Inspired by a love of old movies, Mira explained that, “initially I was going to make the exhibition a simple homage to black-and-white films.” But the idea grew, so that now the exhibition plays out like someone’s thought process. “Combined,” Mira elaborated, “the pieces might seem overwhelming and chaotic, but that’s just what a stream of consciousness is: unadulterated thought.”

So “Skeletonic” does not present a coherent message, but that’s not really what it’s going for. Sugar for Brains is more interested in promoting “overlooked, emerging artists (regardless of educational background),” explained Mira. At the moment they’re working in Montreal, but eventually Mira hopes to reach the rest of Canada, and then maybe further.

While Mira acknowledges that “McGill doesn’t have a visual arts program, so there aren’t many opportunities for McGillians to showcase their pieces,” anyone – not just McGill students – could submit their work for “Skeletonic,” and over 150 artists did. The talent on display is certainly impressive, and the “great mix of voices” Mira wanted is evident. Barred from using colour, the artists have turned to different media for variety. There are ink drawings, digital paintings, collages, lithographs, photography, charcoal works, pastel works, and painting on canvas and wood. The theme avoids its potential for monotony, but this is largely due to the immersive quality of the work rather than, as Mira claims, black-and-white works’ power to let viewers “fill in their own colours with their imaginations” (much like a black-and-white film might do).

Naomi Aldrich’s Trace Variations, which consists of simple ink patterns on paper, are startling and resemble the Rorschach Inkblot Test, while Sarah Galarnea’s lithograph Planet 1 (Tomato) is eerie in the extreme, a picture of a distant galaxy with the contrast turned way down. Mark Lavorato’s photos are very compelling, recalling the organic human geometry captured by Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Iris Apostolescu’s digital painting Voyage matches the relatively new medium with a forward-looking, almost sci-fi vision of children at play. Jono Currier’s three drawings, which vary from a map-like landscape to a subdued portrait, are linked by the arc of a flare in the night. It’s ingenious, and feels like it could be the beginning of a project with near-infinite scope. Almost every work deserves to be lingered upon, and Mira isn’t exaggerating much when she says “each piece has a powerful idea” behind it.

Considering “Skeletonic” is Sugar for Brain’s first exhibition, the prospect of what could follow is exciting. In fact, work has already begun on the next show. Apparently the theme is suggested in the final piece of “Skeletonic” – but Mira isn’t giving much away, so viewers need to head on down to Cinéma du Parc to try and figure it out themselves.

“Skeletonic” is on display at Cinéma du Parc (3575 Parc) until April 28.

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What those events consist of might need some elaboration. Firstly, all the events are timed, with no direct competition between different teams – probably not a bad idea, considering that the vast majority of participants are at times clearly pumped up to the max, and in possession of extremely sharp axes. We’re not talking ‘forged in the caves of Middle Earth’ sharp, but they could split a human skull with ease. That said, the day was by no means overly competitive; the atmosphere seemed to encourage self-improvement rather than victory at all costs.

Fire-building, or the water boil, sees competitors start with an axe, a lump of wood, a match or two, and a blackened tin of water. In a matter of minutes, the competitors have spliced the wood into pieces of varying sizes and constructed a miniature inferno. They even strike the match on the axehead. For this downtown cosmopolitan Arts student, who would probably need the best part of an hour and/or a petroleum-based liquid to build such a fire, watching the event was a thoroughly shame-inducing experience.

Another compelling event is the crosscut saw. A team of six has to cut six discs from a 8×8 inch log, with three pairs of cutters working in relay on each end of the saw. Teams almost always complete the event in under a minute. A more gruelling but no less entertaining event is the standing block chop, in which competitors have to chop through a block of wood that is standing up. For every person who make it look easy, there was another who exposed just how difficult the task is; and for every axe blow that sent the top half of the log spinning to the ground, there were 15 that hit the log with a dull thud. All the events are clearly very technical, but the standing block chop saw the greatest variation in times and technique.

On the subject of times: the day’s results left the overall standings unchanged from before the meet. McGill’s men’s first team and women’s first team both remained in third place, and men’s second team was in seventh.

