Matt Pryor, of Get Up Kids and New Amsterdams (pseudo) fame released a solo album this week entitled, Confidence Man. Whether Pryor is referencing Herman Melville’s novel on the human masquerade or is simply just a huge fan of the hit TV series, Lost, I can’t be sure. What I do know is, when I was about a decade younger and just discovering delicious delicious alcohol and started having tingly feelings (of the pants variety) I loved the Get Up Kids like any teen should. Then when he was touring as New Amsterdams, I made a trip down to Seattle (it’s this place in America — looks just like Vancouver, but with overweight people) for a quiet sit down show in some back alley pub to see him play.

I don’t write music reviews, so I’m not going to tell you how much he’s matured his sound, refined his voice, improved his composition, or the likely fact that since he has had children he probably doesn’t sleep with tour-floozies surrounded by copious amounts of illegal street drugs and alcohol anymore — because all of that sounds really boring. So without further adieu, a song he wrote to speak out against Obama’s entire campaign and slogan*:

I Wouldn’t Change A Thing, by Matt Pryor

Who doesn’t like politics?
Edward H.

P.S. Matt Pryor is playing at The Media Club in Vancouver on August 11th at 8pm, with a $15 cover.

*Since I don’t actually know this guy, or anything about music or politics, I can’t be certain this is actually what he means, but I think we all know what I’m talking about.

1950’s & 60’s soul / pop legend Sam Cooke went the way of any self-respecting musician. Which is: exiting this fucking place way too early. While many musicians choose the sissy way of dying young to an overdose, Sam Cooke went the “oh shit!” route and was shot to death on December 11th, 1964 at the age of 33. Some crazed motel manager shot him in “self defense” as he 3-arm wrestled her (stir-stick included) wearing only his shoes and overcoat. And if I know anything about being buck naked in a motel wearing just your shoes wondering where the hell that prostitute went, it means: you’re either Hugh Grant, or you’re training to be the next governor of New York. High five, political humour!

Allegedly having stormed into the front office demanding to know where the cooz he was shacked up with ran off to, he attempted some Bas Rutten type moves on this manager so he could get some friggin’ answers. Dangity dangity dang! Included in my extensive sideroad motel knowledge is how to deal with motel managers: don’t. Of course there’s no way Sam could have known this — Psycho, Vacancy, and that movie with John Cusack playing 7 different versions of himself killing each other at that conveniently-isolated-by-a-storm motel hadn’t come out yet. During the wrestling match between the manager and Cooke, she turned to the gun every motel keeps on the counter (right next to that cute little counter bell. Ding!) and shot him on the spot. Bang! To which the clerk in the office came out saying, “Yes, can I help you with–oh. Oh! Sorry. I thought that noise was the bell. My bad. If you need me, I’m taking a smoke break.”

During the investigation, that bird he was with (later arrested for prostitution) claimed he was going to rape her, and that she escaped (with his clothes?) while he went to the bathroom. Doing my own personal investigation into this case, and at the cost of a few spare dollars, a ruined nose liner, and years of dodging VD (that’s right, I’m willing to put myself in harms way in the name of investigative journalism), I have documented the following facts:

1. You don’t rape a prostitute — you pay them. Sometimes they want lots, sometimes they just say, “Have a good day, sweetie. See you after work.”
2. It’s highly unlikely seconds before raping a prostitute (see item 1) you say, “…just a second, sweets. I’m gunna go hit one more line before I do this. Wanna bump? No? You’re good? Okay, stay right there though. Promise I’ll be quick.”
3. Famous people never ever ever rape women.
4. And finally, a hooker’s wardrobe cannot be confused with normal person clothing. It’s scientifically impossible. Fact.

When I get my hands on a time machine, I’m bringing Bas back with me to rescue Sam Cooke. And  you’d better believe that sports almanac is coming with me.

We’re Havin’ a Party, by Sam Cooke

1.21 giggawatts!
Edward H.

UPDATE: Psycho came out in 1960. So scratch that idea. What the hell was he doing fucking with the help?

I tried thinking of something to write where I could make fun of Toronto musician, Matthew Barber — and I couldn’t because I realized I was just too fucking depressed listening to this album to be able to crack any kind of wise. Well, it’s either that or I also once overheard some scientists down the hall saying something about this “fact” that after mixing some old lady’s prescriptions, cheap rave drugs, and Escobar’s Imports that you may feel severe detachment and depression the following day. So there’s that. I’m still betting on this guy though, since there’s no way they could possibly prove that.  When I replay this thing later whilst under a bottle of bourbon, and back on top of a Columbian Snowbank I may be able to make fun of this guy yet!

Easily Bruised & Our Voices, by Matthew Barber

Here’s to hoping,
Edward H.

