Quebecwhaaa? Miss Stacia Goes To Canada (Part Deux)

Continued from Quebecwhaaa? Miss Stacia Goes To Canada (Part Un)

Museums, Bad and Good:

Pointe-à-Callière, Musée d'archéologie et d'histoire de Montréal:


Nobody warned me you'd be full of children.

Up until I hit Pointe-à-Callière my vacation had been pretty much child-free. Not that I have anything against kids really, I just don't like your kids, up in my face, right after they've picked their noses. The underground portion of this museum - the permanent exhibit not devoted to pirates - is actually a fascinating documentation of the history of Montreal's ports and first settlements. But the upstairs exhibit on "Pirates, Corsaires et Flibustiers" ("Pirates, Privateers and Freebooters"), was a nightmarish, stuffy room, shaped like a boat and stuffed full of eight year-olds. The material covered was pretty elementary as well. Did you know pirates didn't have advanced medicine on their ships? Did you know they took turns sleeping in hammocks, and really, really liked treasure? The whole thing presentation could have been cobbled together by Mrs. Drange's fourth grade class. Argggggggh.

Canadian Center for Architecture:
The For Smarties guide highlighted the Canadian Center for Architecture in Montreal as one of the "must see" museums, but when even my cabbie didn't know where to find it, I started to second guess the recommendation. Turns out no exhibit could have been more up my alley than the installation, "Speed and It's Limits." The main thrust of the exhibit explored how the pursuit of speed - once theorized by the Futurist movement to be the beacon of all efficiency - will very soon push people, objects, even time to the absolute brink of tolerance/productivity/existence. On a vacation from the pressures of a life that moves pretty freaking fast, there couldn't have been a topic more fitting.

The exhibit featured, among other things, video installations of slugs languorously chugging along in nature, juxtaposed with the speed of man-made machines like cars and spaceships; video footage of the quick and beautiful demolition of entire buildings, folding into clouds of dust with a single explosion; and fascinating pamphlets, old photographs, and instructional videos documenting the rise of the assembly line systems in the workplace and the kitchens of the 50's and 60's.

I, of course, was most taken with a room of silkscreened posters, which were some of the first to use markings/shapes that signified or lent the appearance of motion in a two-dimensional medium.


If you are comprised of ink and paper, I will find you, and I will love you.

The effects of technology and of speed and quantity of information on human health and sanity was the focus of the last section of the exhibit. I, of course, needed to record all of these messages/points in my notebook and on my camera for further obsessive research/documentation/deconstruction/analysis, while also immediately texting messages about the exhibit to my Facebook and Twitter accounts from my Blackberry, right then, that second, cause that ish couldn't wait!!!  Apparently it takes a while for the lessons of the of the installation to be absorbed and applied.

Special Events!

Jazz Fest:



Jazz Fest is, in essence, the true adult's music festival.  Bonnaroo minus the sweat and mud, and plus a consistent setlist of listenable music.  When I discovered I would be in town for the event, I immediately started looking up the schedule and sampling bands to see if I could find something I liked. I ended up stumbling upon one of my favorite bands of the year, who I would see perform on the last day of the festival.  But mostly I just wandered between open-air stages, eating dinner outdoors; the sounds of the performances around me mixing in an unintelligible cacophany of environmental jazz.  Stevie Wonder performed on opening night of the festival and over fifteen enormous screens were assembled up by the main stage to accommodate the expected crowds.  Unshockingly, after three weeks of non-stop rain, the sky opened up again on the night of Stevie's performance. That evening I walked in the direction of the ponchoed masses, but as soon as I started to get close to the wet, sticky mess that was the "Superstitious"-loving crowd, I said to myself, "Self? You're pretty much over feeling like you're at Bonnaroo Regular, right? How would you like to turn around and order room service in the warmth of your own hotel room while watching 'Yes Man' on PPV?" (Oh no you didn't. Oh yes you did.) And so I took a leisurely stroll back to the hotel, capturing awesome marks like this along the way:


Church is closed. For JAZZ!

The real reason I didn't feel bad about missing Stevie Wonder was that, in my pre-Jazz Fest research, I stumbled on a band called Elsiane, categorized on a jazz blog as "Other" or "Strange," which, for a jazz amateur and lover of quirky music, was instantly the answer.  I quickly found out that not only was Elsiane sort of the contemporary dark horse/wild card of the festival, but they were also Canadian (as not all of the bands are), which made the discovery extra exciting and relevant in my mind. Upon Googling the band I immediately came upon their Bjork meets Cirque de Soleil album cover and ALL WAS FULL OF LOVE.


If all women could do this, we wouldn't need men.





Elsaine live, did not disappoint.  The band exists on record in a slow boil.  Their tracks are pulsating and warm, many leading with an almost tribal essence and peeling into lush, electro-orchestral choruses.  Live, the songs are even darker, edgier, more metallic.  Otherworldly.  All of this is enhanced by the voice of Elsieanne Caplette, the band's lead singer and songwriter, who wields on one of those rare vocal instruments that is truly gape worthy.  First there's her epic range of ethereal highs and smooth, gutteral, Sade-like lows.  Then there is the intensive control that affords her such a wide range of aural effects.  I never would have thought the sounds she emits could be produced live, sans processing.  In fact, in the month I listened to the record on a daily basis, I always assumed there was intensive, if creative, production work laid on Caplette's vocals.  But to see the (stunning) woman pound her chest for echo or adjust her posture to manipulate pronunciation, or cup her hands around her mouth as in a birdcall to achieve sounds both of and beyond nature, is to recognize her work as both artistic musical performance, and a feat of science.

