Sea change

It’s true to say that I was born by a river, but the truth is that I’ve always been torn between two.

Every night I dream of the Richelieu, which flows a short bike ride away from my childhood home on the South Shore. Returning to my earliest roots along that valley provides a sense of closeness and guidance in my sleep.

Then, by twists and turns simultaneously foreign and familiar across Autoroute 116, fondness meets fright as I am suddenly scaling a monstrous, wrought-iron roller coaster track, by foot, over a mighty and fierce St. Lawrence, across which I bridge the gateway of my personal evolution.

Every leap and swing across both plains is painfully fulfilling. When I snap to from the dream, I am scared and laughing and vividly awake for a moment. When I sleep through it, I later remember it vaguely, if at all, as some same-old-thing in morning’s light.

Either way, like the man said, “It was all a dream.”

I am capital “W” white, a U.K. mutt breed pumping third-generation Montreal blood through my Irish Catholic bones. My dad was a “liberal,” as per his politics. I’m a left-handed leftist, as per my own anti-guilt complex: I feel no guilt — but it is complex.

By no means am I the over-privileged offshoot of some well-meaning, pre-PC notion of civil rights; the only instance in which I could ever use the word “struggle” with sincerity, so far in this lifetime, is with reference to my work as a white hip hop journalist.

Yet I have full confidence in my own knowledge of, and credibility in, the culture. It is the wear-damaged lens through which I view it that I remain acutely aware of, trying to work around its inherent flaws to capture a unique angle.

Notion of the Ocean
A few weeks back, a buddy commented “What is a Frank Ocean?” on my FB page.

“An incredibly honest body of water,” was the instantaneous quip from another friend.

Ocean, the fantastically gifted, soul-crooning Odd Futurist (group elder of the West Coast rap Rat Pack at 23) had been confirmed for his July 29 appearance at Club Soda only moments earlier.

When he came out in an open letter on Tumblr last week, the random Facebook comment I had chuckled at and dismissed as a simple convention of Wit 3.0 resounded to me as unusually prophetic for a casual, smart-ass retort.

Did Ocean flagrantly challenge hip hop’s seemingly inherent homo-paranoia to lock in the steadily growing buzz for Channel Orange, his box-fresh major label debut?

Or does he yearn to break humanity free of its multi-linked chains of intolerance by virtue of his artistic merit?

Those notions are all so-very-crafty possibilities, or noble ideals, or simply well-plotted attempts at getting noticed, but for some reason I think just maybe Ocean came out so frankly because, as per his letter, “[his] hope is that the babies born these days will inherit less of the bullshit than we did.”

Maybe he knows the tides of change are just inevitable.

I mean, that is what he fucking led with.

Tonight: Blue Dog swiftly became the altar to the Demigodz’ Apathy and Celph Titled, as announced two days back. Not by bag, really, but if ever a city had cult-like loyalty to bleak, snarling NYC indie-tude raps, MTL is unironically it.

Thursday: Osheaga dangles a spicy little noodle with DJ Food at the SAT. Ninja Tune OG Strictly Kev marries space, time, image and rhythm at 7 and 9 p.m., and again on Friday. See FB for details, which I guarantee justify the idea of four separate shows.

Friday: It’s Pressure Drop at Casa del Popolo, with Mossman, Aaron Maiden and Spoony B puttin’ you on island time, at 10 p.m., no cover.

Saturday: Nomadic Massive drop the timely Supafam Mixtape at le Belmont, as always giving us a little more of what we truly need, with Kaytradamus and Dr. Mad sharing the booth. The first 100 in to pay the piper 10 stones get an actual tape, with a DL code.

Meanwhile – wait for it – the DMCs return to Montreal at Bain Mathieu. Welcome back. ■

Crazy diamonds… shinecultmtl@gmail.com