In this man's hands the music will most definitely last

If you were in the GTA on Friday night and you weren't at Lee's Palace you should be simultaneously kicking yourself in the head, stomach, kidneys and groin. The reason? You missed what is Toronto's gig of the year if not this young century.

If you ask me Jamie Lidell's soul/R&B soaked and electronically tinged Multiply was 2005's album of the year. But his live show…well…it's absolutely mind-blowing.

Take the twitchy electronic flourishes of Four Tet, beatboxing à la Rahzel, some of the resonant techno of Ellen Allien, the soul-funk of Sly and the Family Stone and the nerdy-extroverted stage presence of Jarvis Cocker and you've got the vaguest idea of Lidell live.

I know that sounds like sonic equivalent of combining a Mondrian, a Pollack, a Dalí, a Monet and a Warhol. But rather than a derivative abysmal mess Lidell creates something entirely original and stunningly beautiful.

Coming on stage in an off-white trench, thick glasses and a shaggy haircut, Liddell looked every bit the quiet music nerd. Not exactly the outfit you'd expect from someone whose record has more soul than the entire Billboard R&B 100 combined. But by the show's end the coat was off and the man was recalling Britpop's great frontmen with jerky dance moves (sorry Lidell's footwork is no match for James Brown) and working the crowd into a sweaty mess like Motown's greats.



Those who've listened to Multiply are in for completely different experience hearing it live. Much of the time you can only make out an abstract sketch of the album versions. For instance the sampled "A little bit more, a little bit more" vocal that dominates the beat of the album cut of the same name is only introduced three-quarters of the way through the live version. Sampled live, Lidell uses his vocal as more of a sonic flourish than the backbone of a beat.

What really impresses about Lidell's live shows is the man's ability to create a song seemingly out of nothing. Numerous times he'd tuck his head in his shoulder, shield his face with his hand and start beatboxing. He'd sample it. Then he'd begin layering that with a drum beat. Later he'd sample other vocal orchestration, fiddle with a few knobs and before you'd know it the man would have a tune that would shame even the most notorious studio perfectionist or the most talented nine-pieces.

The whole process was so seamless and subtle that my plus-one looked over a couple songs in and asked 'Did he just create that whole song with his voice?'

Still it wasn't effortless—he was constantly multitasking. He continually darted from one side of his set-up to turn on a sample, scratch some records or lean over his gear from the wrong side to tweak a knob on his soundboard. By the time he finished his encore the sweat on his clothes and the exhaustion in his voice said he gave it his all.

Lidell didn't just showcase the brilliant electronic instincts he honed in Super_Collider and on Muddlin Gear. Some of the night's most enjoyable moments were when he sat down on a stool and let his soulful voice dominate over a minimal beat like on Game For Fools and What Is it This Time?



But what really sold me on Lidell's brilliance was that he managed to get the usual crowd of crossed-armed-cooler-than-thou-indie-kids moving. I'm not just talking about the group of enthusiastic kids a couple rows from the front of the stage who flail their arms singing along to every word. No, Lidell managed to get everyone from those up close in the pit all the way to the back in various states of dance from simple head-boping to all out busting a groove. That's a feat I've yet to see duplicated in this town.

Random Thoughts

Day 2
Oct. 14
London

Despite constantly staring at buildings with a perplexed look on my face people have stopped to ask me directions not once, not twice, but thrice. Apparently a confused boy in a three-quarter black pea must be some sort of stereotype tourist have of Londoners.

Speaking of getting around, this town does not make it easy. Now I'll admit I'm not the most directionally savvy person but I've never been so lost. I have no problem with putting the street signs on the sides of buildings rather than at the corner of the street, but is it too much to ask that this is done on every corner? Since the streets only seem to be labeled on major intersections it makes for a lot of lost tourists. It's especially trying to find your way around when those street names seem to change without notice when they're interrupted by parks and the like. I'm convinced this is part of that infamous British wit.

