ANAGRAM

So I’m sitting in a cozy rehearsal space / basement apartment in Kensington market trying to coax a few lousy digestible soundbites out of the band called Anagram. Lined up on a faded sectional couch in front of me are singer Matt Mason, his brother Willy (guitar), John Schwartz (sax), Chris Taylor (bass), and Clayton Churcher (drums). I always think I can wing these things, and sometimes I can – tonight is not one of those nights. My questions are tired old pieces of crap like “So how did you guys get together as a band?” and “How do you come up with your songs?” mixed with recycled gems about being a young band from Oshawa lifted from a previously published Cuff The Duke interview I did. It’s hot, it’s late, we’ve got camera trouble and my old tape recorder isn’t really picking up any of the mumbles from the couch. I’m not getting paid for this, nobody’s forcing me to do this and I hate doing music interviews at the best of times, and rarely do them. So what am I doing here? Well I guess I’m here because I think Anagram is really good, and they’re responsible for putting a lot of fun back into seeing live music in Toronto.

The first time I saw Anagram, I was wearing a long scraggly rocker wig, tight blue jeans, a lumberjack jacket, and my highschool gym shirt. I’d spent most of the night working the door at this Halloween party. There’d been a lot of buzz around about Anagram and I was excited to see them. They’d played a few shows in Toronto as a part of the Oshawa rooted Suck My Disc Collective and people seemed impressed. I pushed to the front and as they were getting started, and was literally knocked off my feet. The music - a dark rock drone lifted up and scattered around by the guitar and sax. As I got up there the singer twitched off the stage and came crashing down on us, his flat driving chant building in intensity as he stirs things up in the pit. The crowd in the front was going crazy. People were slamming around, shouting along to the music, smiling their heads off and yes actually dancing. I pulled myself off the ground and became an instant fan.

Not a lot has been written about Anagram, probably because people don’t like to write about things unless they have an album that they can put on in the background to inspire forced auditory imagery such as “a dark rock drone lifted up and scattered around by the guitar and sax”, and Anagram’s debut release is just coming out now. I get the sense that their enigmatic status suites them just fine. I ask Matt what their songs are about and he answers, in his usual deep and through gritted teeth manner of speaking - “Absolutely nothing, and that’s all I’m going to say for the rest of my career”.

Mostly what people say about Anagram is that they put on really great live shows and they sound a lot like Joy Division. Both of these things are true, but they’re far from a cover band. There’s something going on there that makes even the most jaded of Gen X snooters nod their wizened old heads and say “Ahhh, now these boys know what they’re up to”. I ask them about the Joy Division comparison and Matt puts on his best poker face.

“Who’s Joy Division?”

“Yeah right, nice try. I saw one of their posters in the shitter.”

“Well if they’re your favorite band for six or seven years, something’s bond happen.”

“Fair enough. Now your live shows get pretty wild with Matt diving and rolling around on the floor and taking some beats from a crowd. What’s the secret with getting Toronto so riled up?”

“From my perspective all I have to do is fall around and shake my limbs a lot.”

“For you on stage, do you ever get worried about what’s happening with him down there in the crowd?”

“We never really notice.” Willy chuckles. “Apparently one time a friend of ours saw someone through a bunch of screws or nails or something on the ground to try to fuck Matt up.”

“Yeah, I’ve had people kick me in the head before…I’ve also kicked people in the head.”

It’s funny that even in the relatively small and insular Toronto indie-rock community, little myths and legends can spring to life. One such fable is the one concerning Matt Mason’s black eye, which was featured on the cover of Wavelength several months back. I ask Matt for his version of the story.

“I was a little short on a quarter and I really needed to phone my work, cause I was going to be late. I saw this homeless guy who I thought was sleeping at the time. He had this cup of change so I reached down, figuring he wouldn’t even know a quarter was missing. He woke up, grabbed my arm and socked me one in the eye.”

“Now what’s the real story?”

“He got beat up by a girl,” his loyal band-mates chip in.

“I was doing karaoke at Sneaky Dees but the machine was busted so there was no music on. These four girls started heckling me. I didn’t like that so I while I was flailing around I knocked all of their drinks and their ashtray off of their table. They started throwing things at me and got thrown out of the club. They waited for me outside and when I left they cornered me in this doorway, and one girl punched me in the face. They were seriously angry. “

I ask Willy if he thinks that the band could survive a tour.

“If we can live down here in Toronto, I think we could survive a tour.”

“We’re the most indifferent people you’ll ever meet.” Matt adds, “We just don’t care. We’ll take it.”

We’ll see what happens when the band’s debut album hits the merch tables. They’ve taken some chances with it, but I think it worked out pretty good. They recorded the whole thing on 8-track in the very apartment that I’m now sweating in. I’m reviewing the tape as Katia sets up the new camera and I’m cursing my ineptitude as an interviewer - wondering how I’m going to bang out an article. Willy picks up on this and offers me a grin. “Just write about the music, man.” Great. Thanks. I’m so good at that.

Suddenly, a strange smell fills the room. In an attempt to create an interesting visual, Matt has rubbed plum sauce on his face. All of the sauce has soaked into his skin, leaving behind a glowing red rash and a curious stench. True to form, Matt shrugs, takes off his shirt and begins doing rock-kicks as the camera snaps away. Ahhh, everything’s going to turn out after all.

STEVE McKAY