Perhaps the most awe-inspiring event is the pole climb. Decked out with spiked shoes and a tube of what looked like rubber (which they wrap around the trunk and hold on to), competitors shoot up a 28-foot pole to ring a little bell. In case you were wondering, they’re on a rope, so minor mistakes do not necessarily result in death. There were also two events which could be broadly grouped under ‘log manipulation.’ The three pairs who compete in log decking have to roll a largish log down a track and back again. They each do so with the help of a (medieval weapon of war) peavey, which they then have to pass, like a baton of death, to their teammates. The other is pulp throwing, which is not what it sounds like; competitors do not hurl clouds of sawdust around. The pulp is actually a small log, about four feet in length and weighing between 30 and 40 pounds. The team of six take it in turns to throw the four pulp sticks between pegs some 19.5 feet apart. When the team reaches 48 successful throws, the timer stops. Kind of like ten pin bowling, if people threw the pins instead of the ball.

To those reading with a superior smirk on their face, try looking toward Canada’s national sport. Is flicking a lump of rubber across some frozen water really less ridiculous than chopping down a log? The absurdity of sports in general is unquestionable, but that absurdity does not detract from the spectacle. If anything, it adds to the enjoyment, as watching a group of grown men fight each other because of what happened during a game of rubber-lump-on-frozen-water will confirm. The woodsmen and women, in many ways, are amongst the most dignified of athletes.

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If Kashka’s new album Bound was taken off of iTunes, it’s likely only her close relatives would notice. Most people would argue that being in the top ten albums on iTunes or having over 100,000 views on YouTube does not mean that your music is better in any way, but a certain amount of recognition often correlates with an artist’s significance. After all, a little fame does mean that you’ve managed to grab the public’s attention. And this is where Kashka falls short. Her music is not bad, it just doesn’t stand out enough to merit repeat listens or referrals among fans.

In Bound’s first track, “Never Had It,” her voice is soft and sweet, sounding a bit like a more acoustic Lorde. But once the track moves on from a string of “maybe I was a fool to…” murmurs, it’s only to get stuck in a never-ending repetition of “baby we never had it anyway” which makes you want to throw out Bound for good. There are original elements in some of her songs, as she blends guitar and piano sounds, using a tambourine to give it tempo. But then the beat will pick up in a familiar, pop-y way and begins to bring to mind upbeat trying-too-hard-to-be-indie elevator music mixed with a teenager’s Disney debut. There are two reviews online and one of them points out the “something modern” that can be found in the new album. It’s true that if you pay close attention to the background sounds you can glimpse that it was thought-through, but you have to be really looking for it. All in all, Kashka’s new album Bound is missing a voice of its own. Sadly, it’s the type of music that no one will remember.

-Rochelle Guillou

Various artists – Afrobeat Airways 2: Return Flight to Ghana, 1974-1983
Analog Africa

2010’s Afrobeat Airways: West African Shock Waves, Ghana & Togo 1972-1978, a compilation of rare tracks by Analog Africa’s Samy Ben Redjeb from afrobeat’s golden age, was an unexpected hit with the music press that year, and no wonder, considering the quality of the songs and extensive and interesting liner notes. If anything, the scope on Afrobeat Airways 2 is broader. It extends to 1983, and as such has a more varied sound, taking in cheesier 1980s tracks, like Tony Sarfo & The Funky Afrosibi’s “I Beg,” and Waza-Afriko 76’s “Gbei Kpakpa Hife Sika,” which even has some harmonica in it. This definitely isn’t a genre that gets much exposure in the West (aside from the influence Afro-pop has had on uber-white indie rockers Vampire Weekend).

Perhaps the only criticism that could be levelled at Afrobeat Airways 2 is that many of the artists from the first record appear on this one, like Ebo Taylor Jr., Uppers International, K. Frimpong, and The African Brothers – not to mention several incarnations of De Frank. With close to a decade’s worth of music to choose from, surely there are more than 15 artists out there worth showcasing. That said, the above were all titans of the scene, and the sheer quality of the tracks makes any attack on the selection a spurious one. Brass is present throughout (as is Doors-esque organ), but on opener Uppers International’s “Aja Wondo” it is particularly irresistible. The rhythm section of the songs is also wonderfully varied. The bass on Waza-Afriko 76’s “Gbei Kpakpa Hife Sika” is pushed to the fore, whilst the drums on Ios Issufu and His Moslems’ “Kana Soro” could have come from the heavier rock songs of the period. But the highlight has got to be Rob’s flawless “Loose Up Yourself,” which combines delicate guitar and outrageous levels of funk. The tracks on Afrobeat Airways 2 may be billed as rarities, but they nonetheless serve as a great introduction to the genre.

