The Stoned Poet

 It was a cold Friday night. Only option was to get in the car with friends and drive to Montreal. There, lay all hopes of finding twindling and fiddling to do. There'd be no beauties nor druggies outside with the cold weather, only option was to find a venue to scuffle in and drink and fade in the crown. That meant money would be needed, and I had all but money honestly. But nonetheless we went, drove, stopped at Atomic Cafe, gave a guitar back to a friend, bought a Pink Floyd Echoes 1965-2025 Magazine reviewing the band's entire career. I couldn't help but start reading it and sure it inspired more psyched lsd induced ideas to my brain. Possibilities seemed infinite. Thus, an idea came, I could try and bargain a ticket for the gang to go to a show. The show in question I wanted to see was, Sunday Riot Club, Street Panther and The Space Wizards @ L'Escogriffe. My friends Antoine and Jordan seemed unbothered of the uncome, but I was determined to get in, whatever the co...

"Come to me now and rest your head for just five minutes, everything is good Such a cozy room, The windows are illuminated by the evening sunshine through them Fiery gems for you, only for you Our house is a very, very, very fine house with two cats in the yard Life used to be so hard Now everything is easy 'cause of you and our [house]" Those lyrics from the song Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young are the exact representation of what the project called Mai/Son was. A place where I could hang my problems, have a drink or two (as it was a Bring Your Own Beer, there was no pressure to drink at the bar) and simply enjoy the music whenever and whatever music it was. On many week-ends about to end up with no place to go, I would walk up Saint-Joseph Ouest and arrive at the mythic establishment. Compared to say Van Horne, Mai/Son was really a place to embrace, it was a venue we, the youth, had the possibilities of making ours and limitless were the possibilities towa...

     Carter Kane, aka MOC has done much in the local scene of Montreal. From writing bars at the age of 10, playing shows all year long to hosting a weekly radio show called Fluid Mosaic where he interviews local artists of all genres to help promote their music and push the boundaries of a community in the music industry, allowing people to share their ideas, their creative plots and hopefully help build connections between people who delve in muisc through their earphones or during shows. Summer 2025 he hosted  FM Fest  supported by  Les Insoumises  ,  Infamy   CJLO  and  Non-Binary Twins . Artist such as  Parallel ,  Ryan Brio ,  Dievanse ,  Resonance , and more have had the opportunity to perform and showcase their talents through three neighboring venues, Casa del Popolo, Sala Rossa and La Sotterenea. This fest was really great because all kind of artist from various genres were playing, allowing for audienc...

It's Friday 25th October, I'm posting fliers on old rotten drabbed poles who await in silence and agony. No sun caresses their envies nor woman or man to soothe their naughty desires or nitty gritty ways. I look at my phone, it's six thirty, the perfect time to get a beer, a nick and let all hell loose. I take one last pictures of the flyers, I run to my car and light up a cigarette while listening to Bob Dylan's He Was A Friend of Mine. Outside, the leaves hang low and many have fallen, a keen reminder that change comes at a great price. The cold weather mixed with Dylan's vocals on the Bootleg Series 1 to 3 send a shiver down my spine as I survey the streets of Montreal going around Mount Royal in hopes to find a parking near Saint-Laurent boulevard. A right turn, left, stop, go, turn and finally bingo, a spot lays empty. I park and head down two blocks, turn left, get a beer, get out, meet Francois a homeless guy, buy him a cookie and off I go to the show at La ...

October the 4th, I hop in my car with Antoine. Beer, a will to escape the ever dooming future of my generation and a hope of finding a groove that'll set me free from all morality and elusive mind bending thoughts or anxieties.  On a warm hot gloomy yet breezy saturdy night, I had my car parked downtown over the hills and as I locked at my car, the question was, will it stay put, will it roll down? Oh whatever it'll be fine I guess. Antoine and I take our stuff and I leave a note saying I just moved in and thus do not have a vignette for my parking yet, hoping it'll disuade any officers or parking agent of leaving a ticket on my windshield. We go down and turn on mcgill and walk and turn again and walk while talking, drinking a beer and suddenly, Antoine asks the question,  ''So were is the show?'' I reply, '' It's in a YMCA, in a gym more specifically.'' ''Damn thats crazy, just like when we saw shows younger at school in the gym...

