The Raincoats (Photo: Andi State/Pop Montreal) Ten years ago this month, Pop Montreal began a decade of well-curated festivals devoted to music, film, art and the occasional symposium. Ten years ago is also roughly the last time I visited Toronto’s better-dressed cousin, but if you’re 13, unable to park-drink with other degenerates or dance all night in a crumbling warehouse, you’re not really in Montreal at all. THURSDAY 5:30 pm. First thing I see after getting off the bus: a Carmen-Sandiego-themed burlesque show. The second thing is this guy in a Cattle Decapitation hoodie skateboarding with his two dogs. Montreal! 11:12 pm. After gorging on great poutine for almost nothing at the tiny perfect diner Patati Patata, I’m watching Montreal’s own Grimes in the basement of a Portuguese community centre. Though her music tends towards the eerily minimalist, she’s namechecked Mariah and Beyonce during interviews as well, which may explain why my favourite songs matched her girlish, nebulous voice with a thumping drum machine. 1:31 am. The first mosh pit I ever leapt inside was at a Fucked Up show, and given recent intimations about a looming breakup, their late-night gig beneath Eglise Saint-Edouard could be my last chance to relive it. Though he’d worn a sharp suit days before to co-host the Polaris Prize gala, frontman Damian Abraham is back in his traditional uniform of shorts, sweat and nothing else. His vocals still sound like a hatchet, even on the seasonally inappropriate “Jingle Bells” cover. The ecumenical crowd loves everything, whether classicist hardcore tracks or more outr crossover bait such as “Black Albino Bones.” Only now do I realize how this attitude remains even in Fucked Up pits, welcoming circles of chaos mercifully low on aggro idiots. It’s as sentimental as a slamdance can be. FRIDAY 5:19 pm. The Art Pop segment is presenting a couple of new films by Marcel Dzama with “live musical accompaniment” (also accompanied by sweltering, unventilated heat). The first one, “Death Dance Disco,” depicts silent figures in polka-dot body suits making like Busby Berkeley to a soundtrack of, um, dance music. Mysterious cloaked beings with sculptural heads stand behind them, impassively taking in the abrupt stop-start rhythms. There’s an apparent connection to Dzama’s earlier “A Game of Chess” (trailer), though that film is more obviously inspired by the silent cinema that every artist from Winnipeg seems to love. With good reason! 10 pm. The tUnE-yArDs show at the Ukrainian Federation represents a homecoming of sorts for Merrill Garbus, who lived in Montreal for a time, so it’s not surprising that the venue is totally, overwhelmingly packed. Bring an enraptured audience to one of the most exhilarating, charismatic performers in music right now and the results are… intense. The heat is extreme to the point of physical exhaustion; people sweated their hand-stamps clean off. At certain points I need to duck out into the anteroom for gasps of air, neck craned, unable to look away from the massive sound Garbus creates with subtly virtuosic loops of voice, ukulele and drumming. Halfway through “Bizness,” she and her horn players pivoted into an epic instrumental breakdown. Knowing that I’ll see her again in Toronto a few nights later, I decide to leave it there and race to my next show. The post-encore applause is audible from a block away. 11:15 pm. At the Ponderosa Stomp, a middle-aged Quebecois dad is losing his shit during “Lucille.” That’s only a prelude to Ralph “Soul” Jackson, a charming louche who howls like James Brown: “I love to sing for the women. Is that alright for you ladies?” 12:18 am. The Velvelettes take the stage in identical sparkly sequined dresses and survey 50 years of African-American music. The setlist is built around Motown classics like “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours,” but often embellished in some unexpected way: “Dancing in the Street” interpolates a Whitney Houston chorus, while their own “Needle in a Haystack” begins with gospel call-and-response. These are a few of the greatest pop songs ever written, and the Velvelettes gave them glorious context. 1:20 am. Ralph Jackson returns to sing “(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay,” reading glasses dangling from his neck, and then there’s yet another encore c/o crack backing band guitarist Lil’ Buck, revisiting his single “Monkey in the Sack.” Our host says that the original pressing goes for a thousand dollars on eBay. That seems fair. 2:00 am. 2:27 am. I was warned by multiple people against going to this afterparty, as if in some myth. I ran into a Montreal friend on her way home before arriving, and when I asked how it was she grimaced and said: “Well, you’re pretty much guaranteed to sleep with somebody.” The music is bad, the art on the walls is bad, and the beer is bad without the consolation of being cheap. I have partied too close to the sun. SATURDAY 5:34 pm. A revealing conversation between post-punk heroes the Raincoats features Ana da Silva giving her band an inadvertent motto: “We love mistakes, we hate perfection.” 9:18 pm. Conflict-of-interest hour with the Two Koreas, several members of whom are former bosses and co-workers, or current friends. But they’re good anyway, especially in a shoebox of a dive that could call itself Tiny Dee’s. 11:15 pm. One of my most anticipated performances at Pop Montreal was actually a DJ set, by the electronic producers Nguzunguzu. Despite the club’s disorienting resemblance to Laser Quest, the duo’s going hard, weaving a dreamy haze of R&B in the manner of their “Perfect Lullaby” mix. Their transition from “Let’s Go Crazy” to The-Dream’s “My Love” to (I think) Ssion is otherworldy. No wonder a few people are moved to vogue onstage. 3:00 am. Found my way to another unofficial event. This one has Cadence Weapon playing unfuckwithable rap and R&B records in a giant overgrown loft by the train tracks, so I’m happy. You must be at the right party if the whole dancefloor yells out Bun B’s verse from “Big Pimpin.” SUNDAY 1:21 pm. In the great bagel debate between St-Viateur and Fairmount, I’m leaning towards the former. They both beat the New York style, though. Let’s not talk about Toronto. 4:30 pm. Took a break from Pop Montreal completely and walked through the shadow of Notre-Dame to see DHC/ART gallery’s John Currin show. My friend David Balzer described these paintings as ones that “crave to be looked at…in simultaneous mortification and fascination,” and I’m fixated on the strangely fey yet lascivious WASPs that caricature Currin himself. 2:10 am. Think About Life, “Montreal’s Montreal band,” are wrapping up this year’s festival with what may or may not be their last show ever. When they launch into “Havin’ My Baby,” an entire church basement surges forward ecstatically, determined to make the most of it. NBA playerMatt Bonner stagedived, and then two guys crowdsurfed across each other, and now everyone’s leaping up to dance with the band. I could go on, but why? __ Chris Randle is a regular writer on culture for Toronto Standard.
