Features | Festivals

It's Dark, and There Are Wolves After Me: Ottawa's 1st Annual Capital Idea! Music Festival

By Conrad Amenta | 10 August 2007

Yeah, a Simpsons quote in the title. That franchise's summer movie event is a death knell best understood by such geriatrics as myself, who can remember when "Don't have a cow, man," was less a long-dead idiom and more an excuse for news magazines to superficially poke at the zeitgeist with sanitized barbeque tongs.

I was nineteen years old in 1999, when I first heard Sunny Day Real Estate's Diary (1994) and ostensibly decided to "get into music." Jeremy Enigk, Sunny Day Real Estate's singer, was nineteen in 1994, when he recorded the songs he had written for Diary. Alexander III attacked Byzantium when he was sixteen years old according to Netflix and Oliver Stone, who fought in Vietnam when he was twenty-one. CMG writers Alan, Boogz, Dom, Pete, n' Clay are all offensively young, with a few others just barely past them. Calum Marsh, curator of Ottawa's newest music festival, cheekily named The Capital Idea! Festival and featuring staples and up-and-comers of the indie scene like Besnard Lakes, Born Ruffians, the Walkmen, Destroyer, Frog Eyes, the Wrens, Sunset Rubdown, Fiery Furnaces, Russian Futurists, Parts & Labor, Girl Talk, and Damo Suzuki of CAN, is twenty-one. I am twenty-seven. I once finished Final Fantasy VIII in just over thirty hours.

Ottawa, a.k.a. Toronto's prissy little brother, a.k.a. Montreal's distant-though-perhaps-not-distant-enough Anglophone cousin, a.k.a. my hometown, is 152 years old. For those of us who live here, complaining but secretly loving it, periodically leaving but always returning, Ottawa encapsulates what some overwrought thinkers struggle to define as a sense of Canadian-ness: torn between English and French nationalisms, major insecurity disorders, self-deprecating to a fault and, in spite of all these things, still lovable and lived-in. It's tempting to say The Capital Idea! Festival, tiny heir apparent to Ottawa's Cisco System's Blues FestT (this year quizzically and awesomely featuring Bob Dylan and Van Morrison alongside Built to Spill and Cat Power), represents a coming of age for this perpetually almost-metropolis, somehow second class despite that it has the highest ratio of post-secondary degrees in the country. But, with Calum being pretty young, and in these years when a six year gap in age seems tantamount to statements about generationalism, I prefer to think the festival is about Ottawa growing into its youthful exuberance.

To coincide with this crisis of lost youth, I've decided to buy a condo.

*****

June 21st: Sunset Rubdown w/ Miracle Fortress and Montag
Potential subtitle: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bong

I'd met with the mortgage broker earlier in the week, wondered how a company housed in a building, working behind tangible, corporeal desks could be named after a website (and if that works in reverse, what would CMG's building look like?). The sprig of university guilt complex I keep barely watered briefly shuddered in the shade of the Hummer parked out front, plastered with real estate slogans. I thought about how I must look to the broker, as many years younger than me as he appeared, as he explained amortization to me another couple of times and periodically glanced at his reflection in the office mirror.

Miracle Fortress was the first of three Montreal acts to open my first night on the festival, and soundly disproved my rickety theory that the first band of a three band bill is usually shitty, local, and features me on drums. The first half of their set was a solo act, their front man approximating Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah! along with a drum machine before being joined by the drummer from Sunset Rubdown and friends to expand the sound further. By set's end they had most of the attendees awake and impressed, as their arrangements counter-intuitively shifted and made use of dynamics in an interesting and skillful way. The early slot in Ottawa is always a tough one, like the tense bending of hard materials into pliability. But Miracle Fortress played through it, warming the crowd up admirably if not overwhelmingly.

Less engaging was solo act Montag, who insisted on playing three keyboards, a variety of hand percussion, and sing all by himself as an iPod provided accompaniment. It was briefly entertaining to watch his hectic multitask of an act, but soon lost its appeal and led one to think that with one other member both his arrangements and performances would be more manageable. To see him scramble for a wand with which to hit a chime makes one question the placement of both the instrument and the noise in that particular place to begin with. Occasional stylistic associations with Hidden Cameras reengaged the audience (though also inconveniently foregrounding how having many people in your band is preferential to having no one in your band), but the stage was willingly yielded to Sunset, who even Montag admitted he was more interested in seeing.

