I didn’t expect that I was going to write a reflection on what it’s been like to not have live music in my life the last year and to think about the last shows I went to see before COVID-19 hit. However, here we are, a year into a crisis that has stopped us from being together – where we once shared in a collective ritual revealing emotions that can only be inspired in us by music. 33.3 poses the question of who we last saw before COVID-19, but the bigger question is the entire meaning of live music throughout our lives – a continuum that extends way past late 2019, all the way to the earliest shows you saw, maybe as a teenager in high school – as well as the memories and stories we’ve created and shared along the way.
Instagram is my diary for live music shows I’ve been to, so I spent an afternoon scrolling all the way back to when I first joined the platform, re-invigorating all of the special memories after all these years. It seems the last show I saw was La Force at The Drake Underground on 24 October 2019. Ariel Engle of La Force is also a member of Broken Social Scene, and her band members that night included other BSS members like Engle’s husband Andrew Whiteman and saxophonist David French. The show previous to that was Bon Iver featuring Jenn Wasner and S.Carey, with opener Feist (also a BSS member) on 06 October 2019 at Scotiabank Arena.
Two different shows in two wildly different venues, one in the basement of a hotel with a capacity of 200 people, and the other one in a gigantic arena meant for basketball and hockey games with a capacity of 19,000. Yet, they’re deeply connected to my story and my personal journey in life.
Broken Social Scene and Bon Iver were two of my favourite bands growing up. I discovered both of their music in high school when I was beginning to discover myself and my identity. I don’t like to say that I grew out of listening to emo/pop-punk like Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance, or hip-hop and R&B like Kanye West and Usher. However, that music will always be tied to a time in my life as a pre-teen in middle school, learning to deal with new emotions, teenage angst, and childhood crushes. But BSS and Bon Iver were my introduction to a wider world of music and sound, and how music can be deeply connected to your emotions and identity.
Broken Social Scene’s You Forgot It In People (2002) and their self-titled album (2005) as well as Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago (2007) and Bon Iver, Bon Iver (2011) became soundtracks to my life. They’ve seen me through joy and triumph. They sat with me in the darkness when my bipolar disorder threatened to overwhelm me – when I almost chose my own exit. They’ve seen me through my graduation from high school and through the hell of the University of Toronto. They’ve been with me through love and heartbreak.
I was a seventeen-year-old Gio who thought he knew about love, listening to “Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl,” hearing Emily Haines plead “Park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me.” I remember sneaking out of the house through the back door, just to drive around with a girl I had a crush on, doing nothing but talking and enjoying each other’s company. It was that burning longing and teenage unrequited love.
I had watched La Blogothèque’s Take Away Show hundreds of times, where Justin Vernon, S.Carey, and Mike Noyce walk around Montmartre singing “For Emma, Forever Ago.” I wished so much to be in Paris, walking the streets, sitting at a café, enjoying a coffee, and just watching people go by living their lives.
I remember dancing to “7/4 (Shoreline)” at Field Trip Festival in Fort York. I was in awe as Feist and Kevin Drew built up to screaming “It’s coming in hard!” as brass instruments blazed out their emotions, overwhelming my heart.
I played and replayed and replayed “The Wolves (Act I and II),” hoping that “my pain will mark” a girl who broke my heart in first year undergrad. I was hoping she would realize “what might have been lost.”
I can’t count how many times I would take the long way home, driving late at night along Lakeshore Road, as I blasted “Late Nineties Bedroom Rock for the Missionaries” and “Shampoo Suicide.” I waited for that perfect transition from one song to the next. And as Drew whispered, but in a strained voice as if to beg, “You hate it all and you still use shampoo,” I would scream that line at the top of my lungs, breaking into tears, all alone in the darkness of my grandpa’s 1996 Honda Accord.
You see, music becomes so deeply intertwined with your life that these emotional memories are burned into your heart, screaming at you, “This is who you are! This is your story! Embrace it!”
I still remember the first time I saw both of these bands. And curiously enough, live music has always been a birthday gift to me. My first Broken Social Scene and Bon Iver shows were in the days around my birthday – December 8. And Stars often plays annual Christmas shows in Toronto, also around the same time. To have live music as a birthday gift most years is truly a blessing.
I first saw Broken Social Scene at Sound Academy – which I maintain is still the worst venue in Toronto. It was a cold night on December 10, 2010. My best friend bought the tickets as a birthday gift to me. We took public transit out from our quiet suburb of Mississauga, all the way to this desolate, industrial wasteland on Cherry Street. It was the second night of a back-to-back for BSS and we were guessing, “Who’s going to show up?” You never know which of the many wonderful people will play in the lineup on any particular night. We scoured Twitter and looked at the tour dates of the other bands connected to BSS: “Oh, Stars isn’t playing right now, and Metric just played a show in Toronto the night before. Will we get all of the leading ladies: Feist, Amy Millan, Emily Haines, and Lisa Lobsinger?” And god, we were blessed – we got the full lineup and heard everyone’s beautiful voices and all of the clashing guitars and triumphant horns. It’s a night I will never forget: one, because it was one of my first concerts as a high school teenager, two, because I never knew the true power of music until that night, and three, because I have a gig poster from that night hanging above my bed (one of my most valuable possessions). (And to add a fourth, I’m pretty sure Brendan Canning took a toke of an audience member’s blunt?)