I walked out of the performance exhilarated.  It's pretty rare you fall in love with something that continues to peel back new layer after new layer of enjoyment, consistently over a month's time.  And then, just as I thought I couldn't love the group or their record any more, a block from the venue I overheard a duo of teenage girls discussing the performance behind me.

One spoke to the other with an air of tepidity:

"Whatever.  It's good sex music, I guess."

Um, EXACTLY.

The song that made me fall in love.
The song that first creeped me out, then made me fall in love all over again.

The Walking Soundtrack:

In addition to listening to Elsiane about 300 times in preparation for the show (and because I COULD NOT STOP), I also listened repeatedly to one song off a self-titled record by another Canadian group called La Patère Rose, whose album I bought at the recommendation of my dear waiter at the Hobbit.  The song of my obsession, called "L'éponge,"  bears a title that can either mean "sponge," or "to wipe the slate clean."  The translation of the chorus in English boils down to: " I am a sponge that absorbs the matter," which really felt perfect at the time. Because all you're doing when you're walking in a city alone is trying to immerse yourself in sights and smells and sounds and the feeling around you. A groove like that of "L'éponge" definitely lends a certain air to the way you see and smell the world you're inhabiting. You swerve in and out of people and around corners like liquid. You run smooth in a smooth world. I have grown to really love this whole album since I've been back in the States, but I must have listened to that one song about a hundred times in my short stay in Montreal, and I credit it with a good portion of my relaxed mentality. Sometimes it just takes the right musical trigger to set your mood.  (Note: The video linked above has a strange version of the song attached to it.  I couldn't find the album version anywhere, but go out and buy it.  Or ask me and I will get it to you.  It's worth it to spread the love.)

Canada Day:

I didn't have a clue when I booked my trip that my stay would include the celebration of one of Canada's biggest national holidays, but not much could have been more exciting. I read about the celebrations in the paper the day before, and discovered the parade would pass directly in front of my hotel at 10am. I didn't even have to do any work. I just walked outside and started snapping photos. As you can imagine, much Canadian pride was on display, and I took it upon myself to hand out some special titles to those Canadians with a little extra national spirit.

The first recipient of one of Miss Stacia's Quebecwhaaa? Awards for Patriotism was Pimp Man Canada. He was about 6'3" wearing a red furry hat that most people only attempt to pull off in conjunction with a cane and a noseful of cocaine. When later in the afternoon, a woman walking behind me asked her friend if the strippers of rue Sainte-Catherine were represented in the parade that day, I cracked a smile, knowing Pimp Man Canada had 'em covered.

Pimp Man Canada, from behind.

With every parade, there are the tailgaters. These guys happen to have pretty amazing artistic skills and hand-eye coordination considering how drunk they must have been to paint flags on their bald heads and faces. Baldy, now known to all as Paint Man Canada, was extra brave, as it was blistering hot that day, and before his paint job was even done, the white had already begun to run down his sweaty head.

Or maybe nationalistic Canadian birds were crapping out flags.

Every holiday needs its Scrooge - the misanthropic, curmudgeonly old man who challenges the joy of the occasion, but who deep inside, embodies its true history and purest spirit. With a proud sourpuss like this one, how could Old Man Canada not be that grumpster? Adorable old men should be the official mascots for any and every occasion. Give all the old people flags!

Bah humbug.


Canadian Prom:
In addition to Canada Day and one of the largest Jazz festivals in the world, Canada was also host to a number of proms in the week I was there. Over the course of four days, in both Quebec City and Montreal, I was witness to three proms in which the Celine Dion tribute dresses were not to be ignored. And the fellas gave these 17-year old girls a run for their money. Shoes that match the suit that match the tie that match your date's dress? THAT's impressive.



Dresses inspired by Celine Dion, matching suits inspired by every R&B star of the 90s.

Michael Jackson Dies:

Is there anything more eventful than the death of the king of pop?  On my second night in Quebec City, CNN emailed news of the coma and then the rumored death, and then the confirmed death to my Blackberry, and like everyone else in the universe, I went straight for the teevee. Two hours of CNN later, three things were clear: Le roi a été mort. Everyone was shocked/sad. The world was going to play the Thriller album on repeat, all night long.

I took a cab that night to a bar/club in the heart of QC's nightlife strip to entertain myself and expunge myself from the media tornado. That was the night of the bacon pizza, and it was the night I figured out that Canadians love 80's cover bands as much as sleeveless-shirt-wearing Americans. But most importantly it was the night I sang "Rock With U" with a cab driver on my way to who knows where, thinking about how the world was gonna live without MJ, and how that song "You Rock My World" was actually pretty good, and how so many kids my age's first concert was with the Man in the Mirror and how, even though his sister was more fun to follow in the 90s, Michael was the man who made hitting the dance floor a good time, for everyone, for all time.


The Rest:

On my last day in town, I was strolling in Vieux Montreal, looking for stamps to send out the postcards I bought on the first day of the trip (which will finally be sent out, six months later, using postage bearing American flags), when I realized I wasn't on vacation at all. I was on a research trip for Little Pim merchandising.



Becomes:



And so, in the end, I had to expense the whole vacation.