Spencer Krug and co. began with what is fast becoming a staple of any Krug show: sound problems and open, plentiful apologies relative to them. Sleater-Kinney's Corin Tucker once said in an interview to "never apologize to your audience." Krug prefers to assume his audience is always on the verge of walking out. Instead of seeming like he cares, however, it tells the audience that "this show is already going poorly; this will not be a special night." Those of us who expected this recovered quickly, and watched as they played in the hazy light of the lamps they brought with them. Those who didn't expect it felt slightly alienated.


A swingy ending to "Shut Up I Am Dreaming of Places Where Lovers Have Wings" and the searing shudder of "The Empty Threats of Little Lord" counterbalanced material from their forthcoming Random Spirit Lover that, other than a Celtic sounding acoustic song, continues the band's surreal conflation of animal imagery with people and arrangements whose constituent pieces crash and jostle each other uncomfortably. In the dank under hang of that particular club, it was appropriately solemn, and occasionally cathartic.

*****

June 22nd: The Walkmen w/ Acres and Relief Maps
Potential Subtitle: Everyone Who Used to Like Me Didn't Even Bother to Show Up (or, No, Calum, Don't Cry)

In the words of festival organizer Calum, the night's show was 'disastrously attended.' Best identified by the image of a sparse crowd in a cavernous former high school auditorium which, complete with chairs bolted to the floor, was almost hostile and distant with its high ceilings and out-of-control reverb. The small group of fans was treated to a night of enthusiastic performances fraught with sound problems and the mental image of a janitor appearing stage left to spout, "What's going on in here?" Ottawa's small but vocal indie fan base are always happy when a band we admire visits, choosing not to simply drive past on their way from Toronto to Montreal; we are upset with correlative vigor when those we imagine to be our peers fail to appear to mark the occasion. It's bittersweet; you think to yourself "I'm enjoying this" while wondering, "will I ever see this band in my town again?" I truly can't imagine the Walkmen having any idea why they were in Ottawa at all, or why they should return.

Acres opened with their tight, if dichotomous, mixture of textural guitar work and rock histrionics, which were hampered in their believability by the sound guy's decision to not turn on the drum mics until the third song. Shortly after, amid rumors that The Walkmen had been caught at the border, Relief Maps, Ottawa's most consistent indie band, seemed drunk on their own juices, comfortable even in such an uncomfortable venue. Their sound problems were turned into jokes, their monitors physical obstacles rather then mental ones. To see them transformed so suddenly from the mild, unsure new band into loose-limbed stage-walkers is gratifying.

The Walkmen, appearing on stage with what may or may not have been looks of concern at the less-than-half-full auditorium, had a difficult time getting off the ground as the uneven sound made Hamilton Leithauser's sandpaper croon squeal and cut out. Even the 'let's get this out of the way' early performance of "The Rat" sounded thin and unsure, their drummer seemingly unable to hear where the rest of the band stood and running quickly into tempo problems. Still, the power and unquestionable affability of early material, like Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone's (2001) "Wake Up" came through, and tom-heavy songs like "Emma, Get Me a Lemon" sounded tribal and resonant in the cavernous room. Some impromptu, and then distracting, tambourine participation from the Relief Maps did manage to shake up what might have been an otherwise torturously routine performance where the audience both suspected and had confirmed that the band was playing for money rather than pleasure.



*****

June 23rd:
The Wrens w/ Poorfolk
Potential Subtitle: The Kids are All Right, said Someone Old Enough to Like "The Kids Are All Right"

I'm standing on six hundred square feet of hardwood floor, envisioning, as asked, a version of me five years in the future in this space and wondering if he's happy or cursing his younger self's thriftier tendencies. Terms like "granite countertops" and "stainless steel" take on new significance, emblematic and abstractly essential. I constantly feel like I'm being spoken down to, humored, as I ask the same questions over and over while fighting the impulse to simply say, "It's fine; I'll take it."