I first saw Bon Iver at Massey Hall also on a cold night on December 7, 2011, the day before my birthday. I went with my best friend from high school, as well as my new best friends from undergrad. It was my first time seeing a show at the legendary Massey Hall. Sitting on that balcony taking in the architecture and atmosphere, there was a special feeling in the air – as if something magical could happen at any time. My heart soared to the 80s inspired “Beth/Rest” and I cried along to “The Wolves (Act I and II).” Justin Vernon’s falsetto struck me deep to my core with these guttural cries that reverberated around the room. I’ve seen nothing like that ever since. And after the show, as it always happens, you call up some friends and you gather at some bar or restaurant to share drinks and food. We ended up at some sketchy bar – RIP Regal Beagle – that served me beer at midnight… when I turned 18 and still not of legal drinking age. But I always remember that night because one of those friends who showed up for me – he’s no longer with us. Live music is always intertwined with memory, but it’s always mysterious. One day, it’s a beautiful memory. The next day, that memory has been twisted into one that’s bittersweet.
Last week, I was curious on how many times I’ve seen Stars – a band that’s part of the BSS family with mutual members Amy Millan and Evan Cranley. And while I was at it, I started to count how many times I’ve seen BSS and its individual members. I’ve seen Stars 13 times since their 2011 NXNE show at Yonge-Dundas Square – and at most of their Toronto Christmas shows, always around my birthday! I’ve seen BSS 15 times since that 2010 Sound Academy show, from their appearances at Field Trip Festival, to the arena shows at the Air Canada Centre and Budweiser Stage, to the free street performances at Supercrawl in Hamilton or the Harbourfront Centre for Canada Day. As for my last show before COVID-19, I’ve seen Ariel Engle as La Force twice – I have a vivid memory of showing up late to Adelaide Hall, grabbing a copy of the vinyl, meeting Engle and getting the record signed, and, with so much giddiness, meeting Feist – who I definitely embarrassed myself in front of (she’s also much shorter than I expected). I’ve seen Kevin Drew twice and Brendan Canning three times.
I’ve seen Bon Iver much less. Justin Vernon is always mysterious and always wanting to hide behind the talent of his bandmembers. But when I’ve seen him live, it’s always magical as he finds a way to tap into your soul. As Bon Iver, I’ve only seen Justin Vernon play in Toronto twice: that 2011 Massey Hall show and a 2019 show at Scotiabank Arena. Though Bon Iver’s music is destined for those intimate, small room venues, the songs from his 2019 album i,i work as big arena rock, echoing in that stadium. But even his older works, like “Holocene” and “Blood Bank,” cast a spell on the audience, inspiring a beautiful light show. I was also fortunate to see Justin Vernon play as Volcano Choir in 2013, where a little-known band (at the time) called Sylvan Esso opened the show. It was one of the few times that an opener literally blew me away, and the first time where I can truly say – like a hipster – “I saw that band before they got big!”
Growing up listening to their music – always playing in my earphones or on my speakers – and seeing them play at dozens of their shows, it’s like I literally grew up with these people – almost like they’re “old friends”. They’ve shaped my life, soundtracked the major moments, and created memories and stories I’ll cherish forever. I’ve chatted with Amy about her kids and how badass it was for her to play the 2010 Sound Academy show about 8-9 months pregnant. I’ve hugged Kevin and told him how “Mouth Guards of the Apocalypse” spoke to me when I was feeling suicidal. And I just keep running into Kevin, Brendan, Charles, Sam, and Justin around the city – whether at different shows, walking down the street, or at Ali Baba’s next to the Danforth Music Hall, grabbing a falafel wrap.
There’s something so moving and awe-inspiring about live music – not just to listen but to literally feel the music in your heart and in your bones. You can see the artist performing their craft with skill – sometimes with grace, sometimes with the brashness that the moment calls for. To see and feel the guitars shredding or strumming, whether electric or acoustic, with effect pedals or just clean. To hear the voices of angels harmonizing, crooning that one lyric that speaks to your heart. To feel the bass and drums reverberate in your chest. To connect to the humans surrounding you, participating in this collective ritual of listening and feeling emotions. And sometimes, the mosh pit can be fun, just losing yourself in this tradition of going crazy and bouncing off of each other.
Sharing live music is one of the greatest pleasures in life – much like sharing stories over homemade food around a dinner table or chatting about life over a cup of coffee or tea. In this era where we’re starved of social interaction – where we can’t gather around a dinner table, at a coffee shop, or in a music hall full of sweaty people – we lose a part of ourselves. We miss out on those moments of empathy, where we connect with each other emotionally and you let each other know, “Hey, I understand you. I feel you. I’m here with you.” We miss out on the hugs and the kisses and the human intimacy. When we share stories, memories, and music, we are being human: letting ourselves be vulnerable and truly living life. It’s in those moments that we realize that we’re not alone in this universe and we’re all broken people trying to put together the pieces.
What I miss most about live music is its therapeutic nature – just how much it connects with our inner being and evokes the emotions we needed to feel at that particular moment. I’m not saying it replaces true psychotherapy and our own work to cope with our emotions. But there’s something about this communal thing we do, where we congregate in these rooms or in an outdoor space, and we share emotions manifested in vibrating molecules. For a few hours, we’re removed from the outside reality – yet it’s at that same time that we’re truly most connected to the world. We’re asked to leave everything behind for this moment and just to be “here”. At most BSS shows, Kevin Drew takes some time to ask everyone to scream at the top of our lungs all at the same time – to just let go of everything. Live music is catharsis. It allows us to live our lives fully – to feel in tune with ourselves and our emotions. And at the end of it all, you go and find your friends, give them sweaty hugs, grab your stuff from coat check, maybe buy merch, wait around for a paper setlist or to meet the band – and then you walk back out into the real world with these memories burned into your heart.
