1 day, 2 festivals, 3 music legends

Fucked Up
 
I was about six or seven when my brother brought Stay Hungry into the MacDonald homestead. We came from devoutly Catholic parents, and clergy members were among our usual house guests. One of our family friends was a nun named Sister Helen, rest her soul. We called her Twisted Sister. She was a really cool lady with a sense of humour, but on the Christmas where my bro got that record and showed it to her, she lost her mind.

Suddenly “We’re Not Gonna Take It”, already infectiously branded in my infant brain, took on new meaning. I loved Sister Helen, but it was then I knew I was gonna love raising hell even more.

So when Twisted Sister’s original line-up hit the stage, when the lights went up and Dee Snyder emerged on the jumbotron as the class act festival jester that he is, I threw my devil horns up to the sky for everything holy — and also the naked boobs on said jumbotron. A house divided, indeed. It’s funny what ends up mattering in life. It all ties together in this weird fuckin’ way if you pay attention.

Snyder’s caricature-of-a-caricature-of-himself in 2014 is priceless. Granted, some of the banter was dated (still mad at reality TV?!), but this homie is in top physical shape, and his radio days have kept his tongue sharp. A week and change previous, Andre 3000 somewhat unexpectedly blew me away as one of the most charismatic frontmen I’ve ever seen, an act not to be followed. Dee Snyder and Twisted Sister put the “rock” in “I wanna” and the “fuck” in…ah, you had to be there.

By the time that moment came to its rocking conclusion, I could hear UP calling. The smell of aerosol paint fumes and vapour clouds of breaker sweat were drawing me in. But Fucked Up was yelling louder.

I don’t know why the critical acclaim for their 2011 sophomore LP David Comes to Life stuck out to me any more than the usual year-end jibber jabber. I give no fucks about who wins a Polaris prize. I fought them off and won to put Death Grips on the cover of the Mirror for Pop Montreal that year, chalking up TO’s Fucked Up as yet another Canadian buzz band with a good idea for a name. I had no idea what they were about. I think it was actually Johnson Cummins’ co-sign that finally pushed me to just buy the damn record.

I barely half-bother keeping up with genre terminology in rap, so I dunno what they call Fucked Up. “Melodic hardcore”? I’m an old-school outsider who called Green Day fake in 1994. I was there for Nirvana and the Beasties while listening to the Jam and Dead Kennedys, and got let in on Minutemen and the Clash before all of that shit. I listen to Bad Brains and Fishbone regularly. Fucked Up? You better be.

New Year’s Eve of 2011 was the night Fucked Up won me over. I stayed and listened to David over and over, downloading The Chemistry of Common Life before midnight. All the fresh punk that, by co-option, wasn’t delivered to me in its purest form past the age of 16 was suddenly alive again. I went deep into the back catalogue and can safely assure you that Fucked Up is my favourite band of the last decade.
 

CONTINUE TO PAGE 4: Fucked Up on the island and Afrika Bambaataa in town