottles of Jameson and a bottle of wine here. And that doesn’t include being ignored at a bar full of hipsters, nor does it include $8 drinks that come in tiny little bathroom cups.”

Roommate: “We’re running out of good television and we’ve watched all the movies. We’re running out of options.”

Me: “How much do you think the new flask holds? It looks like it’s a 6 ouncer. But it’s also deceptively constructed. Let’s find out!”

Roommate: “Perfect. I’ll count the shots.”

 

In true journalistic fashion, I can report that said flask holds approximately 8 ounces of liquor. I discovered this when I awoke at 2 p.m. the next day wearing only one sock and with a stomach that felt as though it was digesting razor blades. I vowed that I would not drink on that Saturday. After all, it’s just too expensive.

 

Fast forward to our evening at Hugs. Yes, this bar is really called Hugs. It had “lame” written all over it when we arrived, as we were under the impression this would be a queer-themed party. We were immediately ensnared in a conversation involving the political climate in Palestine and Israel and a brief yet awkward q&a with strangers. I had brought along my trusty friend, Flask, filled with what seems to be a Tragically Unhip-endorsed booze of choice for this particular dreary winter.

 

The evening in its strangeness included the following: playing bouncer and ultimately intervening between two unattractive frat boys and my roommate. It also involved my view of the most blatant meat market atmosphere I have ever experienced and while I don’t normally frequent straight clubs/bars for our coveted Saturday nights, on this particular occasion, despite drunken boys trying to un-gay my friend, I actually had a blast dancing and meeting a variety of generally good-looking straight folk, a number of which have just friended me on Facebook. I even had a heartwarming rugby hug and chat with a guy who slightly resembles Glen Hansard of Once fame.

 

My favorite part of the evening, however, was my chat with a young lady who confided to me that she was smitten with the blue body-painted Go Go dancer who was seen selling shots around the bar. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Girl: “I think she is just so hot. God, really.”

Me: “I can tell.”

Girl: “How could you tell? Is it that obvious?”

Me: “Well, your face, mainly your lips, are covered in blue body paint.”

Girl: “Oh my God are you serious? No one told me! My face has looked like this for hours!”

 

So, friends, the moral of the story is: breeder bars can be fun. Unexpected, hot, sweaty, blue body paint fun.

 

Dear Bar St. Laurent (An Open Love Letter) December 16, 2008

Filed under: Booze,Hipster Culture,Manifesto,Music,Nightlife — Brooke D. @ 6:16 pm

Dear Bar St. Laurent,

 

I know we just met and haven’t known each other long, but I wanted to discuss something really important with you (out of pure love and sincere concern for your well-being). We have some mutual friends and I plan on visiting from time to time, but you guys gotta step up your game. Seriously.

 

Last Sunday I stopped by to check out Cresting and Postcards. I was instantly charmed by your impossibly large bottles of beer (the fastest way to this girl’s heart), free pool, super-friendly sound guy, and the amazing lineup. (OK, one guy is my roommate and the others I’d never heard of, but still.) And, of course, zero cover at the door is always a good way to start any long-term, committed relationship.

 

Granted, the sun seems to set around noon these days and everyone has started hunkering down for the long winter ahead, but you’ve got the capacity to accommodate the population of a small country—yet virtually every barstool and chair was conspicuously empty. The entrepreneur in me immediately began brainstorming grand PR schemes I would have employed to promote the show because I’m a capitalist and it’s fun. If you need me to stand on the street wearing a sandwich board and ringing bells, I’ll do it. For a dollar.

 

Another thing: You kind of smell like lemon Lysol. I’m all for personal hygiene, but it’s a little overwhelming. Like the kid in 8th grade who doused himself in Cool Water,  leaving distinct trails of cheap cologne in the hallways. It’s a bit much.

 

Lastly, and most importantly, who are you kidding by charging a whole dollar for Galaga!? C’mon. That’s just plain extortion. And a little insulting. Considering I suck royally and it’s humiliating enough to announce to your friends at the bar that you’re off to Conquer The Universe only to return 45 seconds later, I really don’t need to pay a dollar to lose my dignity. A quarter, maybe.

 

That said, the show was great (the sound crisp and clear even in the vacuously empty space) and I’ll be back, lured if only by your delicious grosses bières. I haven’t given up on you yet; what self-respecting hipster would turn her back on a decidedly unhip bar to hang out in? Isn’t it our job to foresake other crowded, more popular, mainstream venues?

 

The era of legit dive bars is fast coming to an end, with every hole in the wall quickly becoming popularized for its cheap beer, rude bartenders, adolescent bathroom graffiti, and tragically (un)hip patrons. It happened to Little Joy and Mars Bar. It could happen here. So just don’t go getting too cool on me, Bar St. Laurent.

 

Love, ME.