  Shows and more shows. More bands, more music, but does this necessarely mean more entertainement? Depends which band and fan you ask. Matteo the singer of Mildew. Saturday night 9th August, I went to Escogriffe to see Serial Milk , Mildew and Baboune . The first band to play was Serial Milk, an esthetic band I'd say, then came Mildew, the holy knights of grunge and finally Baboune, wizards crafting a music never heard before, blending influences from heavy metal, hardcore, grunge and even a bit of pop rythms slipped to my ears. But before the show started, before I ever got there, before I even left, lots and lots happened.  I woke from a bender, another night partying, another night spent in the gaze of so many kids aged about twenty who could either idealize you or despise you. But now it was saturday, I could forget about all those weird and funny faces I'd seen the night before. But the headache wasn't forgotten.I gulped cheese, I read somehwere it helps break down ...

''Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope you've enjoyed your night up till now, I now ask you to scream as I welcome Bad Objection on stage!'' It was a night of restlessness. I'd been partying for so long, I couldn't even remember what it felt like to be sober. The sun had dried my neurons, the weed had enhanced my hearing and sight. Basically I felt I was living in a moonage daydream. I hung with Chad during the day and by six o'clock, we arrived at Trashcan . Monoliths of emptiness guarded the place, you can feel needles crawl under your arms, hear the skateboarders skate upon the diy ramps. Many used to be waiting for their man here, some still do, but overall, the place has calmed down. Rookies who start going to Trashcan now a days, missed the good old days where the old bartender would inject LSD in the water to get everyone high, gone are the days of weird allegations of sexual harassement, or people being invited to sleep upstairs waking up the next day r...

Work was over, it was exactly 18h. I went back home, tired as fuck. I wanted to slouch my self down a hole, dive deep in darkness and lay my bones to rest. But the road awaits, from the corner of my eyes, mushrooms rest in the corner of my room, posters are solidely pressed to the wall. The light beems, shine, twirls. I get up, dress up, and swoop right back in my car. Cigarette ashes flicker all over the car, as I drive in a hurry to hauler up around the north shore. But as I get around, I miss the autoroute's exit towards Laval, more driving and then surprised I am to realize I've once again missed the autoroute's exit again. Geez, I'm not even high yet, no flock flesh eating molecules are in my veins yet to be and yet I've missed two exits. Fast forward an hour later, I'm finally at Jake's house. We get all funky, funny and forward we go on a little trip to Oka, before daylight breaks calling the hoops and cooks on the road.  Oka was full of effing bugs, ...

I saw Van Horne was shut down. From the 60's psychedelic dripped peace and love dream, to Dylan going electric, to those junkies starting off clean and ending hooked for life to brown sugar, Van Horne was nothing more than a dream, a call for redemption, a glimpse into carefree nights where anything could happen, as long as the cops let it happen.  It was never you and I who made it possible. Yes you or somebody else organized the shows, rented the material necessary and more, but sadly, it was the cops who made it possible for a while to have shows there. But to actually make Van Horne a place to host weekly shows was a mistake. It never was a place, it was simply an open area under a bridge, the same kind as where Anthony Keatis drew blood, the same where I last saw a junky sitting, lying down dehydrated and about to pass out, the same where lovers went to make love behind their parents back. Van Horne holds memories for all of us, but the truth is, if we want the mus...

  The Show is Over, Leave Peacefully, I Repeat, The Show Is Over, Please Leave respectfully. Those words, they're ringing in my ears, I open my eyes. I'm in my bed, besides, a needles yonders over the edge, it's got suicidal tendencies or is it simply tired. Tired like I was yesterday. Tired, Hired and Satyred. I get up, recollect the evening. Ah yes a show at Van Horne, four bands on a bill starting at 7 pm. Quite late and packed like lineup I believe. Having four bands play at Van Horne is merely impossible except if you start at 5 or 6 maybe. But even then by ten o'clock the cops always get cocky and try to tone down the place. This ain't Monterrey Pop Festival nor Woodstock, the cops have the authority. And there ain't enough youngsters and revolutionaries to start a movement under a bridge. Not one that could grant a pass to make noize later than ten that is.  I arrived at the place, wearing a fucking jacket not knowing how hot it was. Geez, I really need t...