Review: Weakerthans at the Burt

I've seen the Weakerthans a fuck of a lot of times. I'm not sure how many exactly, but I remember paying a lot less than the 30+ to sit on the balcony Saturday night. Not that I'm complaining. I think they're a great band, and they've only gotten better. I might go as far as to say that the ticket price is fair and reasonable. After Saturday night, I remain convinced that these guys are one of the premier Canadian acts today. They're sound offers something for everyone and features some outstanding lyrics. Modest frontman John Samson is particularly funny, in his shy, unassuming way. They always seem to sincerely enjoy performing, and they always add something to the show, however small. Whether it's just lifting their guitars in unison, playing their classic (and Propagandhi cover [...yes, I know it was Samson's song then too, motherfucker {...I was trying to share some love. Fuck.}]) Anchorless on 5 mini Casio keyboards, or allowing a young Mexican named Ernesto to bring down the house with a fucking bad-ass guitar solo in the middle of Wellington's Wednesdays (the one song I was particularly hoping to hear. Seriously, what the fuck was the story with that solo anyway? Ernesto?) the Weakerthans have developed into consummate professional entertainers. 

We talked a lot before the show about what they might play Saturday, entertaining the possibility that they would offer a larger cross-section of older songs for the local crowd. As I'd expected, and to my disappointment, they didn't. Playing four staples from Left and Leaving, and just two from the under-represented Fallow (both mentioned earlier), the band stuck to material from their latest two albums. I came home quite pleased despite this fact, but intent on giving Fallow a thorough listening to make up for its unfortunate shunning.

To my surprise, listening to Fallow was like hearing it with new ears. Gone--well, maybe not gone, but fading--was the album that I'd listened to so many years ago, with its pronounced but tasteful punk rock influence, its witty lyrics, its pensive charm. Instead, I heard an album crafted by rookies struggling to define themselves. The desire for folk is present, but the shoes don't fit yet. The songs' punk rock roots bleed through too heavily. The song-writing doesn't come near the caliber that it's at now. Samson's singing is pretty lousy, though not without its charm, and his lyrics still lack a great deal of maturity that he demonstrates in his later work. An example, you say? Fuck off! Just read the lyrics from Fallow and compare them to Reconstruction Site. I'm not writing a goddamn poetry essay.

So all this nonsense got me thinking: (and maybe it's kind of obvious, but I think it bears discussing) the process of beginning a new project does not come naturally. Whether making an early effort to blend folk rock with punk rock, or whether starting some crappy blog that no one reads, the beginning will be rough. You can't be witty and clever and creative and thoughtful and unique without hacking through the growing pains. Samson and the Weakerthans certainly grew into their own. Despite the fact that Fallow is one of my favorites, I understand why they don't play much from it these days: it kinda sucks. 

If Brutus and John and I all manage to stick with this horrendous endeavour for any real length of time, we'll look back on these early posts with disgust, distain, and inevitable embarrassment. Fuck, I'm already embarrassed. We're hacks! But fuck it. If we're ever going to get better at this type of thing, we're going to have to plug through this, hopefully learning a thing or two along the way. It's hard to avoid cliches until you've gotten them out of your system (see the first two sentences of the third paragraph...ugh), you know? I mean, cliches exist for a reason: they're popular. They're common. They're kind of reliable. They're easy to slip into. But sooner or later, with enough content, enough effort, maybe we'll figure it out and put out something half-decent. Or not. Either way, whether writing or rambling on at the Toad, it's a great excuse for a beer or ten.

Rating: 8.5 out of 10--for Ernesto? From Mexico?