WHOOP-Szo/Woodhawk
WHOOP-Szo
Warrior Down // You’ve Changed
November is here again, and the Santa Claus Parade marches down Portage Avenue. Blue Bomber cheerleaders in furlined skirts and Gold Pompoms wave to the crowd from atop their float. Mickey Mouse’s, black polystyrene ears reflect the floodlights.
A passel of red-capped Great West Life employees hand out candy canes to outstretched hands. The red of Tim Hortons cups are dashed with a sprig of seasonal green to celebrate the holidays; small coffees are free today, igniting 40 minute waits and jostling at the Timmie’s near Portage Place. Tom Cochrane’s “Big League” blares from a float.
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Violent assertions are spraypainted- 1323 and CTLK- in red globs onto garage doors. Alleyways have arson-melted recycling bins and trash tangled in the reeds. Youth dash in and out of the shadows, faces covered by bandanas. Young girls in long braids come out of the alley with their heads held high, perky and hungry to be seen, aware of the trash, aware of the glares of the drivers idling behind tinted windows in trucks black as coal at the William and Isabelle intersection.
The wind whips up a flurry of flakes and exhaust fumes.
A thin 20-something man in a trench coat and fingerless gloves grooves to a beat in his head, plunking the keys of an imaginary piano. He wades into traffic without looking. He smiles a self-loathing grin at the biweekly sabotage of a codependent relationship: he’s let down his girlfriend yet again, her ideals sculpted from a privilege that he never had and has always laughed at- her lentils, her parents money, her holding an exhibition of his work. Now he’s headed to drink away her cash, and give himself gut rot.
Drivers look through the tinted windows of their trucks at the scene on the street. They are indignant at the presence of people bumming change on the meridian. Dad grabs the steering wheel, and shakes his head. “Fuck sakes,” he says to himself.
As children we ran with sticks-as-guns towards dad’s pointed camera, as working men we head out with pipe wrench and clipboard to assess and measure the damage. The mechanisms of power and control are passed down.
All the while, spirits are tormented by the shards of broken treaties that confine them.
- JD Ormond
Woodhawk
Violent Nature // Self-Released
Calgary's Woodhawk bring the party with them every time they play. I've seen these boys three times in the past year. Each time they kept getting better. As such, I was growing eager to hear this sophomore release Violent Nature.
I love that the album kicks off with an angry contemplative rager. Who doesn't love a screamed chorus? I love when they double up on the riffing. I love they are yet another Albertan three piece that rips.
Two things should be noted:
Firstly, the album's recording production is a step above their previous release. Even though still recorded and mixed by Jesse Gander, somehow they are able to bring a flow and mix of songs that entertain. The addition of keyboards and the odd sprinkling of acoustic guitar adds a tasteful expansion of the “Woodhawk” riff-laden sound. The maturity of this second release is both somewhat expected and welcomed.
Secondly, Turner Midzain crushes his vocals. He is able to vary his delivery and power effectively. As such, the vocals are brought forward in the mix. I find myself unsuccessfully trying to match him. However, that's what a good rock song should do… make you want to sing/scream along.
Woodhawk should be proud they've managed to create a purposeful, urgent, rock album. It's one of my favorites of the year. I'm rather sure you'll see it on a few lists this coming end of year season. I know a few folks that will get a kick out of this album. I hope that you do. I'm proud to know, and tell people this band is from Alberta.
- Drew Cox
