Live, In Review: Sled Island 2024 (Part 1)
Edmonton’s VERTTIGO; photo by Josiah Snell
Live, In Review:
Sled Island 2024
(Part 1)
By: Josiah Snell
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Sled Island looms large in Western Canada’s music scene. Even on the other side of the Rockies, the Tuesday to Sunday music festival has a reputation as the go-to for eclectic and interesting lineups. I’ve wanted to go to Sled for years. Urban music festivals are a special thing, a kind of crash course in a city’s culture and arts scene. Hopping around from venue to venue, discovering amazing bands and meeting fantastic people, exploring a new city and pounding the streets from 4pm to 1am every day, surviving on sandwiches and beer. Is there a better way to spend a week?
Day 1
Vancouver to Calgary is a shorter flight than I remember. With the time zone change we land 45 minutes after we took off. My Uber driver spends the entire ride into the city listing every single remotely famous (or fame-adjacent) person he’s had in his car and what seat they sat in. Tells me “hindsight is 50/50.” Too hungry to correct him. He drops me fifteen minutes from my Airbnb because it’s “easier for him.” I haven’t been in Calgary in over a decade.
My Airbnb is right across from the Bow river, and right next to (what I’m told is) Calgary’s best Bánh mì spot: “Thi Thi.”
Sandwich in one hand, 24-pack of Old Milwaukee in the other. If it's true that “well begun is half done,” this week is shaping up to be a weird one.
The Airbnb entrance instructions are complicated enoughy to make Dan Brown say, “hey, that's a bit much” (does that joke land? Do people still remember The DaVinci Code? I hate getting old). It takes twenty minutes of punching codes into disguised boxes, collecting hidden keys, swiping at unmarked card readers, and dodging self-flagellating cultists (screw it, I'm doubling down on the joke) before I can finally get into the apartment. When I do, I’m greeted by an antiseptic white space, randomly strewn with hotel decor and lit by a truly bizarre amount of overhead lighting. Just inside the apartment door a glitter-coated painting assures me “Home is where the love is.” From the entrance, I can see a pointillist Eiffel Tower, a rain streaked photograph of Time Square, and a reproduced oil painting of a wagon.
An hour later, clean, rested, and fuelled by Old Mill and a burning desire to not spend one more minute in the waiting room from hell, I head out for my first Sled Island shows.
Sled Island runs from Tuesday night to Sunday night, with bars, breweries, record stores, coffee shops, the Legion, a church, and a theatre all playing host to a range of musicians spanning genres and styles (although it becomes a running joke over the course of the week that every band on the festivals schedule is listed as either “Experimental” or “Shoegaze”).
I make it to Central United Church in time to hear the last couple songs from Thanya Iyer. Gorgeous, warm music that swells and fills the space. The crowd is reverential, bursting into a standing ovation as she finishes.
Slauson Malone 1 (aka Jasper Marsalis) takes the stage to a sound like syncopated raindrops. Accompanied only by a cellist and his own guitar and computer, his set is a real journey. A strange, shouty, droning, avant-garde experience that involves him storming off stage to ask audience members “what time is it?!” The loud background sound of a clock ticking sets my teeth on edge. His set culminates in a song dedicated to “the person closest to me in the whole world, who was just diagnosed with cancer.” Under a projected picture of him gripping her wrinkled hand, Jasper pours out his grief, and rage, and fear. First full act of the day, and it’s going to be hard to beat.
Trying to shake off the heaviness of that show, but still in a daze, I head a block away to the Legion for Ryan Bourne and the Plant City Band. Ryan Bourne is obviously chewing gum through the entire set. A flautist in this day and age feels like a real power move. A solid fun set.
Friends who grew up in Calgary have told me all about the Legion, and it doesn’t disappoint. A large main room with tables along the back and outside edges. The upstairs smells like cat piss. The so-called DeLorean Lounge is accessed through the promised “Pizza ATM” (the week’s biggest let down is finding out it’s just a large ATM-styled structure over the doorway, insert a card and and a volunteer swings the door open and gestures to the free pizza line). Full of pool tables, hammocks, and the single largest fan I’ve ever seen in my life, the lounge is a great escape.
Blume kicks off upstairs, a dreamy, soothing, lush set that mostly distracts from the smell of sweat.