-Joseph Renshaw

Get Scared – Everyone’s Out to Get Me
Fearless Records

The emo of the previous decade was a strange beast. A generation of suburban bands took the sound of pop-punk, the aesthetics of goth rock, and the histrionic poetry from their high school diaries, and created a musical movement that was catharsis for a certain type of angsty teenager, and a useful punchline for everyone else. But that was in 2008. Decades ago in musical microtrend years.

Utah five-piece band Get Scared (Nicholas Matthews, Johnny Braddock, Adam Virostko, and Bradley “Lloyd” Iverson, and Dan Juarez), have apparently missed the bandwagon with their new release Everyone is Out to Get Me. They hail from the slightly goth strain of emo that borrows as much from 1980s metal as it does from hardcore. It’s a combination that’s worked before. The Used and From First to Last traded in similar tropes to great effect. But Get Scared is missing their undertone of real desperation. The vampiric undertones here are more Edward Cullen than Nosferatu.

Out to Get Me isn’t without its pleasures: “For You” is bouncy and pop-y. Like early My Chemical Romance, but maybe with a little added whine. Also erring on the side of accessibility is “Us In Motion,” which aims for big and romantic, with its swelling chorus and ringing wall-of-sound power chords. It’s when they aim to capture strains of depression and vindictive paranoia promised in the album’s title that Get Scared seem to get a bit stale, as if they don’t have much new to say on the subject.

If Out to Get Me had been released between seven and ten years ago, it could have been a bona fide hit, riding the coattails of flashier, more talented acts. But emo has had to evolve. Scene success stories like Fall Out Boy and AFI have made their comebacks recently, but they’ve done so by embracing new influences – hip hop beats and electronic dynamics. Unfortunately, there are no sign of that here.

-Hillary Pasternak

Blood Orange – Cupid Deluxe
Domino Records

Sultry, smooth, synthy, and hypnotic are all adjectives that describe British musician and songwriter Devonté Hynes’ most recent musical creation, the album Cupid Deluxe. With vocals from Samantha Urbani and elements borrowed from various genres – rap, jazz, and disco – the album is cool personified. Released November 18, Cupid Deluxe is part of a profusion of creative endeavours for Hynes; in the past he has written and produced music for artists such as Florence and the Machine and Solange Knowles.

Cupid Deluxe begins with a hypnotic beat and shuffling, reverb-laden percussion, including repeated riffs. Suddenly, suavely, Hynes’ voice pours in the lyrics of “Chamakay.” Next up is “You’re Not Good Enough,” a catchy 1980s funk tune with smooth vocals. Then “Uncle Ace” fills the room with sounds redolent of disco, updated for 2013. Vocals and jazzy saxophone solos combine with disco-inspired riffs to create a musical hodgepodge that can only be described as delicious.

Songs like “No Right Thing” and “On The Line” are more laid back, with the latter offering up a R&B vibe. Smooth saxophone and a woman talking in a French accent update “Chosen,” which might otherwise resemble a 1980s pop ballad. The album takes a digression through rap ballads “Clipped on” and “High Street.” The latter, about gaining inspiration from the streets and persevering on the path of musicianship, is a cleverly worded and intelligent song. The lyrics are most important here, instrumentals serving as a backbone.

Some films make you laugh and cry; this album does the musical equivalent, as it takes you on a genre-instigated tour of an array of feelings. Despite this variety, Blood Orange’s sound is consistently able to captivate.

