A Queer Ol’ Time | DJ Toonflash, left, plays retro dance and gets ridden like a gilded pony by Party Police’s Justy and Jesse at the Empress’ monthly Beers for Queers last week. It was a staggeringly gay night.
Oasis
Rexall Place • Aug. 29
If the music thing hadn’t worked out for Liam Gallagher to the extent that it has, the Oasis lead singer could have just as easily landed a gig as a guard at Buckingham Palace — that is if the band’s show at Rexall last Friday night was any indication of his stand-still stamina. When he wasn’t nailing the vocals from his back catalogue on the mic, he’d simply stand there glaring vacantly into the sold-out crowd during the instrumental bridges. It became a game of sorts: could Edmonton’s Oasis fan base do the unthinkable and get the irascible Gallagher brother to emote? The answer: nope.
The decibel levels of the cheering at Rexall — arguably a byproduct of the Oilers’ failed Stanley Cup run in 2006 — would almost lead one to believe it was a great concert when in fact it was merely OK. There had been a time when playing tiny burgs like Edmonton wouldn’t have been a consideration for the once self-proclaimed Biggest Band in the World. Today, the contempt on behalf of the since-reduced Oasis was palpable, and Liam’s glowering performance was, consequently, by the numbers. Hits like “Wonderwall” and “Morning Glory” might have resonated more if it seemed like the band actually gave a shit. And these days “Don’t Look Back in Anger” sounds more like good advice for poor ol’ Liam.
The best moments in the too-short show belonged to brother Noel Gallagher, the brains behind the band. His accomplished acoustic play and vocal range, which put Liam to shame, honestly make one wonder why he hasn’t gone solo.
YURI WUENSCH
Jordan Cook
Blues on whyte • Aug. 20
Strange things happen when Jordan Cook picks up a guitar. While most musicians merely ‘play’ their instrument, Cook manhandles his six-string with a preternatural zeal that grabs you by the brain stem and shakes you into a nympholeptic frenzy. Cook weaves a dirty animal undertone into his blues that brings out lust in women, and makes young men want to say “yes” when they know they should flee. The first symptoms of the frenzy felt like Cook was finger tapping on my spine as I smoked a cigarette behind the bar. That’s when “She” blindsided me. She was in her fifties and latched her arms around my neck and danced around me to Cook’s gritty rendition of “Muddy Water Blues.” Eventually her gyrating hips stopped momentarily as she pulled away saying, in a faux southern drawl, “Oh my God, I just love him (Cook). No wonder Colin James and Jeff Healy kicked him off their tour because fans kept chanting little old Jordan’s name.” As Cook lead into “Back on the Road Again,” I began to notice that my vision was blurring every time Cook’s whammy bar floated past his strings. At first I thought my southern belle had spiked my drink, but then I remembered the previous symptoms I’d suffered while smoking. I knew I was in trouble and I cursed Cook as the night faded into blackness. I awoke the next morning, alone in my bed with Cook’s voice pounding in my head, “follow me in, figure me out, follow me down.” I thanked Christ that I was still fully dressed with my shoes still on. As I grappled with the “morning after” blues I couldn’t help but hold Cook responsible for two things. First for my confused frame of mind, and second for yet another five-star show.
ANDREW PAUL