Downstairs, the always delightful Aladean Kheroufi delivers a festival-best performance, guiding the audience on what he assures us will be an “educational experience.” Such a charismatic performer, dancing and gliding across the stage, all jazzy and intimate. A lot of these songs are about sleeping, or dreaming, or being tired. So smooth though, like buttered silk. A little later, Ginger Beef is whipping the crowd into a frenzy for Zamrock legends, W.I.T.C.H. One of the best drummers I’ll see all week, the the band is a tight, polished package. Lead singer rips a mosh-worthy flute solo. W.I.T.C.H. hits the stage for a sold-out house. Even missing one of the two remaining original members, they put on an incredible performance, decadent keys, syrupy guitar, and lithe percussion all weaving into a dense psych-rock tapestry.
I duck out before the end of their set, heading down the block to Palomino Smokehouse for some food and one last band. By the time I’m done eating there’s a line to get downstairs for The Serfs. Before long I’m sardine-packed in a crowd of dudes with moustaches. The Serfs are electric, a blazing, synthy, post-punk delight. The crowd is wild enough to bring them back for an encore (which the lead singer assures us they never do), and the band drops right into an amazing cover of Electric Avenue that blows the roof off the place.
Day 2
It’s fully afternoon by the time I finally make it out for coffee. Walking along the river path, sun blasting me right in the face, I can’t help but look longingly at the river. My Uber driver the day before told me not to swim in the river because it’s “too fast” and I’ll “drown immediately.” Can’t speak to the accuracy of those claims, but I’d be willing to test them if it gets much hotter.
I spend a few hours meandering along the river, stopping briefly to tithe 10 percent of my blood to the sparrow-sized mosquitoes in Prince’s Island Park. The weather is ridiculous: blazing sun one minute, thunderstorm the next. I can only assume this is normal, since the locals don’t seem fazed by it. I see a woman in a full parka walk past a man in shorts. They nod to each other as if to say “hey, neither of us is wrong.”
I end up across town at Sloth Records for the first shows of the day. Early enough to grab a chicken parm sandwich, side of parmesan fries, and handful of beers (hold the parmesan). One of the best things so far is seeing people around wearing Sled wristbands. Nods of mutual recognition and shared good music taste. Is this what the Masons feel like all the time? Think I finally get the appeal.
Back across the street at Sloth, there’s a lineup down the stairs, and I can hear Bennett Mitchell starting. I spend the first three quarters of his set watching through a tiny gap in the railing, before enough people leave for me to get upstairs. It’s immediately obvious there was more than enough room for everyone to fit in here, but a group are sitting sprawled on the floor at the front, occupying a full third of the space. In the corner next to the cleared out area that serves as the stage, a stage hand is trying his best to stop a speaker from falling into the crowd. The rest of the set is wonderful, Bennett has a easy charm to him, laughing off mistakes and hiccups like they’re all part of his show.
Emilie Kahn is up next with her harp (I’m a real sucker for a harp, always have been). Beautiful, warm, soft music that unfortunately conspires with my post-food exhaustion to put me into a trance. I stay for as much of it as I can, and then it’s on to Modern Love to catch the back half of Bluffing on the rooftop patio. Great summer shoegaze band, perfect level of energy to keep the crowd involved, but not enough to risk dehydration. The disco ball in the centre of the patio flashes rhythmically in my eyes.
It’s not even 6 and I feel like I’m on the edge of sleep.
I run for home, pass out the moment I touch bed, and come-to three hours later.
I scan the schedule in a panic to see who I missed. A couple of groans, nothing too bad. I shower and change at speed, and make it to the Legion by 9:30. There’s noticeably more energy here than yesterday. Guess it isn’t surprising Cherry Glazerr is bringing out a different crowd than W.I.T.C.H. Quick stop off in the DeLorean Lounge for pizza and pool. Nutrients is playing on the upstairs stage, VERTTIGO is starting downstairs, and the lounge speakers are blasting 80s hits. The combination does nothing good for my post-nap daze.
Downstairs watching VERTTIGO. The three men in the band are genuinely indistinguishable long-haired rockers. Triplets? The lead singer has fantastic stage presence, drawing the crowd in and building them to a fever pitch. Afterwards I make the mistake of trying to see Laughing upstairs. It’s like an oven. An oven filled with sweat. Not as good of a combination as you might think. What I hear of Laughing sounds like the most “indie rock” indie rock band of the festival so far. The crowd loves it.
