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.

Taking their blown-out, wasted pop moves to a new level of blasted riff denial, the darlings of Lethbridge unleash another hyperbolic garage-psych monster within the Canadian ether. Spaced Out soars with wings of farfisa and splattered psychedelics, channeling enough Fred Cole and Ariel Pink to catalyze the ridiculous catch laying in concentrate within their reverberated debut. Finally, an album with enough pop-raunch to satisfy the rolling, sexual hills surrounding southern Alberta’s bleakest plateau. Grip++.

Paisley rays of avant-pop sunshine emanate from this overflowing homage to the Age of Aquarius. Montreal’s best and brightest contribute a tune (or two, or three) under a variety of guises, all filed under psych, cosmic and library music taxonomy. From Brave Radar’s hazy afternoon bliss-outs to JLK’s biker blaze and multiple turns from label founder Christian Richer, this meticulous mixtape is a tie-dye dream come true. All in all, Asaël Robitaille steals the show and proves his secret weapon status with a grip of winners from his various projects. Wake up sucking on a lemon with a grin from ear to ear.

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.

Sounds of chimes, gongs, angelic voices male and female. An unseen hand pulls back a curtain, exposing a room filled with beaded sights and melting lights, incense stenches and the smells of foods fit for gods. The sound’s engaging the movement of all in attendance, who are involved in the humanitarian orchestra of peaceful sound happening right now, for the sacrifice of the burdens put on us. Heightened by the senses, organized folk freedom makes you feel aware of emotions you seemed to have forgotten. Someone hands you some reefer, another points out an acoustic guitar sitting alone with no one to strum it, and before you know it you’re part of a living landscape of tantric Babylonian psychedelic meditation. A warm beating heart of an ensemble led by the skilled Doc Dunn in a cold cage of a city. Feel these babies breathe, Side A from a living room, Side B including an audience. Put down that plastic fork you’re holding, its comfort food will never satisfy you again. Come heal your soul in these pure vibrations.

Ditching the saddleback for a deep-dive into sun-soaked desert jammery, Slim’s wasted wycked warble embodies a new, singular harmony. He’s been re-envisioned within a blizzard of smoked-out synthetics and organ-swung arpeggio; a centrifuge of lysergic balladry and kinetic insanity. Timeless burners for the possessed mind. Conjured via Calico Corp., Slim’s exotic new imprint of “unique articles, starkly designed.”

Today’s harem of mind-expanding disciples has once again enslaved the flaxen western pastures with expansive aural trudge. Toon Town is home to psych giants Shooting Guns, and with Born To Deal in Magic: 1952-1976, they preach their apocalyptic revival to the unwashed masses — leaving a few carcasses along the way. We’re past the antiquation of combines, crop dusters and funny towns; enter the time of the hyper-evolved mountain man making even more mountainous sounds. With song titles like “Public Taser”, “Last Great Depression” and “Stay Awake Forever”, you can truly feel the devilish lament in the hearts and bones of this five-piece. With more releases in the near horizon, that sweet, groovy haze will just get that much sweeter. Good thing these guys bring their lunch pails to work.

Craft Singles chief exec Andy March puts his best flower power foot forward on this scorched denim vest jambone. Anglofied undulations linger in the myst of heart-shaped hooks and the algebraic pterodactyl armed stick work of a Haligonian stalwart, which is all just an ostentatious way of saying that these songs totally rock.

Saskatchewan’s bosonic youth continue their fluorescent acceleration into celestial pop abandon. Dirty boots tumble in an Electrolux spin cycle of voltaic hiccups and stadium-sized axe swings, swirling atop candy-coloured halos to illuminate the cranium of feral brainchild Ryan Davidson. Church of the Kaos Pad cult is in session, so leave your reductions at the gate and get cleansed.

Billowing clouds of Bob Hope waft from the airbrushed van of these riff-razing moccasin rockers and their illicit Iommion smoke ring. Choke Hits’ marathon blazers outpace even Electric Wizard yet maintain enough movement throughout to avoid basement couch burnout. Amidst the ashen embers of gnarled guitar damage, hi-hats crackle and tom rolls pop, as far off (and out) electronics hover like UFOs in the hazy heavens over Roswell. Call it The Chronic 2011.