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Category: Culture

The Music Issue: Geddy Lee

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First, Zeppelinesque in the basements, bars and school auditoria; then on to dragonrock and early progist workouts; next: the lean muscular hardswing of the middle ’80s; then “Subdivisions”; and now, the biggest Toronto band, if not one of the biggest and most venerable anywhere in the world.

Manscaping 101

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This morning, as I was preparing my daughter’s breakfast, the landscapers were in my backyard mowing the lawn. Upstairs, in my washroom, my boyfriend was mowing his face (and other parts of his body).

The Music Issue: Kim Mitchell

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A tall, strange sepulchral fellow he was: eyes deeply set, skull almond-shaped, arms and legs akimbo and mad hair sproinging in all directions when he played. He looked even stranger while wearing a nun’s habit, which sometimes he did in his heyday: the late ’70s and early ’80s.

The Music Issue: Jim Cuddy

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No doubt, Jim Cuddy is one of the greatest artists in Toronto music history, and lucky for us, he’s still rockin’.

The Music Issue: Justin Nozuka

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Justin Nozuka started writing songs at age 12. When the rest of us were just trying to figure ourselves out, he was singing and learning to play guitar, recording tracks that would end up on his debut CD, Holly, named after his mother (aww!). Of course, it helps that he’s got a pretty talented pedigree: … Continued

The Music Issue: Brendan Canning

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In many ways, Brendan Canning was no different than your average kid growing up in the suburbs of Toronto. “I was always into music,” he says, “But also soccer and pro wrestling.” What set him apart from throngs of other adolescents who dabble in guitar to fill their suburban summer days is that he stuck to it long enough (not to mention actually had an affinity for it) to form a band — or rather several bands: he’s been a member of By Divine Right, Head, Blurtonia and most famously Broken Social Scene.

The Music Issue: Alex Lifeson

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My fingers hurt, but it was worth it. I think. I remember All the World’s a Stage opened gatefold- up on the carpet of Johnny Wersta’s parents’ living room — or mine — with maybe a glass of lemonade staining the coasterless table and the two of us sitting on our crappy amps facing each other trying to study Alex Lifeson’s playing.