victoria canning photography
M83 = Youth
Words by Victoria J. “Life is but a dream.” THE WORDS spread artistically in some radical thought across the door piecing together this run down cubicle, a toilet with a rusty lock. Dusty terracotta etched off the wall in childlike patchwork, graffiti rife. Richards on Richards, one musical treasure trove and the scene of tonight's sagas.
Escaping to the bathroom I conduct my thoughts, a twenty minute set leaving me writing manically in expensive eyeliner across my left hand, merging words and ideas of all shapes and meaning, all conjured from the transient display that was School of Seven Bells.
A fortress of brick a wall stands dominant behind the triplets, sending a shot of trembling awe through the observer, the trio projected small and real in comparison against the purple back lighting.
The three; girl, boy, another girl, all in that order, play in to the expectation of the crowd, the music resonating from each instrument; keyboard, guitar, guitar becoming mind and heartbeat all in one, their epic performance matching that of a headliner, a forceful ghost of a presence with each song played with as much care and attention as the last.
Angelically chorusing in line, creating independent electronica, sounds and noise that contort like hybrids of such musicians; Arcade Fire and Sigur Ros. After four songs, the band hasten off, completing their quota and successfully prepping the crowd for the main attraction.
Later than scheduled, the lights dim, the crowd now bathed in quiet anticipation. Upward above, amongst the entanglement of wires, speakers hung precariously from the ceiling and glinting disco balls, every now and then in a wheezing cough, the hiss of a smoke machine. It's bogus mist settles mid-air, inches above a head count of about one hundred plus, then rises in dispersion. In the balconies above that rise and sweep from left, around behind in semi circular motion and end to my right, bodies halt in atmospheric limbo.
Richards waits, balanced on egg shelled silence. This diamond of venues, its cavernous interior wondrous, that sits quietly tucked between buildings and bushes, away from the hullabaloo of entertainment central, Granville Street, is rumoured to be torn down, it's magnificence forgotten.
Finally, from backstage, the European four step forward into a gusto of cheers and screams. Immediate calm descends. Their melodies soar and swoop, in their wake leaving echoes of an eternity yet unknown. Each song cries static climactism and conclusion through a far out ambiance from the stage, a miniature plinth or now levitating platform.
Through the disillusion of Highway of Endless Dreams and the disjointed separation that comes from We Own the Sky the audience lift and leave their senses in dense, hazy understanding. The music indescribable, swathes of computer synth electronica, teamed with guitar and keys. One lonely laptop sits high above by the main mic, itself moving and tapping to the pounding beat.
Ever popular Kim and Jessie pours lovingly and professionally from the PA, singer, lothario Anthony Gonzalez bucking and jolting in time, working his charm on the swooning audience. This single band make the cramped hall in which they perform, magnanimous, breaking boundaries, calling out to the rest of Vancouver and British Columbia.
Crowds roar encores in a rouse of applause as the band retreats and surrenders to the ravages of exhaustion. Amidst the weeping brows and aching lungs, M83 proceed forth, launching into one more song, answering the calls. Drifting a few paces forward, Gonzalez looks out over the bobbing heads and thundering hands clapping erratically. Breathlessly at 12am he whispers; “I think...I'm in love with you.”
The flock that pushes their way out of the doors into the cutting cold of the early morning look refreshed, revitalized, happy. The show uplifting and the music without hint of sadness of despair, just hungry forward thinking, pure energy.
Escaping to the bathroom I conduct my thoughts, a twenty minute set leaving me writing manically in expensive eyeliner across my left hand, merging words and ideas of all shapes and meaning, all conjured from the transient display that was School of Seven Bells.
A fortress of brick a wall stands dominant behind the triplets, sending a shot of trembling awe through the observer, the trio projected small and real in comparison against the purple back lighting.
The three; girl, boy, another girl, all in that order, play in to the expectation of the crowd, the music resonating from each instrument; keyboard, guitar, guitar becoming mind and heartbeat all in one, their epic performance matching that of a headliner, a forceful ghost of a presence with each song played with as much care and attention as the last.
Angelically chorusing in line, creating independent electronica, sounds and noise that contort like hybrids of such musicians; Arcade Fire and Sigur Ros. After four songs, the band hasten off, completing their quota and successfully prepping the crowd for the main attraction.
Later than scheduled, the lights dim, the crowd now bathed in quiet anticipation. Upward above, amongst the entanglement of wires, speakers hung precariously from the ceiling and glinting disco balls, every now and then in a wheezing cough, the hiss of a smoke machine. It's bogus mist settles mid-air, inches above a head count of about one hundred plus, then rises in dispersion. In the balconies above that rise and sweep from left, around behind in semi circular motion and end to my right, bodies halt in atmospheric limbo.
Richards waits, balanced on egg shelled silence. This diamond of venues, its cavernous interior wondrous, that sits quietly tucked between buildings and bushes, away from the hullabaloo of entertainment central, Granville Street, is rumoured to be torn down, it's magnificence forgotten.
Finally, from backstage, the European four step forward into a gusto of cheers and screams. Immediate calm descends. Their melodies soar and swoop, in their wake leaving echoes of an eternity yet unknown. Each song cries static climactism and conclusion through a far out ambiance from the stage, a miniature plinth or now levitating platform.
Through the disillusion of Highway of Endless Dreams and the disjointed separation that comes from We Own the Sky the audience lift and leave their senses in dense, hazy understanding. The music indescribable, swathes of computer synth electronica, teamed with guitar and keys. One lonely laptop sits high above by the main mic, itself moving and tapping to the pounding beat.
Ever popular Kim and Jessie pours lovingly and professionally from the PA, singer, lothario Anthony Gonzalez bucking and jolting in time, working his charm on the swooning audience. This single band make the cramped hall in which they perform, magnanimous, breaking boundaries, calling out to the rest of Vancouver and British Columbia.
Crowds roar encores in a rouse of applause as the band retreats and surrenders to the ravages of exhaustion. Amidst the weeping brows and aching lungs, M83 proceed forth, launching into one more song, answering the calls. Drifting a few paces forward, Gonzalez looks out over the bobbing heads and thundering hands clapping erratically. Breathlessly at 12am he whispers; “I think...I'm in love with you.”
The flock that pushes their way out of the doors into the cutting cold of the early morning look refreshed, revitalized, happy. The show uplifting and the music without hint of sadness of despair, just hungry forward thinking, pure energy.
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