Crack Cloud/Mother Sun
Crack Cloud
PAIN OLYMPICS // Independent
A crew of Honda riders with gold motorcycle helmets and matching yellow onesies with black stripes down the sides pose in front of their bikes while a classic era boombox in the foreground plays the Jason Nevins remix of “It’s Like That” by Run DMC.
Giant drag queens with platform boots and voluminous fake breasts guard the entrance to the party, and partygoers leave the room fanning sweat off their faces with Sensu.
Hustlers with quotes tattooed on their necks whip out baggies in the line to the bathroom, stoners stand against the wall with their hats pulled low; the graffiti crew who just got off the scaffold comes rushing excitedly down the hall, laughing about the organizer who tried to shut their shit down.
Just inside of the door, a man covered head to toe in silver body paint hoists a woman into the air with his feet into an acrobatic yoga pose, in front of a projection of paisley penises.
“Let the kookums pass!” yells a group of indignant BIPOC activists, clustered together, some with dark eye shadow and others with big afros, while some braided beauties walk through in jingle dresses and up the catwalk to where the local streetwear upstart is photographing a new line of fall fashion models in masks and tight dresses, and the soon-to-be-obsolete glitterati have nervous conversations while teetering on the edge of the velvet rope, and one young fresh faced performer of indeterminate sex wearing a zootsuit tips their top hat to the passersby.
Two young beauties in matching Dickies and Chuck Taylors hand out flyers for an upstart weed dispensary, while just to their left a bashful local politician smiles a beaming smile while his assistant tries to do the impossible: get him back down the packed fire escape to his place at the restaurant below that’s hosting their watershed moment: a tasting of an all-laboratory generated offal, the proceeds of which are going to the Food for Future charity that helps develop lab-generated food for reservations in Northerm Saskatchewan and parts of Alberta.
A young girl clears her throat to sing a traditional ballad to commemorate the occasion, but a glass smashes and two waiters in matching skeleton t-shirts clamour to take care of it, while a third stands behind them with the night’s first hors-d’oeuvres.
“Holy shit!” someone exclaims and the whole lot of diners turns to the window to gawk at a procession of 300 cyclists with red and white uniforms led by a hirsute gentleman on a recumbent bicycle, pulling a trailer with two massive speakers blasting “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie.
The kerfuffle all but drowns out the young girl’s song, but she doubles down and ends in a flourish as her grandmother applauds loyally at her side, but even her parents are distracted by the spectacle, clamouring for space at the window with their cameras in hand.
A group of first year university students walk by gabbing boisterously and turn to face the gawkers by striking heroic and semi-offensive poses and slamming back big swigs of beer.
Across the street, amongst the scene, two egotistical middling artists in their late 30’s get into a screaming match over a trifling miscommunication, and their embarrassed girlfriends pull them apart.
The second band of the night kicks off from the rooftop in a cacophonous 80’s British new wave and post-punk apocalyptic hellfire. A thin man huffing a sock doused with lacquer smiles to himself from behind bleary eyes. “Crack Cloud,” he says.
- JD Ormond
Mother Sun
SIPS // Independent
The psychedelic, lo-fi sounds of Mother Sun’s sophomore album experimentally blend pop, jazz, and rock into a sweet, summery delusion. Comparable to a gulp from an overly sugary drink on a humid day, SIPS leaves listeners feeling both overwhelmed and refreshed.
While at times a shimmery summer pop album, SIPS does not at all hide Mother Sun’s jazzy influences and inspirations, clearly exposing rich guitars, rhythms, and orchestral compositions to give each song its much deserved depth.
SIPS preserves an experimental duality of recognizability and originality. Tracks such as “Lemonade” and “Sucralose” introduce glowing guitar riffs and leading drum lines reminiscent of familiar indie-pop bliss, only to push their brightly ordained sparkling envelopes to reveal rhythms of old-school jazzy synths.
The nostalgic, hypnotic delusion continues throughout the record as tracks such as “Watching Movies” and “Tip of the Iceberg” comfortably break the album’s laid-back summery flow to allow for introspective pauses. “Watching Movies”, the first ‘interruption’, is a piano driven change of pace accompanied by exposed, casual, story-telling vocals that expand into a grandiose composition of theatrical orchestral horns and strings.
Described as an exploration of “excess and moderation through casual internal dialogue and colourful external observations,” SIPS directly addresses overconsumption through both its lyrics and production. The album’s foody singles (“Pizza for Days”, “Lemonade”, and “Sucralose”) tell stories of sunny daydreams of fun nonchalance underscored by darker tales of “watch[ing] groceries decompose right in the fridge”. A kaleidoscopic experience for listeners aching for more but calling for less, the slow (yet still unexpected) growth of each song is guided by strong rhythmic crescendos ultimately leading to the search for a “Happy Medium”.
At first a soothing break from the cool and upbeat “Sea Salt”, the album’s final track “Happy Medium” slowly boils into a vibrant symphonic release of saccharine sounds. With a prominent snare driving the track forward into a bridge of airy flutes and a raw period of orchestral improvisation, “Happy Medium” stands as the much-needed closure for this wavy, psychedelic hallucination of an album— one that elicits an eccentric combination of feelings and holds on tight to the attention of its listeners.
- Jasmyne Eastmond
