Sissy Bounce is bounce music queered; gay and trans people from Louisiana and the Deep South are singing, sampling, and rapping amazing bump and grind music from a perspective that defies notions of “dick” and “pussy” as bounce music would normatively have it.

Big Freedia, legendary sissy bounce Diva, is gracing us with her powerful presence this year at Pop. Her live show is as much a celebration of booty busting as it is a vocal assault. She will tell you to put your hands on the wall with your ass stretched three feet behind you, and you will like it. “You can take [her] how you want [her] cos she’s a real-ass bitch,” delighting and confusing audiences everywhere with a gender expression that is fierce, confident, and explosive.

Although it’s been almost seven years since the release of her second album, Queen Diva (2003), she has been traveling North America in a recent spate of tours, and will host a free workshop for Pop at Espace Reunion on Sunday, October 3. She’s inviting all who might be interested to “find your inner pussy” and work those ass cheeks to their maximum potential. You could skip the workshop and just catch Big Freedia’s show later that same day – but if you do that, will you be READY FOR ASS EVERYWHERE???

The post Big Freedia appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Starting out with a budget of $8,000, the first year of Pop saw 150 bands in 15 venues. Now, Pop boasts a million dollar budget with over 400 bands in more than 50 venues, as well as corollary events like Art Pop, Puces Pop, Film Pop, Kids Pop, and Symposium. Despite the festival’s growing success, the economic realities of working as an independent music promoter remain stressful. Both Rowan and Seligman manage several bands and juggle side projects in order to make a living. While Seligman is currently Pop’s creative director, Rowan stepped down a few years ago for financial reasons, although he continues to help out with programming. When asked how many organizers the festival has lost since its beginning, Rowan replies “pretty much everybody. With no prospect of financial employment or remuneration, it was hard to attract quality people and make them stay.”

Although Pop is no longer in dire straits, fundraising is no simple task; it comprises the majority of the executive producer’s job description. The festival has been incorporated as a not-for-profit organization and has six paid positions on its permanent staff. Its budget is run largely off government grants, corporate sponsorships, and beer sales. “You can’t become entirely dependent on any one source,” Rowan tells me, “Stephen Harper might change his mind any second… and companies you go to one year might not want to dole out dough [on advertising] the next.”

Money-making is evidently of concern; however, it is not the festival’s ultimate goal. As a not-for-profit artistic venture, its founders tout an idealistic ethos. “We’re not about to slap on a big name headliner to the festival just to generate revenue,” Seligman insists, “it’s inevitable that we’ll have acts like The Dears or Arcade Fire who might attract wider audiences because they’re well known, but it would be out of character for an independent music festival to do [something like that].” Pop began as a festival to showcase underground and emerging artists, although Seligman happily admits that Pop is “no longer underground… We’re not interested in being unpopular. We’re interested in bringing good music to as many people as possible. We can’t be one or the other – [underground or mainstream] – and we definitely don’t see the emergence of ‘indie’ music and culture in the mainstream as negative, either.°
“Pop is a festival for music fans and musicians… we started it because we felt there was something really special about the artist community in Montreal. People here make music that’s less tarnished by commercialism because they’re operating outside of the spotlight of industry heads waiting to co-opt their product… they are making music for the sake of making music. People can be themselves as artists without feeling the pressure to conform to industry standards. People here are unafraid to be a little left of center and weird.” Seligman insists that the goal of the festival will always remain the same, “to reflect the culture of Montreal’s artist community.”

“Pop is not an industry event,” echoes Rowan, “we are an artists’ event. We started out organizing for our friends and like-minded people in an active community that’s been in Montreal since the 1980s.” Booking agents and industry people have, in the past, butted heads with Pop because “we’re far more interested in the music makers and consumers. We put on a music festival that is unparalleled and we do it mostly for the bands… If a band plays Pop Montreal, it’s 95 per cent likely they’re going to have a good time… we give them a good stage and a case of beer.”

Rowan describes Pop as “an honest effort put on by people motivated by music,” and the naïve idealism espoused by both him and Seligman is at once heartwarming and unexpected. “You have to be naïve to do anything like this,” he advises me, “we succeeded simply because we believed in our vision, we were stubborn, arrogant, and we knew we were dealing with one of the most interesting communities in one of the most interesting cities in the world, and there wasn’t anyone who could tell us that we couldn’t do it.”