– Reba Wilson

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It was a Thursday night, and it was improv, but even so, St. Laurent’s The Wiggle Room was really quiet. There might have been 20 people in the room, and about half were professionally involved in one way or another. A shame, certainly, given how cool the venue is, and how passable-to-quite-good the show was. The twist was ostensibly that the night had a wrestling theme to it, hence the event’s name “Rumble in the Wiggle Room,” but in practice it was an improv night like any other. Two teams were given different scenarios and had to wing it. The audience voted for their favourite with either a cow’s ‘moo’ or a chicken’s ‘cockaa.’ Badda bing, badda boom. Done and dusted in an hour and a half.

There were a couple of memorable moments, like when two guys were asked to act out a scene in the style of “contemporary circus.” If such a thing exists, no one in the room knew what it was, and what ensued was a bizarre burlesque mime ending in a thoroughly shoddy upper thigh massage. Another gem was a musical courtroom scene, sung in almost flawless rhyme. The MC had a few good lines too, including “nothing says film noir like keeping a respectful distance.”

The audience voted for their favourite with either a cow’s ‘moo’ or a chicken’s ‘cockaa.’

Otherwise, it was an unremarkable evening, suffering badly from the absence of a crowd for the performers – and other audience members – to feed off. The show also exhibited many of the weaknesses that dog the comedy world nowadays; of the seven performers, only one was a woman, and the obligatory dick jokes abounded. The improvisers even ticked the ‘rape joke’ box; when this was delivered, the MC quickly stepped in, not to nip it in the bud or dilute it, but to applaud and, with an air of wisdom, advise comedians to “always go out on a rape joke.”

While it is a little petty to attack these individual performances, whether these kind of jokes are acceptable or even funny has been an increasingly important issue in the world of comedy, and beyond. There may be something harmless, if cheap, in jokes about dicks and farts, but surely rape jokes are more problematic. The ubiquity of rape jokes in comedy (think Daniel Tosh), as well as defences of these jokes by other comedians (think Anthony Jeselnik) is undoubtedly a factor in deterring potential female comedians. The casual approach to rape as a source of comedic material creates a hostile environment where many comedians – like the MC, apparently – believe a problematic joke is just harmless fun. The ‘politically correct fun police’ is ruining comedy with their willful desire to be offended.

There may be something harmless, if cheap, in jokes about dicks and farts, but surely rape jokes are more problematic.

Somehow, the concept of ‘political correctness’ has become a scapegoat; in comedy, a byword for ‘tame’ or ‘wimpy.’ This is plainly not the truth, and in many ways walking the well-trod paths of dick and rape jokes could hardly be more tame, or more blunt. What is termed ‘political correctness’ is no bad thing, as Stewart Lee, the pre-eminent alternative U.K. comedian, points out: “political correctness is an often clumsy negotiation towards a formally inclusive language; there are problems with it, but it’s better than what we had before.”

To think that comedy cannot be simultaneously edgy and inclusive is also a common misconception. Tackling big issues, such as rape, is in the job description of many good comedians, and to tackle such issues with subtlety and tact (and humour) is a task more fraught with controversy than just recycling bigoted and misogynistic material that has been told, in one form or another, for millennia. Some say that a good joke about rape is a joke about rape culture. The aforementioned rape joke apologist Jeselnik, funnily enough, provides a perfect example: “Two teenagers in Steubenville, Ohio were sentenced to just three years after being found guilty of raping a girl while she was passed out drunk. They actually could have gotten six years in prison, but they weren’t pirating music.” The joke punchline is the broken system, not the victim.

To think that comedy cannot be simultaneously edgy and inclusive is also a common misconception.

So how did all this translate to a simple night of improv? Well, the venue was especially cool, with an awesome cocktail menu and cheap-ish beer – although it is usually a burlesque club, so maybe I wouldn’t wander in. By and large, the improv was not as bad as it perhaps sounds. It wasn’t a barrage of offensive material, but, unsurprisingly, it wasn’t a fountain of thoughtful observations. The world of comedy still has a long way to go.

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Reverend Phil appears on stage, clad in a leather tanktop and aviators. Using the word “fabulous” more than most members of the clergy, he introduces the fancy dress competition. Only one group had prepared for the competition, and after a couple of minutes they are awarded the prize, which is a gift bag of condoms, stickers, and DVDs. The Reverend claims it has a recommended retail price of $20 – a sum not to be sniffed at, considering it’s $20 more than the cost of being ordained by his church (Universal Life Church, with 20 million ministers – including Conan O’Brien – and 18 million members, is an online church that ordains its ministers in a matter of minutes).

