The physical connections between Jamaica and Toronto have been well documented by one Kevin Sipreano. Less known amongst the gripper elite are the abundance of fantastic dancehall singles produced in the heart of TO. Kitty Rouler’s stock-label entry on the ubiquitous Toronto imprint Classic Sounds is an addictive conjuring of dancehall-fuzed 80s R&B. Kitty’s staccato, pseudo-rap delivery, with pitched melodies, strangely anthemic flow, and relentless pursuit of her lyrical boyfriend, mutates traditional rhythms into a netherworld of clurb bangin’ and ep swingin’. It’s immediacy and nuanced personality made it an instant classic at WC HQ after Brandon Hocura dropped the bomb on us. “My Boyfriend” pre-dates Mike Jones‘ telephone # drop by 20 years, making it a proto-Swishahouse classic. Super grip.

Here it is: the Patron Saint of weird Canadian records. Alongside Corpusse’s Delusions and Bernard Bonnier’s Casse-Tête, Carlyle Williams’ Gotta Go For It! forms the Holy Trinity of ’80s Montreal private press beauty; each of them summing their parts and transcending with a one-man-one-wholly-formed vision possessed of unbridled id and utter disdain for the prevailing rules and praxis.

Forgotten in the usual fetishizing of the “filles du roi” cypher (1), beyond bloodlines French-royal and First Nation, is that Montreal’s women posses the ultimate sexy quality: good taste. And so it went that Leila Majeri (2) and Marie-Douce St. Jacques (3) played me Gotta Go For It! and on each separate occasion, my mind split open, the air charged, everything changed, and the damn crew hasn’t been the same since.

Released in 1988 and recorded at the Unidisc studios (4) in Montreal’s St. Henri neighbourhood, Gotta Go For It!’s qualities are many: blocky Chung King Studios drum programming, a careening non-chops guitar style that sounds like The Birthday Party minus the fireworks-display fay hairdos, and streams of vocal overdubs that make whomever Tim Buckley thought he was on Starsailor seem like a sane and well adjusted man. Some tracks have a synthetic tropical vibe that predicates the various fi’s (5) of the last half-decade like a boss, raising bloody hell in the listener’s mind, forcing one to reconsider every aesthetic category.

For all its sonic density and deistic power, Carlyle’s message, via truly inspiring vocal work, is positive: obsessive self-awareness and accompanying self-criticism can be reality forming, that the more you look INSIDE the more you will see. That, as he says on “No Reason”, “There is no reason for your next depression. And that’s the truth.” Which as an underlying vibe makes Gotta Go For It! unique amongst the great works of 20th century Canadian art.

Gotta Go For It!’s sleeve states: “The more you look – The more you see”, and like all amazing ass records, the more you listen, the more you hear.

(1) These women, who were poor and undereducated, often orphaned, and in their teens or early twenties, were sent over from France for the men of Canada. The rumour-that-won’t-die is that they were prostitutes.

(2) Screen printer extraordinaire, often using the nick Alphonze Raymond, and also the drummer in the amazing Yomul Yuk.

(3) Editor-in-chief of the awesome aMAZEzine, which lasted a few issues, came with a GYBE! 7” and generally covered a zone, Marie-Douce was also the Farfisa player and vocalist in Pas Chic Chic! I sat down with her to discuss this piece.

(4) Obviously, as the ’80s wore on and disco, particularly the French-Canadian kind, receded in popularity, Unidisc fell on hard times and started renting out their facilities cheap. They were based in the RCA building, who obviously were slowing down themselves.

(5) Lo, no, slow, glow, hi and high fidelities, be it Ariel Pink, Spencer Clark, James Ferraro and the rest, you can hear Carlyle in the faux madness. The incredible Afternoon Penis tape on Heavy Tapes is the most obvious student of Gotta Go For It!, however. Worth looking into for fans of Carlyle.

This is the first (and hopefully last) time anything Blood, Sweat, and Tears related will appear within our northernly quadrant. Thankfully, most things of a fantastic nature endure humble beginnings, and David Clayton Thomas’ second single on ACTA embodies this vision. Paving the way for the ensnarled, rabid, wave known as garage-punk, Thomas embodies the enigmatic Bo Diddley on his first two singles. However, somewhere hidden within “Lucy”, DCT breaks the brooding, bass-frothy organ with a scorching scream. The resulting shreddery kick-starts the droning organ that wraps the cacophony in wondrous 4-4 time. Certainly not psychedelic, nor overly punk, “Lucy”‘s simplicity is its charm, and for whatever reason, its present is totally without mention within the DCT discography. Thanks to Brandon Hocura / Polyphasic Studios for the transfer. Rad.