The big question of the night is whether to stick it out at the Legion for Cherry Glazerr, or risk heading across town to Dickens for Soul Glo (the one band everyone has been talking about all day). I waffle back and forth all night, even though I’m pretty aware I’m going to end up staying where I am. Which I do.
The crowd is packed for Cherry Glazerr, erupting the moment they take the stage. It’s a really solid show. No notes. Cherry Glazerr are pretty much exactly as advertised: cool and confident and in-tune with the crowd. Hard not to wish they were a little more energetic, but the crowd is on board anyway.
I skip out on the end of their set to head to Palomino again, hoping to catch some of Death Valley Girls. Line to get downstairs again, quicker than yesterday at least. DVG are already on stage, the lead singer thanking the crowd for coming out since, “when you think about it, the nicest thing you can do for someone is take your whole entire body somewhere for them.” Weird phrasing, but can’t argue with the message. They put on a fun show, fairly heavy, but fun lyrics and bouncy energy.
On my walk home a jackrabbit bolts across the street in front of me (editor’s note: it was definitely a hare). Is that good luck?
Day 3
The day the chickens come home to roost. I wake up like a lead balloon and spend the next 8 hours watching Arnold Schwarzenegger movies and eating cookies.
It’s getting dark by the time I recover enough to head out again. My only real mission for the night is to catch Mick Jenkins at the Palace Theatre, and I’ll be damned if I let the consequences of my own actions stand in the way of that.
It’s the weekend now, and the city is bumping. Oilers jerseys everywhere (no sign of Monday’s quickly approaching heartbreak). The Palace is like someone combined a seedy nightclub and an upscale theatre into a bizarre frankenvenue (I haven’t bothered to check, but that might be exactly what happened).
The crowd is different from anything I’ve experienced at Sled so far, the majority of the people seem to be here just for Mick Jenkins, and it shows. A group of no-spatial-awareness jabronis slowly edge their way in front of me, arms wrapped tightly around their dates like they’re scared they’ll slip away at the first chance.
Sargeant X Comrade are on stage when I arrive, a groovy soul vibe that has the crowd dancing. Each member of the band is a different kind of cool: there’s a greaser, a skater, a hipster, a cowboy. It’s eclectic but I love it. Not a long wait between acts. Edmonton-based rapper Mouraine sprints on stage in an Oilers jersey, launching right into his high-energy set. He’s a fantastic performer, and solid rapper with interesting lyrics and an easy flow. The crowd though. The crowd is maybe half on his side.
But by the end of his set, he’s won them over just in time for Mick, who blows the roof off the theatre. Is there anything better than a rapper with a live drummer? Adds such an energy and richness to the performance. And his drummer is particularly good, gliding along the beat, punctuating the flow, and occasionally erupting into ripping drum solos. Mick’s catchphrase is apparently “Drink more water!” And he never misses a chance to shout it. Two thirds of the way through the set he finally explains that, as much as he values hydration, the water he’s talking about is truth. Looking at the sweat-drenched crowd I feel like hydration might be more immediately urgent. He’s a great performer though, confident and engaging, and the crowd loves it. I see more than one guy sweatily scream-rapping along to every song.
Outside, a guy walking past me asks, “there’s four women for every man in Calgary, what’s your excuse?” I try to point out he’s alone too, but he’s already stumbling away. Hit and run I guess.
Palomino Smokehouse next for Bile Sister, the only show that approaches Slauson Malone 1 levels of aggressive oddness. It amazing. The lead singer screams and sways across the stage, short enough that all I can see over the crowd is her cowboy hat and flailing arms. It’s a surreal and entrancing experience, strangely set in the middle of the busy smokehouse. A family sits eating pulled pork at the table nearest the stage. The parents look to be in physical pain, but the kids love it, trying to drag their parents to the front.
Back over to the Legion for the last show of the night (my bed is like a magnet, I can feel it waiting for me). The crowd is decent, but definitely lighter than the past two nights. Juana Molina is obviously talented but unfortunately low energy for a Friday night. Her songs have a habit of building slowly to a peak, and then starting all over again for the next one. I bow out before the encore.