The first film of the evening, The Hot, the Bold and the Foxy, features three women riding bikes – though not with a view to transportation, if you get my drift – to an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. What it lacked in coherence, it made up for in mud and lip-licking. Actually, it had one of the clearer narrative arcs of the selection, although Bike Barber took the award for clarity. This second film features a bicycle repair man who has a haircutting fetish, shaving the shaggy head of a man whose bike has a puncture.

The most confusing film was unquestionably We Come In Peace, a 15 minute story of a bike invasion, interspersed with scenes of a man trying unsuccessfully to masturbate. These two strands meet in a Crimes and Misdemeanours-like fashion in the final scene, revealing that the man had become a bikesexual, attracted to the very bikes that will destroy him. Devastating.

The Hot, the Bold and the Foxy was not the only film in which there was a little more mud than strictly necessary. Cypress Against Me had the most tenuous of links to bikes, and consisted mainly of people rubbing mud on each other – and, possibly (the picture was pretty grainy), a woman urinating on a man. Freewheel and Fixie also climaxed in a forest; there must be something about the woods that lends itself to amateur bike-themed pornography. It may be the sustainability, though it’s unclear whether the films have any ideological message at all.

The understated highlight of the night was Nakenger’s Vélorution, where a guy rides recklessly around Lausanne in the nude, followed by a camera and a trail of destruction. It is a shame it wasn’t placed more prominently in the show, being merely a backdrop for Rev Phil’s “fabulous” introductory ramblings. For those interested, the video is on YouTube.

If you didn’t know better, you might think that Bike Smut was born from a night of hard punning. ‘De-railed,’ ‘oiling the chain,’ ‘pumping up tires,’ ‘handlebar maintenance,’ ‘puncture repair kit’ – in the right frame of mind, all become eco-friendly innuendo. Yet despite language’s best efforts, it seems there is something deeply unerotic about bikes. The moment a bike appeared, even the more straight-forward clips (of which, admittedly, there were few) turned instantly to ironic burlesque. The Rev is cycling from city to city on his tour of North America; with his taste for strange combinations like porn and bikes, one suspects he’ll be living on Nutella and brie sandwiches.

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The format of the event is simple. 12 artists, divided into two rounds, have 20 minutes to paint the best thing they can. At the end of each round, the audience votes, and the top two from each round go on to the final. The selected four have another 20 minutes to paint; then the audience votes for the winner.

Thought-provoking questions, like the point of such an activity, or the ramifications of democratizing the judgment of art, are forgotten the instant a man sporting a painted duck on his head floats through the crowd. The room has an industrial-warehouse-trimmed-in-velvet vibe to it, with six blank canvases in the middle. After a time, an announcement is made from the stage to the artists: “prepare your palettes.”

When the painting begins, “art battle” suddenly becomes a more apt title than it first appeared. Hassane Amraoui immediately removes his canvas from the easel and begins to violently slap paint down from above. Others drop their brushes entirely and battle it out with their hands. From the first round, a gothic portrait by an artist who goes by Miss Yad, and a staged lunar landing by Emmanuel Laflamme are picked. The second round of artists are told to prepare their palettes.

In round two, Judith Brisson, while painting a fictional meeting between Bashar al-Assad and Barack Obama, practically hurls her easel at Melissa Montagne, disguising it superbly as a clumsy accident. Eve Laguë’s colourful geometry is countered by the least artistic-looking man in the world – he looks like a surfer who got seriously lost – who is furiously painting his canvas white. Spectators exchange looks of approbation. The Duckhead bobs around in his shiny black and gold dressing gown. Maliciouz, with a painting of an African woman with neck rings, is sent through to the final round. So, too, is Raphaele Bard, who painted a woman’s face in a bright hue, with a hint of the manga around the eyes.