Though the Wrens are old enough to be considered veterans of the indie scene, they're best known for their reliably adolescent live show, the gusto of teenaged alienation and unchecked enthusiasm of early nineties rock and roll. When bassist/vocalist Kevin Whelan sang, "Been so long / since you heard from me / got a wife and kids / that I never see," he's surely preaching to the choir, but that's how you get them to sing. Their lumberjack bodies were thrown askew across the stage, burly and larger than life.

By the way (and this really needs to be said): it's possible that the Wrens are the most gracious, accommodating and thus satisfying rock band working today. Where the Walkmen peered out at a half-empty auditorium and mumbled unsteady thank yous, the Wrens peppered their set with sincere chat and unexpired energy. The last time I saw the Wrens was at a summer festival, but I was struck by how easily the genuineness of their music is communicable, regardless of crowd size or venue. I truly think that had there been a half-dozen people, yawning on their feet a few feet away, the Wrens would have still produced one of the best sets of the festival.

The crowd was invited on stage, given drumsticks to tap along, and there twenty fans sang the words to The Meadowlands' (2003) "She Sends Kisses" and "Hopeless" with enthusiasm to match the band's. If the Walkmen were sobering and mature, a cold splash of water in the face of The Capital Idea! Festival as it tried to pick itself up off the ground, the Wrens were a reaffirmation of youth for both a city that desperately needed a band to unquestioningly appreciate its attendance and for a self-styled crit suddenly asked to consider cabinetry and wall moldings.

*****

June 24th:
Frog Eyes w/ People for Audio and Books on Books
Potential Subtitle: Everyone's Using Your Drums, and Your Drums are Terrible Drums

In the spirit of strict disclosure, I'll say that Books on Books is my band and obviously refrain from evaluating our performance. I will say that my band is comprised of three men not including myself, north of thirty years old, two with kids, all property owners, and that this conveniently tied into a week of being twenty-seven, no kids, no property, and still somehow feeling at the mercy of an accelerated aging process.

People for Audio followed us promptly and efficiently, without a hint of condescension, outplayed us to the nth degree. Their technical post-rock and jazz fusion was very different from the calculated mess of Frog Eyes, from Mercer's constant strum, run-on lyrics and those constant, thumping drums. Instead, the five piece carefully constructed detailed numbers, clockwork drums a backbone to textural guitars and keyboards. A lap-steel was the icing on the cake, making those not already enamored with their deliberate, steady machinations look up at the call of its distinctive twang.

The Krug-less Frog Eyes were at their best, predictably, during the numbers that loom monstrous from the black ocean that is Tears of the Valedictorian, this year's best album to play soccer at midnight to -- namely "Bushels" and "Caravan Breakers," which stole the night, to say nothing of the show, with their counterintuitive arrangements and spiky sprawl. Mercer was nonsensically brilliant, speaking to the Jägermeister painting on the club wall and breaking nearly every song down to its rawest of spaces so as to allow his flitting voice maximum exposure. The contrast between the three piece and the oversized People for Audio was effective and rewarding, a nice piece of lineup work by Calum; Frog Eyes was the basement creature to PFA's decorative, buttressed old house.

*****

June 26th: Fiery Furnaces w/ Hot Springs and Thundara
Potential Subtitle: The Band Geeks Love, and the Goth Kids and Stoners Work for Them

The afternoon was spent looking at a condo at which I was told the seller was 'desperate.' Any offer I wanted to make, I'd have to make quickly, I was told. I fell for it, thinking I was getting a good deal. My father told me to stop falling for selling techniques and, for the first time in a while, the quickness with which he said it made me feel young again.

The night featured what was, by far, a lineup most able to compete with one another in terms of pure muscle. Montreal up-and-comers Thundara played spacey, screamy post-punk dance numbers with plenty of noise, hooks and inventive percussive elements, like sheet metal and tiny gongs, which hung like superfluous breaks amid their explosive sounds. Their muscle was raw, wild, and threatened to oversell the entire show. Selling only a 7", many left the show repeating the band's name to themselves over and over so as not to forget it (and if they're reading this, hook a guy up).