On the walk home I can’t stop wondering about how the body of water a city is built on affects it’s culture and identity. Are river cities different than ocean cities? I’m pretty solidly stoned at this point, thankfully I don’t have far to go.
Smash to black.
Day 4
I wake up early, refreshed and revitalized. A quick jaunt to a coffee shop and then it’s off to Dandy Brewing for some afternoon shows. The past few days I’ve seen a lot of people ripping around on those electric scooters, weaving around pedestrians and blasting through red lights. It seems like a great time, and I figure the trip into Inglewood along the river is the perfect test run. It’s concerningly easy to find and rent a scooter, and it only takes a few minutes before I’m off down the trail, passing bikes with the easy nonchalance of someone exerting zero physical effort to travel.
It takes fifteen minutes to reach Dandy Brewing by scooter, absolutely obeying any and all traffic laws along the way. Inglewood is immediately my favourite part of Calgary. A brewery on every block, cleverly named restaurants on every corner, and more thrift-store outfits than you can shake a stick at. Dandy is packed when I arrive (am I allowed to just leave this scooter on the grass? What are the rules?). Vancouver locals WUT come on stage, fun pop-punk energy and the perfect music for what is turning out to be an absolute scorcher of a day. Dandy is dishing out big ol’ slices of pizza and crisp sleeves of beer (with a tasty little discount for Sled attendees), and the atmosphere is straight up boisterous.
A group of Cups N Cakes writers (current and former) meet up for some pitchers, comparing favourite acts and sharing stories. There’s a palpable haze of happy exhaustion over the group, conversations already turning to the week ahead. Work, the Oilers game on Monday, back to real life and responsibility. One more night though, and it’s shaping up to be a big one, with Sled guest curators, Show Me the Body finally taking the stage.
Ducking out a bit early, I meet up with a Calgary friend for food and beer (Cold Garden is a madhouse, quite possibly the busiest brewery I have ever seen, great beer and atmosphere though), and then it’s back on a scooter and weaving (less soberly) towards home.
After a quick refresh (and a nap, I swear I never nap, but this week is doing it to me), I’m back at the Legion watching LOOK ALIVE tear it up for a small crowd. Feels like a waste, they’re great and would kill with a different crowd. L4ZR GR1D take the MainStage next and boy, if I didn’t already have a headache. Their set (what I can handle before I have to escape outside) is a wall of noise: absolutely brutal. Which, you know, is probably exactly what they’re going for. Just not my thing, especially after three straight days of music. The building is full and getting fuller now. In the alley smoke pit, three guys are trying to sweet talk the bouncer into letting them in without tickets. Sweet talk being used loosely here. Their strategy seems to be convincing the bouncer that “having tickets” and “being outside” are arbitrary concepts that he has the power to dissolve. I’d bet money at least one of them owns a dog-eared and bookmarked copy of The Game. Show Me the Body start up before I can see how this saga unfolds.
Inside it’s the busiest I’ve seen it. Wall to wall people. Sweaty grinning sardines. The show starts with a bang, the crowd going absolutely berserk. There’s a near constant stream of stage divers, and the mosh pit quickly swells to fill the space. The room is like an oven, the air hanging hot and heavy. It’s like breathing soup. Sweat-sour soup. It’s worth it though. The New York post-hardcore energy is rampant, every member of the band shredding through the set, whipping the crowd into a full on frenzy. There’s a constant stream of fresh-faced innocents heading into the pit and bruised and battered veterans leaving it. No lull or dip to be found, just an hour of ferocious noise breaking like waves over the crowd.
I escape, sweat-soaked and grinning, into the cool night air. Down the street Palomino tempts me with one more show, but the ringing in my ears says enough is enough. Back home one last time, past the giant glowing mesh head outside The Bow tower. Like a cyberpunk mega-corp brought to life. Fascinating and terrifying at the same time.
I stop to sit by the river before heading to bed. It feels like I only just touched down in this city, the past few days flew by like the last week of summer. I’m exhausted, and honestly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of amazing music crammed into such a short period. Sled more than lived up to the hype. A one-of-a-kind festival absolutely worth making a trip for, and one of the best weeks I’ve had in years. Tomorrow it’ll be back to Vancouver, to the mountains and the sea, back to work and responsibility, back to real life. For now though, I bask in the afterglow.
I don't remember going to bed.