The post History Of Pop appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The doorbell rang. It had been ringing all evening; door-to-door sales were unfortunately popular in my neighbourhood. I answered, and was unenthused to find a pesky middle-school kid shoving newspapers in my face, asking if my parents were interested in purchasing a subscription. I adamantly belted a “no, thank you” and motioned to slam the door but was interrupted by an interjection: “C-c-could I please use your bathroom?” Unknowing and naïve, I let him in.

He immediately dashed to the toilet in a panic that was at once whimsical and disquieting. I innocently returned to my evening leisure activities: Lite Brite and Seinfeld. It wasn’t until the second commercial break that my father and I realized the boy was still in the bathroom. My mother rattled the doorknob and called out, “Are you okay in there?” We heard the toilet paper rip, and held our breath to hear the flush.

“Oh yeah, yeah, sorry, I’m fine,” he muttered, and flushed. Twice. I knew something was wrong. My father squinted and my mother glared. My sister began to bite her nails, while I remained quizzical. We heard him gasp.

“What’s going on?” My mother cried: she knew what was happening.

“Oh, nothing….” he groaned, unconvincingly.

My mother pressed her ear to the door. We heard the sound of running water.

“Uh….”

My mother tensed.

“I think…your toilet’s…overflowing….”

It was chaos. My mother screamed, my father yelled, and my sister and I could only peek out through the corridor with trepidation. To this day, I have not heard the pitch of my mother’s voice reach such piercing heights. “You flushed twice!!!! I heard you!!!!!”

She demanded that he open the door, but he was paralyzed by fear. I think he cried. At last, he unlocked the door and my mother burst in to find his diarrhea streaking our bathroom tiles. Oh, the pandemonium. My mother wouldn’t let him go easily. She insisted he clean the mess he had made, with the only cleaning supplies he had with him: newspapers. It took him hours. I could hear his quiet sobs as he lined our bathroom floor with his part-time livelihood.

Given the epic scale of this turd-related trauma, it has taken me years to recover from the shame that this incident has embedded into my bowels. I cannot begin to imagine the paperboy’s psychological recovery. I wonder how deep is his shit-shame. In reality, who was to blame? The boy? My naïveté? His indigestion? Faulty plumbing? It’s almost impossible to say.

It has taken me years to work though my shit-shame. I am fortunate to admit that at this point in my life, shit is quite near and dear to me. It has been with me through the best and worst of times, taught me countless lessons and life truths, provided me with shock, awe, laughter, and tears. Hearing my grandmother casually ask about my “loose movements” when I’m feeling ill and getting phone calls from my sister to celebrate her particularly phenomenal scatological achievements are small tokens that have gradually allowed me to reconcile my disgrace with ease. This comfort level was not achieved overnight, however; it was a slow and complicated process, punctuated with denial and uncertainty.

My first breakthrough was initially minor, but later proved miraculous. Toward the end of my high school career, I was feeling overwhelmed, inferior, and intimidated by authority. There was one teacher in particular who simultaneously infuriated and fascinated me. He amazed me, and yet in his presence I felt reduced to mere rubble. I was a teenage pawn in an elaborate scholastic scheme. In a particularly pointed fit of existential adolescent angst, I convinced myself that I was nothing more than a piece of shit.

Ironically enough, it was at the moment of a bowel movement that everything came together. As I was about to wipe my ass clean, it dawned on me: everybody does this. We all shit. “Authority figures” shit. With the inelegant gesture that follows the act of defecation, the inexplicable power of my teacher’s authority was demystified. I realized that superiors and inferiors, people of all societal stations and positions, poo. So simple, so obvious, so universal; perhaps the only universal truth I can legitimately stake a claim toward. Both humbling and enlightening, this most basic fact is a reminder that so many contradictions embody the human condition. Grotesque yet gorgeous: shit brings us together.

There is nothing quite like a good shit. What’s Your Poo Telling You – a book of lighthearted and informative investigations of scatological truths – describes the euphoric sensation produced by a satisfying movement as “poo-phoria,” something to make “you feel energized, as if you just woke up from a great nap.” Pooing is an unavoidable reality in the lives of all humans and animals, and we do not celebrate it as often as we should. Instead, we expel this supposed waste from our bodies and discard it immediately – flushing it underground as our only sanitation option, estranging it from all our other functions and daily rituals.