 

Get Your Sax On December 15, 2008

Filed under: Music,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — MP*erron @ 10:06 am

Where can hip cats go to scope out up-and-coming music from (as of yet) undiscovered talent? Why Parc des Princes, of course. OK, so I’ve actually never heard of this place before, and have no idea what kind of strays it draws in on a regular night, but this Wednesday it’s where the music is at. It’s a musical debut as New Yorker-cum-Montrealer Brajah Waldman brings the fruits of a lifetime’s labor to the stage.

 

No stranger to public performance, Waldman, a jazz-crazed tomcat if ever I’ve met one, has been known to hold court with his sax on Montreal streets during the tourist months, and has been improvising alongside Montreal’s Serial Numbers for over a year. This is the first time, however, that Waldman brings his own work to the spotlight. December 17th the quartet, which includes pianist Damon Hankoff, bassist Martin Heslop, and drummer Daniel Gelinas, goes on at Parc des Princes. The show starts at 8:30 and is free of charge. Those wary of getting hit with another dose of the holiday season’s nauseous jazz need not fear—this sound promises to be kind to your ear.

 

Those interested by the music can catch Waldman in action north and south of the border this season. New Year’s Day he’s scheduled to perform with his aunt, revered Beat-era poet Anne Waldman, at the St. Mark’s Poetry Project’s 35th Annual Marathon Reading in New York’s East Village. (FYI Lee Ranaldo and Patti Smith also take the stage that day.) January 8th he hits the stage with Serial Numbers at Montreal’s L’escalier. Otherwise, you can hunt him down on Montreal street corners, as I’ve been known to do.

 

Cool Fest December 14, 2008

Filed under: Music,Nightlife — Brooke D. @ 8:35 am

Hi Montreal. You’re nice, and guess what? I like you. Like, I really like you. I have a crush on you and all your argyle sweater-wearing, drum-banging, feedback-blaring, microphone-eating, clarinet-screeching boys and girls. Especially the kids at Cool Fest.

 

I’m kind of a sucker for blatant self-promotion and unabashedly declaring oneself “Supreme Master of All Things Rad,” so when I stumbled upon a brief description in the Mirror this week I fell in love with just the title of the festival itself (no “Sony/Redbull/Nike Presents” crap—just Cool Fest) and decided to check it out. I had the apprehensive expectation of a bunch of pretentious indie/noise/experimental bands playing a venue packed with cooler-than-thou underground know-it-alls, but what I found instead was an open loft space scattered with comfy chairs, coffee tables, couches, and a even kitchen serving up sandwiches. The crowd was definitively 20-something, though not exclusively, and one instantly had the feeling of being more than welcome to wander in and stay as long as you like.

 

I managed to catch a solo artist on a xylophone, four guys who sounded like pterodactyl deathmetal, and two friends—one on upright bass and the other alternating between fake strumming a badminton racket and playing the clarinet—sing-humming and moaning to complement each other. Not everyone’s piece of pie, but if nothing else can be appreciated for the diversity and support of people doing what they do best: hanging out and making shit happen. I had a taste last night and am going back for more today.

 

You can read about how and why the festival (slash weekend-long houseparty?) started, who’s playing, and what it’s all about here.  Now, wasn’t that refreshing?

 

I recommend:
Cool Fest
La Brique
6545 Durocher, #402
Dec. 12-14
Doors at 5 p.m.
BYOB

 

Cool Kids Love VLTs December 11, 2008

Filed under: Booze,Hipster Culture,Musings,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Poppa John @ 4:12 am
1

My womens. (All photos by Poppa John)

 

My friends kept mentioning Le Black Jack’s “Time’s Up” DJ night every Thursday as the coolest place to drink in St. Henri. I live on the Plateau, so I rarely need to go searching for a “cool” place (or a “hot” place, or a “phat,” “sick” or “totally ill” place, for that matter) to drink and listen to good tunes. However, one evening I had two hot girls with me who wanted to go dancing. Always willing to please the ladies, I suggested we attend this hip DJ night down in the coolest of Montreal’s Southwest boroughs. (Sorry, Verdun.)

 

Le Black Jack is located at 3814 rue Notre-Dame Ouest; a short walk from Place St. Henri metro station. We got there at the reasonable drinking hour of 10 pm, greeted by the newest Beyoncé single entitled “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” The girls I was with—being single ladies—went nuts. After purchasing a large pitcher of Labatt Blue, they got their groove on.

3

My weakness.

 

I noticed a cool-looking fellow playing a video lottery terminal (VLT) beneath one of the screens that was broadcasting the hockey game. He looked like he was having a ball, so I decided to try my luck too. It was at this point that I starting losing in more ways than one. Around 11, a disheveled artist-type walked in and turned off the boombastic music that was driving my womens wilds with the pleasures. 

 

First came the feedback, then came the muddy basslines, then came the dwindling libidos; my two luverlies were wilting! After confronting the DJ—a member of party-promoting posse the Pirates of the Lachine Canal—on how he just killed my mojo, I found out that Time’s Up’s regular playlist revolves around disco-punk, No Wave, nu wave, and other extremely unsexy genres of music.