Hot Springs were more conventional, bar chord rock, but were effortlessly tight. Their muscle was both locomotive and, well, literal (as their bass player was about the size of Arkansas). They sounded a bit like the Rakes, and the antics of their lead singer kept the slowly growing crowd entertained.

Fiery Furnaces were simply incredible; their muscle was sleek and perfect, driving and, though less noisy, also seemingly with less mercy. The last time they played Ottawa, the Fiery Furnaces seemed to conventionalize their set, transforming counterintuitive arrangements into guitar-rock manifestos. I had thought it refreshing and surprising, but also a small bit of a cop-out. Their albums are so ambitious that I didn't want to credit any of it to studio gimmickry, and thought the interpretation a bit facile, if fun. But this, their second Ottawa performance in as many years, assuaged all fears -- an hour and a half, no breaks, and wholly mistake free, this band is inhumanly tight. A percussionist played a series of blocks and bongos with more fluency and variation than Interpol can squeeze out of their entire lineup. The constantly shifting and difficult-to-track set list ran the gamut of their catalogue, offering bristling, yet controlled versions of songs often too album-specific to be considered "favorites." Matthew Friedberger, seated permanently behind a single set of keys, would sometimes squeeze off a smile to his drummer or percussionist, as if sharing a joke the rest of us aren't studied enough in music to understand. The set was an exercise in "what ifs" -- what if Blueberry Boat (2004) were a boss nova album? What if Bitter Tea (2006) were punk? After this show, I have no doubt that their capabilities extend well beyond that degree of genre control.

*****

June 27th: Destroyer w/ As the Poets Affirm and Rock Plaza Central
Potential Subtitle: Pffffft

As the primary outlet of Torontonian novelist Chris Eaton, one wonders if Rock Plaza Central is an aware and literary performance of raucous country/rock or an opportunity for its front man to perform in a setting where kicks and windmills are awarded the same kind of accolades as steady character development. Their rambling lineup were a strange choice to follow up the prog rock virtuosity of Ottawa's As the Poets Affirm, now playing sans-vocals (and, some reported, prompting Dan Bejar to call them the best prog outfit in or from somewhere or other). Affable and charming, Rock Plaza were a counter-stance to the previous evening's opener. Where Thundara pounded and battered the edges of audience consciousness, Rock Plaza tried to go home with it.

What I know about how a festival is arranged and run is extremely limited. I know that if you can get a band to schedule your city during a hole in their tour, which has happened to bring them nearby, a standard deal can be put into place. I know that if you want them to come to your city specially, the price tag is correlative to asking them to play your birthday party. Dan Bejar was flown in from Calgary to perform a solo set, and from this I drew my own obvious, if limited, conclusions. His lone, wizardly figure swayed behind an electric guitar as I thought to myself, "How in god's name is Calum affording all this without massive local and corporate sponsorship?" Thankfully (at least Calum must have been thankful), Destroyer played the first full night I saw of the festival.

Bejar: "A thousand cobras made of permafrost, they sailed into the sun, while Julie smells of Julia and that was how they knew that It. Was. GOOD. It was a melancholy wood."
Conrad: (swivels head around at the crowd, assessing the overwhelmingly positive response to this phonetic gibberish)
Bejar: "Ba-di-ba-du-ba-da-daaaaaaaahh. Ga-ga-bi-da-daaaaaaaahh."
Conrad: (leaves)

I was later told that Bejar struggled to find songs he could perform without his backing band or more equipment, and was "tired."

*****

June 28th: Russian Futurists w/ Parts and Labor and Liars Rosebush
Potential Subtitle: But, I Didn't Call the Drummer a Motherfucker

Liars Rosebush (who, despite being a solo act, also played music from his near-identical 'side-project' Left / Right) is what people like me call techno, and what people who know techno call something much more specific. His spastic elbow jerks are soon explained by the manipulation of, what I am informed is called, "a Wiimote," one of those remote controllers for the new Nintendo system. With each shadow punch, noises were manipulated into being and then snuffed out. Dance music is more contextual than most, more social, and though his performance was something to see, especially if you're an MPC/laptop enthusiast, the sparse early evening crowd was unreceptive to his schizophrenic and ever-modulating songs.

