I’ve been deep into music since shortly after my 14th birthday. Three quarters of my life has been spent doing something I love. A lot. The side benefit has been that I’ve been able to create music as well. As much as any computer whiz with software can create “music” these days, I came about my (cough cough) talent honestly.
Let’s go back to September 25 and a late night visit to Cherry Cola’s Rock ‘n Rolla Cabaret and Lounge. With my sisters in tow, we ducked into the club so I could introduce them to the exquisite Cherish Stevenson, the club’s owner and gracious hostess, and give them a small taste of the nightlife in Toronto. Cherish pulled me aside to let me know Cherie Currie was playing the club and would I be interested in shooting the event. It took me a nanosecond to say yes, I’d love to.
Not since Marlon Brando and his moo moo ate their way through Hollywood on the back of non-returnable advances for movies he did everything possible to avoid making has there been so many entertainment types hell bent on changing career paths by killing off their meal tickets.
Thursday it came to light that Canadian rapper Drake was being a social mediot by bad mouthing Rolling Stone magazine for bumping his cover story in favour of the late Philip Seymour Hoffman. News flash, Degrassi Boy: Hoffman has more cache dead than you will ever have alive. A simple “I’m disappointed in the turn of events, but understand Rolling Stone’s editorial decision. 
Respect PSH” would have sufficed. Instead, he show-boated. And like fellow rap asshat Kanye West, Drake will attempt to deflect now that people have taken to hating him more than they do already. He’ll mea culpa and return to his life shilling for the Toronto Raptors basketball team.
History will not be kind to the memory of 2013. It was a year of meanness and spite from people in power, and a deepening of resentment towards politicians, as the ever present 
surveillance and social media exposed every little thing people never wanted known. As they say, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing … a lot of knowledge is Facebook.
Our editor-in-chief, Bob Segarini, mandated a year end 2013 ‘Best and Worst’ list from the Don’t Believe A Word I Say scribes for this week. For me lists like this are an eternal yawn. I mean do you really, truly care what someone else thinks about stuff – particularly when we’ve all lived through the same year as everyone else?
I’ve got a shitload of CDs to review sitting on my desk – Bob Menzies’ “One More Highway”, Goddo’s “The Pretty Bad Boys Return” (which is also a DVD), Half Past Four’s “Good Thing” and Klaatu’s “Sir Army Suit” re-issue (also with DVD). I have had no time to sit and listen to any of these with the attention and intent I always reserve for my reviews because of a million personal things going on right now – not the least of which is a day gig. To give the music a cursory listen would be an insult to the artists who put blood, sweat and cashola into seeing these things to fruition. Sometimes it takes years to get a disc off the ground. I owe the creators more than 5 minutes of listening to them.
After writing about fall’s wonders two weeks ago, it was odd to wake up that Monday to the beginning of a week of Indian summer. Sunny and mild, the weather was perfect for the celebrities and guests swarming Toronto’s streets for TIFF. The beautiful people and their entourages swanned in and out of event venues in their little black dresses, smart cocktail gowns, and Manolo Blahnik shoes.
Last weekend I made the rounds doing promotion for my book – The Canadian Pop Music Encyclopedia – to radio station CFRB and the cable TV show ‘On Da Grine TV’ during what was a particularly heavy media week in Toronto. The Toronto International Film Festival was in full swing promoting upcoming Hollywood fair and its glitterati. Had I been able to afford a publicist I’m sure they would have dissuaded me from trying to promote a music book during a movie festival. But I don’t have a publicist so I sallied forth and guess what? The festival had no effect on getting me media coverage.
This week I’ve been discussing a reunion of my old cover band Spare Parts with the original participants – Maureen Leeson (vocals), Duanne Welsh (drums) and Geoff Wilson (guitar). We were a ‘thing’ from 1993 through 1997. By thing I mean a true-blue working act at clubs across southern (and north-eastern) Ontario getting paid to make people drink beer, dance, grope inappropriately and puke in restrooms. Achieving all four in an evening was considered a success by bar owners and audience members alike. More times than not we could do all four or at least fashion a passable trifecta. Oh, and we were really fucking good at what we did which might be why we were employed every other weekend for four years straight.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 