 

Way to make me not score, hipster DJ.

 

Samantha Ronson In Toronto, Yawn December 5, 2008

Filed under: Dance,Hipster Culture,Music,Nightlife — Elli S. @ 10:44 pm

The other night I saw Samantha Ronson in “concert.” First off, I would like to say that I did not pay for these tickets. I would never pay money to see Samantha Ronson. I just wanted to make that disclaimer to preserve the fleck of dignity I have left after attending a Samantha Ronson DJ set.

 

Anyway, I saw Samantha Ronson play a show, which is kind of like watching the unhappiest person alive play computer on stage. SamRon performed an entire set without once changing her facial expression. The look on her face was similar to the one I wore this entire semester in my Comparative Politics class: sheer, aggressive boredom. She sulked, looked incredibly pissed off (because it must really suck being a Ronson), and DJ-ed. Or pretended to DJ. It was hard to tell.

 

It’s not like I’m some big electro-DJ-connoisseur or anything, but I have seen my fair share of laptop artists in the past few months. Headband-loving and proud PC-user Girl Talk opened the stage to audience members and caused a sweaty dance party at Kool Haus. Fellow DJ and party photo fodder Steve Aoki poured product-placed Grey Goose into audience members’ mouths. It’s not like I was expecting SamRon to perform circus acts or anything, but a simple “Oh, hey Toronto!” would have sufficed. She at no point acknowledged the audience for being there, which I guess makes sense because it’s not like they paid to see her or anything.

 

The mixes were tired and the dance floor was pretty tame. I didn’t even break a sweat. Expensive drinks made it impossible to drink until she was good. The big question was: Would girlfriend Lindsay Lohan—star of my favouritest childhood movie ever*—show up? I honestly don’t know—I left half an hour early and missed the whole “special guest” part.

 

Maybe I just wasn’t cool enough to get it. Maybe she’s actually really complex. Or maybe Samantha Ronson is just a tabloid darling and a really shitty DJ. 

 

 

* The Parent Trap

 

Forget the Words! November 19, 2008

Filed under: Books & Mags,Music,Nightlife,Performance — MP*erron @ 10:57 pm

 

image0013

 

Montreal’s Centre Zen de la Main over on Vallières Street (yes, that’s Leonard Cohen’s old place) presents it’s second Zen Poetry Festival from March 6-8 2009. The 2007 festival was an exciting weekend full of rich ideas, great poetry, and more than a few interesting guests. Among those speaking or hosting events were Chinese and Sanskrit scholar and translator Red Pine, and famous Beat poet Joanne Kyger. I was lucky enough to get into Kyger’s poetry workshop, where I got to write about how much I hate coming across used condoms on the sidewalk. Ick. 

 

This Sunday the centre will host “The Friends of the Festival Fundraiser” at Casa del Popolo in order to raise much needed dough for the second round. And guess who’s a friend of the festival? That’s right, moi. Readers are encouraged to come out and support the festival (et moi) and enjoy an evening of poetry, music, and spoken word. My first book of poetry, Slip Limbed, will be available that evening with all profits going towards the Zen Centre.

 

Friday Night Police Lights November 15, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Home,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Kimberly Senf @ 4:43 am

There isn’t much that tops calling the police at 3:30am—except maybe a good night’s sleep. Yet sleep was not in the cards for me tonight, because when I got home I was greeted by the sounds of a scuffle going on above my head. From screams to shouts to plate breakage, it was all going down on the second floor of my humble abode. That’s when I pulled out the mobile and called 911 for the first time—and got put on hold.

 

A couple of minutes later I was able to tell the operator the issue at hand: that my neighbours were having some sort of disturbance that seemed to be out of their control. They assured me that they would send a car to check things out, so I hung up, sat in my living room in my pyjamas and impatiently waited.

 

Ten minutes later the first police car came to a stop outside my house. Now, I live in a pretty residential neighbourhood; this isn’t Hochelaga-Maisonneve or even the Plateau, where the partying can sometimes get a little out of hand. We’re talking Cote-des-Negies, where people’s grandmothers grow old and eat bagels. This isn’t where the police spend their Friday nights giving away noise complaint tickets, so I think they were as surprised to be here as my neighbours were to see them.

 

While the first set of cops went upstairs, I was pleased to see that my call had been taken seriously and that two more police cars were waiting outside my house. The culprits from upstairs spilled onto the sidewalk and began a drunken embrace that seemed to last for decades while the officers looked on in semi-amused silence.

 

By 4am the last cop car had left the scene and those who’d broken the peace had not so quietly vacated the premises. The only problem now is that it’s the middle of the night and I’m wide-awake and rather annoyed. I thought I no longer lived in the part of the city that merited phone calls to the police at all hours of the night? When I lived in Genevieve D. Markle’s sketchy building I never had to call the police on my many crazy neighbours, yet somehow they’ve managed to find me in Cote-des-Neiges. Next time around, I’m moving into an attic.

