The guy in the middle actually looks like a rabbit!
We used to live here.
Not here in this dimly-lit, low-ceiling music club, which was actually a dirty pool hall/sketchy dive bar back then. But we lived down the street in a pretty dilapidated house with mould in the bathroom and a mouse infestation. (It had a couch and a chalk board on the front porch and, at the time, there was literally no one else willing to rent to us. All three of these things made it pretty appealing.)
The Biltmore Cabaret, had it existed then, would’ve been my second home. Instead of making the questionable trek from Mount Pleasant to Richard’s on Richards (RIP) or the Commodore Ballroom downtown by myself so often, I could’ve slammed half a bottle of Painted Turtle (oh, who am I kidding? I’d obviously finish the whole thing) and happily skip down the street.
I think it’s true for most music fans that for every lonely city they live in there’s at least one venue that provides refuge. Where you walk in and get swallowed into a warm, comfortable gut. Where you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers you obviously have something in common with, even if it’s unspoken. Where you have a place to be lonely, but not alone.
That might be sad. But, it’s the truth and it is mostly why I live in Edmonton.
Now, back in Vancouver for a quick, cheapish getaway, seeing the rows upon rows of upcoming concerts (fucking Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros!), I can’t help but miss it.
Bands like White Rabbits don’t come to Edmonton. They likely never will unless they manage to reach mid-level fame, ensuring they can attract a solid crowd from Vancouver to Montreal, so the daunting journey is worth their while.
The show is sold out. There are cans of Pabst floating around everywhere. I don’t think people are trying to be ironic. They are likely poor. It isn’t cheap to live here, unless you’re willing to share your home with rodents, which, for a while, we were.
Jordan goes up to the bar to get a beer and the bartender automatically pulls out a Pabst.
“Was it my 99 cent toque that gave it away?” he asks, jokingly.
The bartender smiles and points at his own head. “Hey man, I’ve got the same one.”
I know neither Local Natives, the openers, nor White Rabbits well. I’ve heard a few of their songs and really like the first singles. Here, people do that. They look for new bands. They’re hungry for the next thing. And this time, they chose well.
Local Natives are fantastic. The small room becomes a mess of bobbing heads and bouncing bodies almost instantly. I’m not a great judge of many things, but if there are self-conscious hipsters in the crowd, it seems they’ve abandoned inhibitions.
When they play Sun Hands to wrap it up, people go nuts. So as the drummer tosses the crowd around with his beat, someone on stage, fittingly, encourages us to “dance until our nuts fall off.” We do – and continue to as White Rabbits play.
They, too, surpass expectations.
I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and wear the same big, stupid grin I had on this morning when I ran around Stanley Park, taking in the familiar cliffs, ocean tankers and smell of salt water.
It is nice to have this cloak of anonymity again. No one here knows us. We are anybody. But in that hippy-shit way that everyone outside of Vancouver thinks is commonplace here, we are also everybody. The crowd is so genuinely excited about the goings on on stage you can’t help but feel part of it.
And, oh, Percussion Gun sounds so great live. There are two drummers: one hunched over a kit and another hovering over a set, banging the living shit out of them in unison. It actually feels like someone is rattling off bullets.
Later, for old time’s sake, we make our way to Uncle Fatih’s at the corner of Commercial Drive and Broadway for ridiculously cheap artichoke pizza. If there are two things Vancouver does well it’s music and pizza by-the-slice. And, while I’m here, I’m not about to miss out on either.