Not to be confused with European porn series Victoria’s Wet Secrets (available on DVD in PAL format), The Wet Secrets are a band (who, by the way they dress, are intent on making sure you know this) from… Edmonton. That’s the city in Alberta that isn’t Calgary. Still not coming to you? It’s in Canada, somewhere between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, in what I like to call “fly-over country”. I got this quote / brief bio on them from some website:

It all started with a racy (staged) photograph snapped in dim light back in 2005, under the dankest of circumstances.  Half-hearted promises to form a band were soon forgotten due to epic alcohol consumption, but would rear back like an angry stallion months later when it became apparent that The Wet Secrets might not be a bad idea after all.  Formed out of contractual obligation (contracted while drunk most likely) The Secrets wrote and recorded the haphazardly magical ‘Whale of a Cow’ album in the seven days preceding the first gig.  Tubas, paint cans and trombones poke into the mix of campy, homo-centric fuzz rock.

Epic alcohol consumption? Homo-centric fuzz rock? Who writes that shit, and why aren’t they writing on here instead of me? I could be down at the pub right now guzzling back some golden throat charmers waiting in happy-hour lines, while avoiding late-night lines, doing lines, using lines, all whilst revealing my own Wet Secrets in a drunken stupor instead of telling you about some other maple-fried bacon band.

Hot Roller, by The Wet Secrets

Victoria’s Wet Secrets (NSFW), by Private©

Thursday = $3.00 beer at The Whip,
Edward H.

Elliott Brood is the kind of guy / band / is there even anyone named Elliott in this band? that makes me want to pick up a girl bottle, hit the bedroom beach, and barbecue some bikinis burgers. He is / they are Canadian, which is surprising — because he is / they are actually really good, and I was under the impression that maple syrup and Mike Myers were our only worthwhile exports. Let’s see what else I can cross off in this post…

Miss You Now, by Elliott Brood

Brood, bro,
Edward H.

Not your friend,
Edward H.

Newfie band, Hey Rosetta! has recently released their first full length album, Into Your Lungs. If you were a fan of their Plan Your Escape EP, then you’ll definitely like this. Mostly because… it’s the same band. But also because it’s actually really good. Take a listen to the songs below, then maybe go buy their album from iTunes or Maple Music. Because lord knows I didn’t. Someone has to support these people so I can keep stealing and writing about their music.

Red Heart, or A Thousand Suns, by Hey Rosetta!

Hey, Hey Rosetta… I’ll get the next round,
Edward H.

About a week ago I downed a bottle of Cruzan single barrel rum at the lake house. With my extensive knowledge of the world’s finest rums, and refined taste buds, I present you with My Rigorous Alcohol Taste Testing Criterium

1. Did it cost a lot? Yes
2. Could you drink it without mixing it? Right from the bottle
3. Was there alcohol in it? Absolutely
4. Did you wind up being belligerently drunk, telling off servers, shooter girls, guys twice your size, taking your shirt off in the middle of the street, and eating microwaved cheeseburgers from 7-11, then forgetting all of the details when you woke up alone in the morning still in the hot tub that’s now gone cold, almost having drowned? Check!
5. Do other (more qualified) rum tasters think it’s a good rum? Pass.

So there you have it, kids. Go buy some Cruzan. It’s expensive, delicious, full of alcohol, and other people that know more about life than you also like it.

With Love, Rum & Blackouts,
Edward H.

Note To Cruzan: Feel free to send me a lifetime supply of your rum, and a single barrel of cash for the awesome review I just gave you. You can email the booze and cash to: edward@loveandrum.com

DeVotchKa gets their name from some foreign word meaning “young girl”. Which, considering their European front, probably really means not technically legal, but does anyone really check that folder anyway?

Moving forward. Though their musical style makes them sound like a bunch of foreigners, you’ll notice they’re singing in english. That’s because these four fakers are really just from Denver, Colorado. Posing as traveling burlesque’ish gypsies from over seas, they actually might just be my ex-girlfriend in human form. I’m guessing their names are, Talks Real Loud Gypsy, Spirituality Gypsy, Total Alcoholic Gypsy, and I’m On Lotsa Drugs Gypsy. Gypsies, transforrrrm! Oh great, now they’re going to start chatting my ear off about vintage stores, yoga and dive bars.

Clockwise Witness, The, by DeVotchKa

Downward dog,
Edward H.

So a group of foreigners decided to get together in 2000 and form a band that sounds like the British accented, murmuring, keyboard-board playing, facts of life singing, 80’s bands of yesteryear (all going on while they were just barely old enough to watch the actual Facts of Life). Now what you’ve got is a Swedish throwback to the glory days of women with too much hairspray, plastic hoop earrings, red lipstick, cocaine residue on their noses, and sex in back rooms surrounded by neon lights. Actually, this all sounds suspiciously familiar — maybe I’m not thinking about the 80’s at all, but instead: That Hooker From This Afternoon. Well anyhow, perhaps they’re just more like New Order, Joy Division, Echo & The Bunnymen. Good thing I don’t write for any publication that actually cares what you say or how you sound when trying to be in-the-know on any given subject. Go boobies!

Still, by The Mary Onettes

I don’t know anything about the 80’s either, I was too busy learning to pee,
Edward H.