 

Putting the “Ink” Back in Drink November 12, 2008

Filed under: Booze,City Living,Musings,Nightlife — Laurin McNiff @ 6:28 pm

Contrary to popular belief, I have not fallen off the radar and into lesbian-love obscurity. I have, however, been deeply entrenched in a rut that many of you will find familiar, if not routine. Millions of people dine out, dance, or write—in other words: follow a host of hobbies to fill their spare time—and one of my favorite past-times has always been alcohol. But lately I’ve become rather disenchanted with just plain old drinking. Somehow, the once-magical qualities of sitting at home, muttering incoherently or singing (just as incoherently) along to depressing, indie girl folk while cursing vaginas have evolved into boredom. So I have begun traveling a new road, one that includes doing shots before dates (note: not always successful), to playing 6+ hours of the game Asshole in small, treehouse-like apartments in Brooklyn.

 

I remembered a game my roommate and I played over the summer. We called it simply: “drink as much as is humanly possible until you can’t feel your face.” The variety of open bars dotting the city, sent to me via word of mouth and email lists, made this perpetually possible, and we initiated it with grand, sweeping zeal by coercing an old friend of mine from Virginia to come along. Said friend is a former rugby player and if you know anything about rugby players, you’ll know that alcohol is almost as important to them as three meals a day, and alcohol poisoning is regarded as something of a light head cold.

 

We went to a place in Manhattan called “Porky’s,” and while I crossed my fingers in hopes this was NOT related to the sophomoric film of the same name from the 80’s, I had visions of free vodka dancing in my head. Why you ask? Because the only reason to patronize a bar called Porky’s is for the free one-hour open bar. That’s right, there’s nothing better than cheap well-vodka coursing through your veins while the fake palm trees and horrendous neon wallpaper rotate in your drunken haze. We began the event by marking each drink we finished (and the object is to finish as many drinks within the hour), racing each other to the end of the open bar.

 

My out-of-town friend and I were at 7 drinks apiece by the hour’s end. My roommate stopped at 5, most likely to watch the Mexican standoff of feigned sobriety between me and my friend. I was fully functional, albeit vulgar and loud to strangers, while my friend had the look of game over slowly creeping into her ocular cavities. By the time we reached our train and situated ourselves in an almost empty car, my friend leaned in for the ultimate buzz kill and vomited everywhere. As much as I would have liked to have been compassionate, instead I jumped up and shouted with drunken glee: “YES! YES! EPIC WIN!”

 

As I blissfully recall this experience I ask what should be the universal question: In what creative ways can I shrink, spot, and harden my liver to the maximum of my ability? This is where the fun begins. Why lead a lethargic drinking life when you can do things like build box kites after several keg stands? Or, pray tell, make a public scene with friends as the general public looks on at what they believe to be a genuine disturbance? These are our rights as citizens, to make what originally started as anesthetic into the best stories for our bedroom decisions and late night dance-offs.

 

I urge you, Tragically Unhip readers, to comment on this post and give me drinking assignments, because after our recent election there’s only one way to prove patriotism for my Irish, Italian and Lithuanian lineage: to drink in ways no gender has considered. I will, in turn, post the results of selected assignments for your reading pleasure.

 

Soliloquies November 10, 2008

Filed under: Books & Mags,Nightlife,Performance — MP*erron @ 2:13 pm

Concordia’s student-run anthology, Soliloquies, launches issue 12.1 this Friday night. While I can’t make promises about the type of talent that will be on display that night, I can guarantee the proximity of good beer—the better to drown your sorrows in, my dear. Seriously though, past launches have been fun (and sometimes noisy) showcases of real talent, humor poetry, and music. The anthologies are usually cheap enough not to eat into your beer money, the ladies still in that sexually experimental stage of development, and the sets short and sweet. Oh, and prepare to be blown away by my own reading.

 

Here are the deets:

WHEN: Friday, November 14, 2008, 
7-11 p.m.



WHERE: Centre St. Ambroise, 
5080-A rue St-Ambroise



HOW TO GET THERE:


-Place St-Henri Metro station (About 15 minutes walking distance)


- Bus: 36 or 191 (on Notre-Dame W.) from Place St-Henri Metro
. Exit: St-Rémi St./Notre-Dame


OR
 From the Lionel-Groulx Metro, take Bus 78. 
Exit: St-Rémi, corner St-Ambroise, turn right


OR From Vendome Metro, take Bus 37. 
Exit: Côte St-Paul, corner St-Ambroise, turn left



Have a bike? It’s on the Montreal bike path, alongside the Lachine Canal.