Loneliness, despite its title, is an album with a warm heart of wires and at its core is the long-term musical friendship between Don Stagg and Eric Simpson. The duo formely recorded epic home-baked prog under the name VIIth Temple, releasing one hideously rare burnt-orange LP release soaked in gentle Moog, Mellotron and Giant. On Loneliness the pair traded in their plumes, velvet and epic jam band for thin ties and a cheap drum-machine. The LP still carries a whiff of patchouli, but the sound stings of solder and electricity, and inhabits a nascent zone somewhere between krautrock and new-wave. The vocals are all clustered on the a-side, starting with an ode to the inefficiency of the T.T.C. (some things never change!). The dystopian sci-fi themes are par for the League, a highlight is love ballad “Anna King” that sounds like it could be an outtake from Trans. The instrumentals on the b-side feel decidedly more Teutonic, and have a certain CBC charm that sounds like JP Decerf recording for Parry Music. The side even opens with a slinky stoned Pink Panther. About the loneliest thing about this album is the incredible cover photo. Don Stagg told me that he climbed up on a rooftop in St. James Town to take a photo for the sleeve when he came across a young man doing crack. The man was surprisingly obliging and Don snapped this evocative photo as night fell over the cold city. Take hold of this preserved slice of Ontario sprawl if ever you get the chance, it’ll probably surprise you to know how little has changed in all these years.

Thanks to the hard work of Numero Group‘s Rob Sevier, the world’s most epic soft-synth mumbler has been caught with a Canadian citizenship. What started with a chance pull in an Edmonton flea-market by one Jon Murphy, ended in a bewildering world-wide phenomenon of softness. Lewis’ lone LP from 1983 is as unusual as it is delicate; an incomprehensible whispered drawl lingers above mysts of smooth-laced synthesizers and nylon guitar as Lewis croons his way through inaudible love, suffering, and mid-afternoon bliss. The confusion accelerates as you begin to dissect the record: dedications to Christie Brinkley, an incredible facsimile on the cover (looking surprisingly like Aaron Levin), a record label named R.A.W., and a history of rip-offs and potential murders (uncovered by multiple individuals tracking members associated with Lewis’ LP). In the end there are no answers. Lewis remains a mystery, with only his name (not Lewis), citizenship (Canadian), and a PO Box in Hawaii. I once found five copies in Calgary, Alberta, which makes me believe this unidentified future softness began in the heart of wild roses. But we may only wonder. Until then, enjoy the most incomprehensible album in the universe (yes, it’s softer than THOMAS). If you can transcribe the lyrics to “I Thought The World of You” I will give you a rare record. [Special thanks for those involved in uncovering the Lewis mystery (and laughing at me when I began to champion it): Jon Murphy, Rob Sevier, Jack Fernwood, and Douglas McGowan].

Hailing from one of the most northernly outposts in Canada, The Stonefield remain an enigma within the Canadian garage-punk cosmos. An easy personal favorite and serious head-scratcher with its brutal fuzz massacre, dual piano weirdness, and bewildering A/B-side pairing. “Deep Shades of Blue” oozes an addictive, lysergic weariness with its mid-tempo somber organ stuck firmly in a minor-key while their drummer, seemingly in his own universe, augments the pacing with a complete disregard for drum pattern awareness. “Morning Hours”, the track that has grippers sweating this single pretty hard, is equally confusing, with a relentless bawdy piano swirling beneath the primitive fuzz lead, secondary organ (two keyboards?!), and bleary vocals (singer Joe Verheyden has stated that he had a flu the day they recorded). The pièce de résistance hits mid-way through “Morning Hours” when one of the most intense and ridiculous fuzz-guitar solos totally drowns out the entire track. I once drove to The Hub of the Peace (Rycroft) on a mission to uncover the mystery behind the band and their insanely obscure 7″ to little success. They recorded in Edmonton and later reformed as The Exit, leaving the rest of the world to ponder the sheer awesomeness and absurdity of their legacy. I’d like to dedicate this post to my very close friend Jon Murphy who has brought a much needed light to many unknown 60s singles throughout Canada, including The Stonefield.