The final round is a close contest, where the artists’ capacity for invention is really tested. Maliciouz paints a couple in flagrante delicto, while Emmanuel Laflamme spends 19 minutes painstakingly drawing a fan, a suspended paint bucket, and a board. Miss Yad again paints with her fingers, this time a swirling portrait, and Raphaele Bard meticulously drafts a more overtly manga-style character. In the final minute Laflamme throws down his canvas, pouring and splashing blue, so by the end paint from the bucket is hitting the fan and rebounding off the board; Maliciouz takes her final erotic strokes, Miss Yad dips her fingers for the last time,  the Bard steps back from the canvas. Art Battle 68 is over.

One by one the spectators drop their tickets into their chosen boxes. After a tense few minutes the winner is announced, without ceremony or cheap delay tactics.

The winner takes to the stage, winning a $100 gift card to spend at the arts and crafts store of their choice. Few battles have had less at stake, fewer still have been fought in the presence of such quantities of velvet, and absolutely none have had participants wearing ducks on their heads – yet a battle it has undoubtedly been. Maliciouz steps gingerly down and poses with her canvas, victorious.

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In a grossly oversimplified nutshell, the campaign for the (Protestant) British Northern Ireland to join the (Catholic) Republic of Ireland has been a divisive issue for well over a century. Often leading to extreme violence, and continuing in a tamer form to this day, the issue has always been politically troublesome.

The defining protests of Maze Prison began in 1976, when inmates who demanded to be treated as prisoners of war (as opposed to common criminals) refused to wear uniforms. This led to prison guards barring them from using toilets, which in turn created the “dirty protests,” where prisoners smeared the cell walls with their own feces.

Wylie’s work includes a long sequence of cell photos, every wall perfectly whitewashed; the only difference between them is the pattern of the curtains. In an introductory talk, Montreal’s Le Mois de la Photo curator, Paul Wombell, spoke about “photographers being witnesses to events,” but in this case, Wylie has arrived 25 years too late, capturing the physical transience of the protest rather than the protest itself. In this instance, though, he also manages to capture a more fundamental horror of imprisonment that goes beyond the experience at Maze.

Unfortunately Wylie’s pictures are not always as successful as the “cell room” photos are. The photographic journey around the “inertia” perimeter wall, for example, is considerably less resonant. (Fun fact: “inertia” is a gravel-filled area between prison walls, designed to sound out movement; a “sterile” area is made of concrete, designed to break the ankles of escapees landing on it.)

Every one of the 26 “stages” of the wall has its own photo. Each photo is taken in the exact same light and shows an identical composition.

Like the “cell room” sequence, what the “inertia” sequence fails to capture is the unique history of the prison. Unlike the cell rooms, it also fails to engage visually. It was through “inertia” and then “sterile” that 38 prisoners managed to escape, after shooting 2 guards, injuring another 20, and causing another to die of a heart attack.

According to Wylie, the feeling viewers experience upon seeing these photos is one of “entrapment” – but in most cases entrapment quickly leads to boredom. Finding evocative photos in an abandoned prison is clearly a difficult task (Wylie should know, he spent 100 days trying), but evidence suggests that it is far from impossible. A concrete chapel surrounded by an unnerving barbed-wire pen is one pre-demolition gem, but most of Wylie’s best photos were taken during the actual demolition process between 2006 and 2008. Good examples include the “Inner Fence” (a huge pile of crumpled fencing), and the half demolished “Perimeter Wall” – both fairly exceptional within the collection, because when stripped of their context they still remain engaging.

For Wylie, photography is “good at description, and bad at experience,” and it’s true that the exhibition largely fails to capture what being in any prison would be like, let alone one as unique as the Maze. The photos also offer no judgement whatsoever on the experiences of those inside the prison, or the wider republican cause.

This objective approach may have something do with Wylie’s own background – the artist was born in 1971 of a Protestant mother and Catholic father. It may also be part of a wider cultural trend; Steve McQueen’s film, Hunger, would make an excellent companion piece to the exhibition. Similarly ambiguous – and actually set in Maze Prison – Hunger deals with the “dirty protest” and IRA member Bobby Sands’ fatal 1981 hunger strike.

At points it seems that Wylie’s goal was one more of reportage than art, something he himself admits to. “To take the photos I had to become a machine, like the prison itself,” explains Wylie. “I fell to the logic of it.”

Donovan Wylie’s exhibit H-BLOCK will run till December 5 in the Octagonal Gallery of the CCA (1920 Baile).

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