 

Eastern Bloc Party November 3, 2008

Filed under: Dance,Hipster Culture,Musings,Nightlife — MP*erron @ 3:08 pm

It seemed to be the evening cap on everybody’s Hallowe’en party list this year. Depending on which circle I asked, it was referred to by different names: the hipster party, the Google man’s party, the punk-rock party, and finally, correctly identified by Mike Farsky as Eastern Bloc’s “Invitation to Blood” Party. With a $5 cover.

 

I don’t normally celebrate Hallowe’en. This year I didn’t make plans until past 5:00, when it dawned on me that I needed some serious distraction from an email sent without passing the Breathalyzer. By this point I had everybody’s party stops committed to memory, absolutely no ideas for a costume, and very little motivation. I decided to put on a hat and go as a Lady. And which lady is best known for her stylish pill-box hats? Why, Jackie-O, of course. Owning sunglasses and a little suit, I decided to go the very easy route.

 

I was putting on my makeup when a wave of inspiration hit. I dashed to the closet, pulled out a sixties print-dress covered in vines and wild purple flowers I had never had occasion to wear, along with MAC’s bright green eye shadow (circa 1998), plucked a stray leaf in my hair, and called myself a venus flytrap.

 

My friends had move inventive costumes. I was greeted by a dead waitress carrying an enlarged hand upon a platter, an asparagus, and a very bold (and very cold) Eve. We sat around a friend’s place applying makeup, smoking cigarettes, and drinking until way past midnight. Then we decided to brave the cold and head up to the Bloc.

 

When we got to the party there was a fire truck parked outside, firefighters dashing up the block, and a crowd of what some of us like to call hipsters. We were prevented from entering by the enormous line that snaked up three flights of stairs, down another, and wound up outside. Oh, and what a total freekshow.

 

I looked at the elaborate costumes around me, and realized I was alone in my lack of Hallowe’en enthusiasm. I felt queasy just thinking about all the real blood that was potentially masquerading itself as fake, and was not too keen on waiting in line to pay $5 to be in a costume-crowded warehouse.

 

We stood around wondering what to do. Within minutes however, our question was answered. Bodies started streaming out of the building (among them a few familiar faces), carrying an ominous message with them: The police is shutting the party down. That took care of the line-up.

 

We went upstairs and decided to peek in. We found the door unguarded, and saved ourselves the cover. The lights were on, revealing a motley crowd of costumed partygoers. I suspect many of them were on drugs. The DJ had been stopped and the room was filled instead with the sound of synchronized stomping. These people were pumped and ready to dance!

 

We decided to walk around and scope out the scene. I was pretty glad to have the lights on to reveal who I was bumping into. There were some boring costumes, but a lot of creative ones. One girl looked like some sort of witch. Her hair was slicked into position with thick white paint and her shirt was covered with sewed-on gauzy, white… sandbags? Another girl dressed as an equestrian came up and whipped my behind repeatedly with her riding crop. A young male gymnast rocked some American Apparel gear. There were lots of drag queens, bloody messes, and hippies, a unibrowed Frida Kahlo, a cute Ritchie Tennenbaum, and a Gameboy. My favorite moment was when a blue-man Tobias (wearing cut-offs!) caught my friends by surprise. They both tried to cover up their inability to recognize the face for several seconds before finally making the connection.

 

After about 10 minutes the lights went off and the DJ started up again. The crowd went crazy. Everybody launched into serious bad-ass dance mode, while we looked on. We didn’t really feel like part of the scene, and after another 10 minutes we were ready to hit the road. We made our way through the room and out to the front door, where the $5 cover fee was being resumed.

 

Just as we were about to leave there was a small commotion. A “security” guard locked the front door, sent everybody back up, and informed us that we’d have to exit out the back way. I was pissed. But not as pissed as I was when I found myself out back – struggling through a crowded dung-heap. My high-heels kept getting caught in the soil, several costumes jabbed me in the ribs, a dog sniffed at my crotch, I almost got caught in the torn fence we had to climb through, and I was certain we were wading through piles of discarded syringes. Finally, we broke free and I uttered the words that I’m sure will haunt me year after year — I hate Hallowe’en. 

 

Hot Chip Will Break Your Legs (With Dancing, We Mean) October 3, 2008

Filed under: Dance,Fashion,Music,Nightlife — Kimberly Senf @ 2:11 am

Hot Chip at Metropolis. (Photo by Genevieve D. Markle)

I had certain expectations about the experience of a Hot Chip concert: I knew that I wouldn’t be the only one wearing a scarf for fashion rather than warmth, and I knew that I would dance—or at least bop—the night away. Turns out I was right on both accounts. I didn’t expect, however, to be assaulted both physically and sensorily by a group of raver kids who danced with complete disregard for the people around them—not only by constantly knocking into my companion and me, but also by allowing one member of their party to repeatedly pass gas on the dancefloor. But moving on, the positive highlights of the night!

 

The evening started off on a good note as my trusty sidekick Gen and I happened upon our favourite Pop Montreal ticket connoisseur. Not only has our friend Tony recently climbed Kilimanjaro, but he also had in his possession two free tickets which he bestowed upon us for nothing more than generosity’s sake. Fate was smiling upon us.