A familiar scene: a young dreamer alone in his parent’s basement makes music to escape loneliness and boredom. Now, the unusual thing about this scene is that this basement is filled with state-of-the-art (for 1984) home-recording equipment and synthesizers and is located in rural Alberta surrounded by endless potato fields, miles from anything remotely metropolitan. For the young Tona Walt Ohama, the major portals to the world-at-large from his isolated farm were through television, radio and records. A well-rounded diet of classical, rock, prog and most importantly New Wavers like Gary Numan & John Foxx gave Ohama the vocabulary he needed to beam beautiful analog messages from his farm to the greater world. I Fear What I Might Hear, Ohama’s first album proper, is a masterpiece of modern folk-form, perfectly capturing the Canadian cultural climate of the early eighties and its effect on a sensitive young mind. I Fear is at once as introspective and pastoral as Nick Drake, but rather than evoking acoustic images of Camus and moody English moors it speaks of McLuhan and a plugged-in landscape that is equal parts muddy toil and media spoil. The LP works effectively as a cohesive document partly because the existential themes of isolation, identity and cultural decay are explored as lyrical subject-matter throughout, but also because the songs are all stitched together using a concrete pastiche of sounds that ranges from idyllic & rustic (animals & water) to industrial & urban (engines & TV). Truly, this is a prescient letter of distress and dislocation revealing the disappearance of a dichotomy, where it doesn’t matter where you live, Google will find you. Don’t be afraid though, it’s a great comfort to know that Ohama’s clear and visionary voice is out there in the Great Wide Aether.

For further insight into the great mind of Ohama, check out my extensive dialogue with Tona via Polyphasic Recordings.

The only way to survive living in the yuppie void of Oakville, Ontario is by burying your head deep in the intoxicating sands of imagination. For Lou Champagne this meant filling his nose with the sting of solder, his eyes with a labyrinth of circuits, his mind with resistors and his ears with a virtual synthtopia of Cabaret Voltaire, The Human League, Chrisma and their analog ilk. Lou’s ‘Champagne System’ is a self-invented device that allows him to control his synths with his guitar so that he can perform as a modern day (pre-MIDI) one-man-band. The beast born of his engineering explorations, No Visible Means, sounds at times like a gristleized Swell Maps, at others like despondent Transparent Illusion produced by Rago & Farina. Although Lou’s vision is viewed through singular Chrome & Cristal glasses there is something in these songs that is familiar to anyone who turned to art, music and dreaming to escape the boredom of growing up surrounded by numb suburban slump. Lou’s words are just as true now as they were in 1981, “I’m like a man in a fantasy, and maybe I should just get stoned”. Throw your glass in the fireplace and gulp Lou’s brew straight from the bottle; legit reissue available from Medical Records.

As I begin my journey east I have begun reflecting upon the westward strangers whose lysergic testaments have shaped my own vision. Paul Marcano, with his ode to a future bursting with space colonies and solar winds, is first in mind. Recorded in his secluded studio outside Victoria, BC, Islands in Space is a testament to the forward-thinking creative consciousness existing within the New Age cosmos. Ragged guitar, searing leads, layered vocals, and dense electronics synthesize Islands in Space into one of the great psychedelic canons of the north. As an experience that begs meditation and continuous listening, I challenge readers to take a dive into Paul’s universe. Islands in Space is a pre-cursor to Lightdreams’ tape-only release 10,001 Dreams.

Ken Lewis’ reverent cover of Cosmic Cars released in 1982, the same year as the original Cybotron 45, proves that people were almost immediately feeling Juan Atkins’ electric ripples just North of the assembly line. Released on Scorpio Records, home of countless dubious disco, boogie rap and dub records with peculiar provenance, Ken’s whip is more deluxe DeLorean than hot Spinner, his cruising spin more Grace Jones than The Normal. Although his version almost mechanically reproduces the original, it feels like a glossy photograph of a photocopy; the recording less raw and in-the-red, the drum machine less biting, the cold-creep synth noises replaced by a cold-sweat guitar riff. Still, Ken’s facsimile evokes a dystopian future, not the super-industrial cyber-sexuality of Cronenberg, but a world of simulacra coated in a vacuous veneer of replicated pleasures, like Ryu Murakami’s depictions of Tokyo. Still this record bumps and burns when played loud, so thumb a ride if you ever see this avant-coupe roll by.