Ian and I make a point of seeing each other once every year or sometimes two. When I was at McGill I spent two summers on P.E.I. with the greatest summer job in the world: playing drums 6 nights a week in a band. Beyond meeting Emma, the highlight of the trip was playing a gig with the old trio: Ian on guitar, Chris Budhan on bass and me on drums. As you can imagine, playing with the same guys 6 nights a week for two months straight and then again as a group during the academic year leads to some serious musical sympathy. To the very limited extent that I have a distinctive style of drumming, it was formed in the group with Ian and Chris and in conjunction with their development of a distinctive sound. There was one month in particular when, as result of seeing a fantastic show by the Abby and Norm group (the album really doesn’t begin to do justice to the way they played live), we came out of our shells musically and started to stretch. Playing with Ian and Chris that summer, and in the following months, was far and away the most satisfying experience I’ve had playing drums. So you can see why I was excited to play with them again. And apprehensive: just a quick glance at their websites reveals that since our days at McGill they have, to put it mildly, progressed musically. I, on the other hand, have not (well, not on the drumming front at least).

I’m happy to report that the gig was awesome. Chris and Ian sound amazing and, while I did make some mistakes here and there, I was able to hang with them reasonably well. What was most amazing about the show however was how ridiculously comfortable it was: Chris and I locked in together time-wise immediately, I knew just when Ian was wrapping up a solo, & we would often hit breaks at the same time. There are days when it feels like you’re fighting your instrument. If you’re in decent shape, those days are usually somewhat rare (i.e. not so rare for me anymore). More common are the days where it feels like things are working, but playing still involves a lot of thinking. And then there are times, very rare indeed for me, when it really feels like you are no longer playing the instrument. It’s as though you’re watching yourself  play the instrument and it feels effortless and fresh. Those are the best moments and I had a few of them, just a couple stretches of 8 bars or so, playing with Ian and Chris. At the end of gigs with moments like that I feel giddy and weirdly peaceful. It’s been a while. I know I sound, very uncharacteristically, like a hippie. But there it is. Groovy.

In other musical news, The Counterfactuals are back at it, although the only constant between the previous incarnation and this one is me. Jason Decker and I are playing The Contented Cow at 5pm (so rock and roll. I won’t be in bed until at least 8.30 with that start time), so if you’re in Northfield, come check us out.

Because of my own difficulties in writing non-crap lyrics, I especially resent artists who seem to have no concern at all for the quality of their lyrics. For some time, I’ve been keeping track of lyrics that are so amazingly bad they make you laugh. One of my favorites is a classic. I really don’t like Bernie Taupin‘s lyrics at the best of times, but he managed to outdo himself on Rocket Man:

Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids//In fact it’s cold as hell//And there’s no one there to raise them if you did

I know what he’s getting at, but it’s painfully ungrammatical. But more to the point: isn’t the Rocket Man going to be there to raise his kids? Is he complaining that there aren’t babysitters or nannies on Mars to take care of the kids so he can go off and get some Martian tail? Go to the bar? What?!

A more recent favorite comes from the band I love to hate, Nickelback:

Look at this photograph//Everytime I do it makes me laugh//How did our eyes get so red?//And what the hell is on Joey’s head?

Gah! What the hell is on Joey’s head? Inquiring minds want to know. A fish? A hamster? A piece of bologna? What, dammit? For their next single, they’ll be setting the Dick & Jane books to music.

But, frankly, these all pale in comparison to what I think is the worst lyric of all time. Courtesy of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, this doozy comes midway through a fantastically bad musical “argument” for atheism called The Only Way (Hymn):

Can you believe, God makes you breathe?
Why did he lose six million Jews?

Yeah, they went there. I didn’t need convincing when I first heard this at 14. But if I did, this sophisticated piece of reasoning was not going to do it.

Well, I’m done. Now it’s your turn: what is the worst lyric you know? Do share.