 

Blue Man Group. (Photo by Kimberlily)

Blue Man Group. (Photo by Kimberlily)

The opening act was an experience to be endured rather than enjoyed, and I think many more than myself breathed a sigh of relief when Growing made their exit. The Metropolis wasn’t as packed to the brim as I’ve seen it in the past, so in exchange there was room to meander between those interested with the periphery and those who came to get their dance on. The less-than-packed house also meant that it was easier to spot all the people who came dressed to impress in their geek chic. It was candy for the eyes that made it very apparent who took an eclectic bent with their look and who bought it ready-made.

 

We were able to wrangle a wee little dance spot for ourselves and as soon as Hot Chip hit the stage it was practically impossible not to tap along to the beat. They deserve hearty kudos for their enthusiasm throughout the night, which is something that can make or break a live show. I want to know that the musicians on stage are responding to the music they’re performing before a live audience, and Hot Chip left nothing about this up in the air; it was pretty clear that they are all about doing what they do so well.

 

Maracas! (Photo by Genevieve D. Markle)

After the show, we caught guitarist and frontman Al Doyle attempting to make a getaway for the band’s bus. But we couldn’t just let him pass us by without a few comments for the Tragically Unhip, so we stood our ground (quite literally, actually, as we had to wait for him to come back out of the bus—which, thankfully, he did). Upon being asked for a comment for our unhip website, he let us know that it’s no secret that Hot Chip has been labeled as nerds and geeks, even though people “aren’t quite yelling it [at them] on the street.” He seems to think that Hot Chip is still “on the periphery of pop culture in the U.K.,” but that it might just be because they have to compete with Amy Winehouse’s latest debauchery or whether or not Prince William is getting married. And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than a small crowd of semi-drunk fans stumbled out of the darkness, which was the perfect opportunity for these Unhipsters to perform their vanishing act.

 

- Kimberlily, Genevieve D. Markle

 

A Stronger Prescription, Please! October 1, 2008

Filed under: Nightlife — MP*erron @ 3:27 pm

After my post about not being able to grab seating at Baldwin’s Barmacie last Friday night, I received this email from a close friend who shall remain anonymous:

“I was at Baldwin’s Barmacie on Friday for my friend X’s party and I hated it in there! I thought it was super lame, but maybe that’s because I belong in dive bars like Copa or something. But there’s hardly room to manoeuvre! And the music! And the awful people! Suffice it to say, I left there after about five minutes and headed off to Copa where I could sit in a dark corner with tons of room and a great view of all the coke addicts.”

So it seems that my friends are way cooler than I am, and as a result, the Tragically Unhip got their review of the Barmacie after all.

 

Pilot Light September 29, 2008

Filed under: Nightlife,Performance — MP*erron @ 11:04 am

Last night was the first Pilot of the new school season. The Pilot, for those not in the know, is a Montreal reading series hosted by the folks at Matrix magazine. The series runs monthly, taking the summer off, and is usually held at Blizzarts on Sunday evenings. Readers give the crowd a taste of the poetry and fiction in their newly released books, make jokes about their published works lists, and, sometimes, get kinda drunk. 

 

This is a great series for those wishing to look literary and cool, or break into the Montreal poetry scene. It’s actually quite a small community, and while it appears daunting at first, most writers are happy to share a drink with an aspiring nobody, give tips about how to score grant money, and trade quips about obscure literature. 

 

Those skeptical about poetry readings will be reassured to know that nobody ever wears berets, sound poets are few and far between, and the Beat generation is pretty much buried. Instead, today’s poets are a breed influenced by the folks at McSweeney’s. They tend to use the word fuck a lot, have eclectic and razor-sharp knowledge of all things hip, and prefer tough language to floral. Of course, not everyone falls into this category, and The Pilot does an excellent job of gathering writers of different styles and stripes, so there’s bound to be something that appeals to all.

 

Barmaceutical Bounce September 28, 2008

Filed under: Nightlife — MP*erron @ 7:44 pm

So far, my attempts to kick it at Mile End hotspot Baldwin’s Barmacie have yielded little success. The first time was with fellow bloggers Gen and Kimberlily one crisp December’s eve. After walking blocks in the snow and cold, we decided that getting funky en queue with a slew of ice queens was not our cup. So we turned around and headed north again, stopping at the Whisky Café for our Mojitos.

 

Almost a year later, I once again sucked it up and decided to enter the cooler-than-cool B.B. for another try. This time it was still quite early (no later than 10:30), and I was pleased to see only a small group of smokers outside the door. I entered with my date. Once inside, I was impressed by the volume of the music, which was high enough to encourage chillin’ but not loud enough to impede conversation. The tables and stools were chic white leather, and close enough for intimate exchanges among friends. The crowd was laid back, well-dressed, and hip.