Shit happens. Sneak a peek, look before you flush: you might learn something about yourself. They say eyes are windows to the soul, and I would say one’s shit is similarly telling of one’s inner constitution. At this moment, your digestive system is co-operating with your bowels to produce a reflection of your nutritional input and general health. Sure, shit never smells like roses, but to judge an integral and essential corporeal function as disgusting is to negate its positive contribution to one’s physiological well-being; it is self-destructive and contemptuous. Until we learn to positively value our bodily functions – their various shapes, sizes, smells, and scents – we cannot shit without shame.

The post Holy shit! appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The first to read was an eccentric man in his late thirties, with an excerpt from a science fiction novel he had written at the age of seven. He read about aliens, diners, incredibly fast cars, and fantastical spaghetti entrees in space. A childhood prodigy underappreciated, he confessed his grandmother used to tell him that his stories weren’t “worth the matchstick she would use to burn them.”

After his reading came many diary entries, some love notes, a few more short stories, and a reading of my very first novel – The Cat. The readings portrayed intense emotions about boys, girls, romance, and frenemies; end-of-the-world angst and cringe-worthy lyrics with lines dramatic as “I broke my leg – nobody REALLY cares!”

My personal favourite was from a Judy Blume-themed diary: on May 21, a girl started her journal entry with “Happy Canada Day!” She proceeded to draw a Canadian flag and list her favourite things about this country – “maple sugar, bagels, and red.” Ah, the roots of Canadian identity….

To be a kid is to get away with whatever you can. You can laugh, scream, jump, kick, scratch bums, pick noses, play “make believe,” and openly mock others without being told that you’re making a scene or embarrassing your friends. Everything you do is magical and life-changing because you are doing it for the first time: you garble speech – it’s incredible. You walk – it’s momentous. You burp – it’s cause for celebration! I do all of these things daily, and I receive no applause, no parental congratulation, no standing ovation or scrapbook insertion.

I am envious of children and nostalgic for my childhood. To be a curious and expressive child, I feel, is a privilege – people don’t give the same behavioural leeway to adults. In attempt to mature as refined, affable human beings, we inevitably water down our childhood selves in favour of social norms and necessities. This is, for the most part, a good thing, as it would be unreasonable for the world to expect a five-year-old to be as capable as a 25-year-old; but it is still important for 25-year-olds to remember what their younger selves were once capable of.

Just because we grow up doesn’t mean we grow old, and all “grown-ups” usually still have quite a bit of growing to do. Despite being the youngest person reading, I could see that all those grown-ups retained some of their childhood perspectives they were reading from: the sci-fi dude was visibly offbeat and the Judy Blume lady was sweet and airy.

Adulthood is a looming, constructed, and restrictive entity, yet I fail to believe that adults truly feel like adults all of the time. My sentiments are best expressed by something Britney Spears [almost] sang once: I’m not a [kid], not yet a [grown-up] / All I need is time, a moment that is mine, while I’m in between. Sing it with me at the next reading.

For podcasts and information on upcoming events, visit grownupsreadthingstheywroteaskids.com. You can also listen to Aditi’s reading by clicking the audio files attached to this article.

The post Once upon a time appeared first on The McGill Daily.

National Novel Writing Month – affectionately dubbed “Nanowrimo” by its participants and creators – is a 30-day exercise in sheer output. By the end of the month, those who have written and submitted 50,000 words can pat themselves on the back and grin with smug satisfaction. The event functions on an honour system; no one is policing to ensure a simultaneous starting line, although its deadline for submission is absolute: November 30 at midnight.

“This is not as scary as it sounds,” says the Nanowrimo webpage – and it’s true! This event is not meant to be an exercise in brilliance, but a tool by which writers with reservations can shake their writer’s block and kickstart their ability to make words appear. Nanowrimo is not for professionals with a serious ambition to produce incredible work that will forever, indelibly mark the world. Take it from Andrew Campana, an undergraduate student at UofT and a veteran Nano writer. He calls each one of his November novels “a book-length work of deeply flawed fiction.”