I'm perplexed at the popularity of Guinness here. Primarily 'cause its a pretty substandard stout when you've got fairly easy access to the likes of Samuel Smith's Imperial and Oatmeal stouts or Young's Double Chocolate. But then again people in Ontario still drink Canadian when they've got relatively easy access to Creemore (bought by Molson a year ago or so, much to my chagrin). Anyway the popularity of Guinness is also surprising 'cause I thought England's relationship to Ireland was pretty much like the United States' relationship to Canada and there's no way in hell a Canadian beer would ever be so popular in the United States.

Now cartoons and sitcoms have taught me that the French love their cigarettes like no other culture. But I'm convinced that's got to be a myth perpetuated by the American dislike for the Francophonie 'cause I'm convinced the Brits have the French beat when it comes to smoking. I'll bet the only people not smoking here are the tourists. I may come back addicted just from inhaling second hand! I'm little miffed about that 'cause second hand smoke's about as useful as decaffeinated coffee. There's no way in hell I'm going to endure that disgustingness if I'm not getting any of the addictive stimulants in there.

Two nations divided by tips

Day 1
Oct. 13
London

I'm hanging out in Filthy McNasty's Whiskey Bar. It's a bohemian little joint teeming with a good mix of local working class, artistic types and students in Islington. It's tiny and dim with a nice big wood bar. Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Pogues and other rock posters pass as decor. Apparently not only did the Libertines used to hang out here but Pete and Carl worked behind the bar. The bartender also let me know they allegedly played a gig there from behind the bar. Clearly this is my kind of place.

Despite all this I can't quite enjoy myself. Apparently you can still smoke in London's bars. You don't realise how awful this is as a non-smoker till you've become accustomed to breathing clean air while enjoying a drink. I remembered going back to Toronto after Ottawa had banned smoking in bars and restaurants and after a night out I would come home and be disgusted that my clothes, skin and even hair reeked of cigarette smoke. I've got no problem with people smoking, but not in an enclosed place where the public convenes 'cause that encroaches upon my right to breath clean air. The point where you encroach upon the rights of others is the point where you begin losing personal freedoms and privileges.

My second issue tonight is with the bartender. I asked for a double of a 12-year-old special reserve Glenfiddich, neat.

"Would you like that with ice?" he responds.

I couldn't believe it. Maybe he didn't hear the neat part but this is a whiskey bar. Clearly youi'd expect staff to have some degree of expertise on product. I proceed to give him a bit of a scolding along the lines of 'you just don't put that kind of Scotch on ice under any circumstances'. It turns out it's his second shift so I give him a break, but he does claim some people actually order that with ice—not if it was my bar.

I give him the extra 50 pence left over after the drink order.

"Bless you my son", he say.

I look around. Nobody's sneezed.

I clue in.

"Oh, do you mean to tell me that people don't tip bartenders here?"

"Well it's consider polite to tip, but most people don't."

"It's pretty much expected back home in Canada. How much do you make?"

"Four pound twenty-five."

"Is that minimum wage?"

He nods.

"Generally, tipping is expected to help supplement bartenders' wages so they can make a decent living."

"Yes, but bartending is considered more of a respected profession in North America."

I stifle laughter.

"Here most bartenders are just kids trying to pay for school."

"It's the same back home in Toronto"

"Yes but you have to take courses in North America to be a bartender. Here you just come up to the owner and say 'I want to be a bartender'. If you pass a health and safety course the job is your's".

Now I'm not sure if the situation on both sides of the Atlantic is exactly as he says, but it definitely hits me that I'm quite far from North America. Excellent, perspective on differences and similarities in cultures exactly what I hoped to gain from this trip.

Later on that evening I get to experience the traditional last call bell; a tactful and understated hint by the boss for the bartender to quit chatting with me and serve the customers*; a few bar sing-alongs; and some people begging for drinks after last call only to be turned down (but not without the bartender asking the boss first)—don't worry they were given plastic cups so they could drink their own booze off premises.

Man this is gonna be fun but they really gotta do something about the smoking—apparently they are

*It was really busy despite it being far from packed. The dishwasher was going constantly 'cause as another bartender pointed out to me there may not be a lot of people here but they're all definitely drinkers.