 

We decided to seat ourselves at an empty table in the back, but to our disappointment the perfect spot had a little white card embossed with a stylish gold R. Reserved. One by one we approached every empty table, and were greeted in turn by an army of little gold R‘s. Suddenly I felt horribly like a have-not. A server passed us and smiled. I squinted in suspicion. Was he sneering at us? And what about the laughter and mirth around us? Was it not also a little gloating? Quickly, I grabbed my date’s arm and shrugged. In these situations it’s best to save face by not giving a fuck. “Shall we?” I gestured toward the door. And just like that, we were off.

 

Torn Vinyl September 21, 2008

Filed under: Dance,Nightlife — MP*erron @ 4:37 pm

I always wondered about the little club tucked among the decrepit buildings on Bleury just north of the Place-des-Arts metro station. I used to pass it on the 80 south and was, intrigued, by the scratch red lettering that announced the little hole’s presence on the block. Well, I finally got my chance to check it out after a friend dragged me there this Saturday night.

 

I naively dolled myself up in a vintage frock, M*A*C So Scarlet lipstick, and Betty Boop heels. I looked hot. After stopping off at Brutopia for a surprise birthday party where a dozen half-strangers and myself dug communally into a Dairy Queen ice cream cake (no piece of cake for a recovering OCD sufferer), I bravely faced the chilly walk over to Bleury.

 

Once there I shuddered at the entrance, a dirt-smudged door nestled beside a rotting staircase, a mound of garbage, and what I suspect might be a café. The “bouncer” (or so I imagine, he may in reality have been a straggling smoker) was a tall, muscular man dressed in faded overalls and a white t-shirt. Unlike the puff pastries outside places on St. Laurent, this man looked like a force not to be reckoned with. We nodded our respects and slipped inside. 

 

My first thought upon entering the club was “oh fuck.” It was small, dark, and dingy. A modest gathering of badass dancers claimed the floor, forming a circle around a young man doing The Streets-worthy moves. OK, the music pumping was good. No, excellent. The beat was strong, the volume was just loud enough, and whoever was mixing the grooves was on the ball. No complaints as far as music goes. But the club. Oh, dear.

 

Dirty, heavily-stained 50’s couches were grouped around Value Village tables. Their insides were gutted, their bottoms were saggy, and their aesthetic was Dumpster Chic. The “bar” was nothing more than a dilapidated counter with rusty stools and a cute bar wench handing out tiny cups. The artwork was pornographic, and the low ceiling threatened to collapse. But by far the worst aspect was the floor. It was composed of a patchwork pattern of old, rotting plywood. Creaky, soft, and overlapping in dangerous snags, it barely seemed strong enough to sustain the weight of the denizens grooving their flexible bodies like it was nobody’s business. Later, I moved onto the actual dance floor and realized that the plywood there was not only sagging, but completely on the verge of giving way in very important places. Like, right underneath the circle’s centre, where b-boys were spinning and popping. No shit. I was amazed we didn’t all fall through into the center of the earth.

 

When it came time to grab a seat, I cringed. My cute little outfit didn’t really do a good job of covering my bum, so I could actually feel the horrible fabric creeping up to the edge of my panties. I felt faint with horror thinking of what unknown stains and strains the (absorbent) material was home to. I felt bad telling my excited, adorable friend that I hated the joint, but not bad enough to keep from frankly blurting it out to his two girlfriends the moment he left to purchase drinks. Once he returned, I snuggled up and purred that I’d like to sit on his lap please. The plan worked—my bum was saved!

 

Between cigarettes, my companions sipped drinks and prepared to hit the dance floor. I was paralyzed with awe at the moves being pulled out there, and dreaded taking my awkward, no-rhythm body into the circle. But no way was I going to stay there alone on the couch, squeamishly watching the purses that the two lovely ladies attempted to disguise beneath a large white poncho. They were afraid, you see, of leaving anything of value in the line of wandering eyes. When they got up, I got up, and slowly swayed my fabulously-outfitted body while clutching my own purse underneath my arm.

 

Later, I broke free and went to explore the back room. It was an abandoned corner that smelled of stale semen and something like cats. From a sealed doorway I could see the terrace—a back-alley gathering of ancient chairs and cigarette-burned tables. I turned around, and an employee (or so I gathered after seeing him skittishly prowl the room for stray glasses) shook his head no. No access. I nodded, arched my back, and crept away. I was glad to discover that after accidentally stepping on the wrong foot—more specifically on that of an old fedora-wearing godfather who silently watched the proceedings from the prime couch—my group was making an escape. Feeling a little Sex in the City I gathered up my skirts, put my best shoe forward, and exited.