“I’ve read quite a few other Nanos,” he tells me. “As a rule, they’re awful, but also kind of wonderful. There’s a lot of rushed prose, plots that don’t make sense, and general crap, but there’s always great gobs of raw potential and hints of genius that rise from the muck, always a sense of ‘Oh my god I’m actually writing a novel!’ joy that shows through in every page.”

Getting overwhelmed is likely the biggest obstacle to starting any work, be it a novel or your next 30 per cent Poli Sci paper – but the lesson here is to just start writing and let your reservations unhinge: write now, edit later.

To anyone writing this November, whether it be a 50,000 word novel or an epic thesis: keep your pen poised and your keyboard clicking. Good luck!

Register to participate in National Novel Writing month at nanowrimo.org.

The post The 30-day novelist appeared first on The McGill Daily.

You might roll your eyes and think all this shit’s obvious – as if anyone with a radio, television, and a set of ears hasn’t picked up on rap and R&B’s aggressive commitment to sexually provocative subject matter.What makes Kellz so different from Usher or T-Pain? Aren’t “Love in the Club” or “Buy you a Drink” just as sexually forward as any ditty out of R. Kelly’s repertoire? Not even! Kellz makes explicit those things that artists like Usher glaze over with simple metaphors and polite euphemisms. Although Usher evidently wants to have a one-night stand with a girl on the dance floor, R. Kelly goes so far as to cement the fact that “this sex ain’t nothing / girl we be just fucking” in his single “Feeling on Yo’ Booty.”

Never has such blatant sexuality been so central to the success of any artist. 99.9 percent of Kelly’s songs are about having sex, thinking about sex, trying to get a girl to have sex with him, and what they do directly post-coitus. How many “meteor showers” girls will experience with him is something alluded to countless times in “Sex Planet.” In “Slow Wind,” he “can tell you want sex the way you flexin’;” “Sex Weed” is a literal combination of Kelly’s favourite things: “sex so good that it gets me high.”

Anyone who has downloaded R. Kelly’s discography as thoroughly as I have can tell you: Kellz is a PhReAk. His obsession with fucking girls – and women – has in the past been pathologized as nymphomania. Many of you might remember Kelly’s relatively recent incarceration and imprisonment following a “golden” sex-tape scandal featuring underage ladies in a special kind of shower.

Naively perusing his track titles, you might smile to see a celebration of liberated sexuality. However upon closer inspection, it becomes evident that R. Kelly is doing more to perpetuate gender roles than celebrate sexual freedom. One fateful day, I couldn’t help but falter. What if there is something wrong with “just a little bump’n’grind?”

Mariah Carey can help us answer this question. Although the two have never collaborated, R. Kelly and Mariah are well-suited contemporaries with similar musical prowess and longevity. The female complement to R. Kelly’s overtly masculine collection, Mariah Carey’s discography portrays a very specific notion of femininity that meshes interestingly with Kelly’s expression of male identity.

Carey is a sentimental sex kitten. Forget those pipes and sweet rhythms, all she wants is for the love of her life to “not forget about us” as she floats nude in her swimming pool, luxuriously displaying her monetary and physical wealth. For her, it’s “just like honey when your love comes over me,” and she can “hardly wait for another taste.” This depiction of a woman hopelessly hooked and totally addicted to the love of her man feeds the need of a dominating sex fiend like R. Kelly. Titles like “Love Takes Time,” I Don’t Wanna Cry,” and “Can’t Let Go” give me pause when contrasted with “Get Freaky in the Club,” “The Greatest Sex,” and “Kickin’ It with Your Girlfriend.” Another obvious point: women and men are portrayed in the media as processing and appreciating sexual relationships from vastly separate worlds. But it doesn’t have to be so binary!

This is a call for all girls, boys, and the genderqueer to listen to R. Kelly with a critical ear. I will be the first to attest to the beauty of Mariah Carey’s voice and the finesse of R. Kelly’s rhythms, but I don’t want to live in a world where we take all that Carey and Kelly have to tell us at face value – not just because it is mired with constraints and instills fear in my icy heart, but because it’s too easy. The masculine doesn’t have to thrive off sexual arousal, and the feminine shouldn’t be confined to the emotional; yin and yang ought to function collaboratively rather than in opposition to one another. When I hear Kellz whispering into my headphones: “Don’t you say no tonight,” I can’t help but argue.

The post What remix is this? appeared first on The McGill Daily.