Jesus Christ, but 2016 was a tough year! The musicians (and people) we lost! The impending doom of a Trump-inspired government! The division of what was in some ways a country, a world even. Ideals crushed beneath the boot heels of hate, news warped beyond any rational thought, a world based upon a semblance of logic now an anarchy of thought and emotion.
Before we get into the meat of this column, let’s talk Winterpills. I have been a fan since hearing their 2010 EP Tuxedo of Ashes and have followed them since. Their one album of covers, Echolalia, was good enough to make me toss aside my disdain of this current trend, their arrangements making up for the usual lack of creativity on most bands parts. No such problem here. Love Songs is an all-original triumph, Philip Price writing his best songs since Tuxedo, and the band is in A-1 shape.
This is not my favorite column to write. In my youth, death was death, something which happened to everyone else. As a young man, I looked upon it as simply draining the talent pool because by then I was consumed with music— immersed in it to the point that life beyond it was a blur. In middle-age, it began becoming personal— friends and favorites taking the dive either stunningly quick or in dire circumstances.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 