  

 

The “Scene” and Heard of Lesbians in Gotham August 28, 2008

Filed under: Hipster Culture,Nightlife,Sex — Laurin McNiff @ 4:10 pm

Although “hipster” as a term will likely spring to mind the image of a heterosexual, chic, urban trendsetter, we here at the Tragically Unhip feel the need to clarify something: There is a new butch on the block, and that would be the Lesbian Hipster. Perhaps we can call this sub-species the lesbihipsteranius, and she, just like her straight counterparts, enjoys such convivial pastimes as sex and nightlife, preferably both at the same time. The club atmosphere in New York is indistinguishable for both hipsters and hipsterettes on the prowl for a hot, sweaty time in a bar that doesn’t close until 4am. But it is not that simple to achieve the ritual of self-marketing (or booty-shaking, as it were) and mate-selection in the Brooklyn/Manhattan lesbian club scene.

 

In typical Tragically Unhip list form, I bring you the breakdown of some of the most frequented clubs and parties held in the hipper boroughs of New York City, with commentary from personal experience both terrifying and amusing.

 

 

“GirlNation” at Nation, Saturdays — W. 45th Street, Manhattan

 

This was the first lesbian party I had ever been to and went there to celebrate my first job offer in New York. The crowd is mostly sporty and dressed in the familiar hues of American Eagle, Abercrombie, and Hollister, with a smattering or two of Gap and Banana Republic. GirlNation is a Saturdays-only party that begins at 10pm and has a $10 cover. Staff is surly and projects the feeling that they might spray you with the fountain soda of their choice just to show you who’s boss. Occasionally they get back to their Coyote Ugly roots and stomp a few boots on the bar, with a confetti of body shots thrown in for good measure.

 

What to Look For: The updated version of the cigar/cigarette girl; the jello shots; the roving whipped-cream-shot-in-your-mouth girl who will shamelessly follow you around begging you to spend money, and hounding you mercilessly when the bartenders tell her that you tip poorly.

 

A perennial hipster favorite at Metropolitan.

Perennial hipster favorite at Metropolitan. (Photo by Laurin McNiff)

 

 

 

The Metropolitan, Wednesdays — 559 Lorimer, Williamsburg

 

If you like dive bars, Metropolitan is the archetype. The bathrooms are unisex and have no locks on them, so they require a spotter if you don’t enjoy having a gay man throw the door open and comment on the angle of your squat. No matter what time you walk in the door, it feels empty. This is because everyone has arrived at 10pm, grabbed a few $2 PBR’s and headed to the outdoor patio to establish a social stronghold on a coveted bench corner. It would take a real brave soul to come here alone in the hopes of cruising for someone single, as it is excruciatingly obvious that this is a bar to which you travel in packs. I have a general rule of never going to Metropolitan less than three girls deep—preferably four—otherwise you get that old lunchroom feeling where you have a tray full of cafeteria food and all the cool seats are taken. This is a social jungle and not for faint-of-heart clubgoers.

 

What to Look For: PBR’s for $2 until 4am (because part of being hip means you also must be cheap); people-watching and noting some of the best overheard one-liners imaginable; bringing your straight friends and not having to reassure them that they will need therapy once the night is over; watching various Billburgers drunk-cycling home (my personal favorite).

 

 

“Choice Cunts” at Sultana, last Saturday of every month — 160 N. 4th Street, Williamsburg

 

I discovered Choice Cunts during Pride 2008 amidst the frustration of repeated rain outs, Marco Polo-esque phone tag searches for friends, and discovering a make-out session every time I turned around. The cover is $15 per person and there is no a/c in the hookah bar-turned-lesbian haven. At first my compatriots and I shared a look of disdain and outright “we have arrived in Bad-idea-ville,” but we soldiered on. My first clue to its hipster quotient should have been when a photographer snapped a photo of me and my roommate, after which I queried “That’s not going on the internet is it?” as she ran away. This crowd was significantly different from the crowd at GirlNation. There were granny-glasses abound, too-tight 80′s jeans, street corner fedoras, faux-hawks, and, of course, old faithful: American Apparel t-shirts. This party is a competitive and completely hedonistic lesbian mecca.

 

What to Look For: The sheer amount of dry humping and consolidated make-out corners in just about every square foot; an overwhelming butch-to-femme ratio (so cock-blocking is inevitable); a dedicated, pleasant, and surprisingly audible DJ; no Pabst Blue Ribbon that I can remember.

 

 

“Secret Faggot” at Glasslands — Somewhere in Williamsburg

 

I’ll admit, I saved this one for last because I went there once directly from a party and have no recollection of its actual address due to the half dozen Wild Turkey shots I had ingested before going. My initial reaction was “The party is called Secret Faggot? I have to go just to confirm this.” The floor had that familiar sticky unknown-ness that your shoes never like, and within the first ten minutes of dancing to the beat, a complete stranger was sucking on my neck. The dress code seemed to be casual—if by casual I mean “must nap in a dumpster beforehand.”

 

What to Look For: Drunken hipster lesbians, everywhere; a total lack of sobriety; the girl who can hula-hoop for 20 minutes straight without losing momentum or spilling her drink.