Parts and Labor, on the other hand, were a SCUD missile; forty minutes of well-oiled rock, including all of the best songs from their amazing Mapmaker, including "The Gold We're Digging" "New Crimes," and "Fractured Skies." Only opener, "A Great Divide," from last year's Stay Afraid, broke the Mapmaker love-in, but, given their shortened set, the more accessible material was laser-like in its efficiency: bombastic guitars (replacing the horn lines from "Fractured Skies") and the almost-metal of the incredible Chris Weingarten's drumming made me wonder how Russian Futurists could maintain the level of intensity and energy P&L established and rode for the duration of their set.

Which, of course, was never the Russian Futurists' goal. Where Weingarten pummeled the crowd into awed submission, the Russian Futurists' first show with a drummer was as straightforward a jam as possible. Every pitch-perfect rendition fed the crowd, who in turn fed it back, with Matthew Hart's characteristic wit and "Weird Science" charm culminating in his declaration, "This is a new song. It's called 'Register My Firearms? No Way.'" Even songs that I've never particularly cared for, like "Our Pen's Out of Ink," a song that I think suffers for its monochromatic production when it might have provided Our Thickness (2005) with dynamics, was puffed up by the live volume, achieving by virtue of crowd presence what Liar's Rosebush's ill-attended set was too handicapped to accomplish. The presence of a live kit did manage to add some small variety -- sudden stops, and another visual for a band that tends to bop behind keyboards. But for pure melody and circumstance without the pomp, what might have been the festival's best lineup (or at least a simple and likeable correlative to Fiery Furnaces/Thundara) closed out my Capital Idea! "most anticipated acts" segment with easy, friendly grace.

*****

June 29th: Born Ruffians w/ Henri Faberge and the Adorables, the Field Register

A week of scribbling notes on the back of receipts, bumming cigarettes off of the performers I was looking for so I could interview, and generally growing a place for concern that Calum might not come out of the other end of this in one piece once his associates in the mafia came to collect on those loans, I didn't do what I should have to foreground the undeniable youth of Born Ruffians, despite this article's underlying premise which I am trying to nourish. I suspected upon hearing their debut EP (after hearing XL announce that they'd signed around the same time as Thom Yorke, speaking of old men) that every song was, in fact, about sex. This, their latest and still energetic show, was a confirmation of that youth, one gracefully and artfully counter-posed by the criminally overlooked sounds of the Field Register, whose mature, tempered songwriting was made to seem all the more so by the formerly mentioned spastic antics of a drummer with greasy hair lip and lyrics about losses only of and pertaining to one's virginity. Both played with amiable skill, but only one left you with the impression that you could grow with them, that there were hidden depths to their music. The depths Born Ruffians want most for you to explore are the spaces between their pants and their skin.

*****

Seven shows in seven days made me feel a little like I was on tour myself (though to see Calum's sunken face on the last day was some small comfort). To make it more exhausting still, at festival's end it's difficult to quantify whether or not Capital Idea! was a success in the conventional sense. There was a lot of great music, and Ottawa's a richer place for it's happening, but it's hard to see how it could have been financially rewarding for its organizer. A few of the shows were plagued by fundamental problems due to organizational shortfalls -- poor sound, misprinted (and expensive) tickets, and the mistaken impression by many who chose not to attend that buying a pass would not get them entry to the shows they wanted to see most. Capital Idea! went a long way towards unintentionally examining why organizers usually press for a format that privileges two or three days of forty minute set-times and massive sponsorship, a format that allows organizers to pay only one permit fee, to solicit booth rentals, and to pay less for individual acts while concentrating festival goers plainly in the sight of marketers and vendors. But insofar as Ottawa took another baby-step closer to feeling comfortable in its own skin, to saying to bands we admire "welcome to" rather than "sorry about" our city, Calum simply did what he's been doing all along: he brought the goods. The old man felt proud; the young one went home every night talking excitedly with friends about the night, and about what was coming up.