Broken Social Scene at Soundscapes, Toronto, May 9 2010. Adrian Smith photo

We live in a post-Garden State world, where the the indie-rock romantic comedy has become its own sub-genre. These movies typically involve awkward, nerdy flirtation between characters wearing hooded sweatshirts who bond over the Shins/the Smiths/infinite playlists. Oh, and Michael Cera is usually the male lead.

This Movie Is Broken looks to take that concept to the next level, as director Bruce McDonald combines a romance between twentysomethings Bruno (Greg Calderone) and Caroline (Georgina Reilly) with live footage from Broken Social Scene’s concert at Harbourfront Centre last July. Caroline, who Bruno has been in love with since childhood, is moving to Paris in 24 hours, so their relationship plays out over a single day, as the two make their way to the concert and attempt to finagle their way backstage with some help from Bruno’s friend Blake (Kerr Hewitt). This story is set against the real-life drama of the Toronto civic strike, with images of garbage piled high in parks setting a vaguely apocalyptic backdrop for their doomed romance.

The film rarely stays on the protagonists for longer than a few minutes at a time, frequently cutting back and forth between them and the show. As the concert picks up steam and the clock winds down on the couple’s relationship, less and less time is devoted to the characters, with some of the film’s climactic scenes playing out as a series of quick cuts between the band and Caroline and Bruno.

What becomes clear as This Movie is Broken goes on is that the storyline is secondary to the concert footage. Nothing that the lovers do can match the intensity of watching well over a dozen musicians on stage, with Broken Social Scene’s core members joined by star-studded collaborators Feist, Emily Haines, Amy Millan, Jason Collett and more. The ensemble plays a selection of back catalog cuts as well as songs that would later appear on this year’s Forgiveness Rock Record (watch Brendan Canning go ballistic with headbanging and showgirl kicks on “Meet Me in the Basement”). The band members also play a handful of songs from members’ solo releases, with Feist taking the lead for stripped-down versions of “Past in Present” and “I Feel It All.”

Ultimately, This Movie Is Broken is more akin to a long-form music video than your average indie rom-com. The storyline doesn’t really matter, and the characters’ struggles are simply a vehicle to give the songs some emotional heft. This helps the film to succeed where other concert documentaries fail: it puts the concert in context, setting it against a backdrop of civic and personal conflict. As any music fan knows, a great show doesn’t begin when the musicians take the stage and end after the encore – it’s also about the venue, your concert companions and your emotional state. So even if it comes up a little short as a romance, the film’s ability to capture the extraneous situations that make up the concertgoers’ experience means that this is a must-see for indie rock fans.

Photo gallery – Broken Social Scene playing various Toronto record stores, 09.05.10 (photographer: Adrian Smith)

“This is a little awkward for me because, like I said, I’m short a band tonight.” And that, in a nutshell, was Atlas Sound’s performance on Friday night at the Biltmore.

These words, mumbled by singer-songwriter Bradford Cox, came halfway through a disastrous set, in which Cox struggled to contend with a talkative audience, many of whom seemed to be waiting for co-headliner Broadcast to take the stage. Given that he is used to performing as part of the atmospheric punk outfit Deerhunter, Cox was understandably rattled by the chatty crowd during his unaccompanied acoustic performance.

Still, there’s no excusing the utter shitstorm that ensued. Cox had several tantrums during the set, berating the crowd and comparing the performance to “working in a mall and being covered in fucking vomit.” Despite his ranting, the talking went on unabated, prompting Cox to yell at the audience to “shut up” because “the loud-ass fucking chatter is drowning me out.” And, after one concert-goer heckled him to stop talking and play a song, Cox responded “Why don’t you come up here and suck my fucking dick?”

Bradford Cox of Atlas Sound at the Biltmore Cabaret, Oct 30 2010. Jon Healy photo

It was a bit like watching a car crash continuously for 90 minutes. When the frazzled singer actually got around to playing a song, the results were enjoyable enough. “Walkabout” held up well in stripped-down form, harmonized guitar loops and pulsing swells of ambience replacing the upbeat bounce of the studio cut. “My Halo” was even more bare-bones, its simple strumming and wheezing harmonica sounding closer to Bob Dylan than the electronic atmospherics that Cox is usually known for. Still, it was tough to fully appreciate any of it, due to the tension that hung over the entire evening.

Close to the end of the set, Cox attempted to make peace with the devotees in the front row by playing “Shelia” on request. Still, the sentiment seemed a little empty when he ended the song by croaking, “Justice is coming for you, you fucking cunts.” He wrapped up the set with the title track off the recently-released Logos, after which he regaled the crowd with nearly a minute of facetious thank-yous. It was a fittingly painful end to a nightmare of a set, but I suppose it could have been worse – at least he didn’t play an encore.

The Dodos‘ latest release, Time to Die, is being pegged as their “mature” album, favouring as it does texture and melody over the frenzied energy of their early work. Anyone concerned that the Dodos have gone soft, however, had their doubts put to rest on Monday night, as the San Francisco trio delivered an energized set to a jam-packed Biltmore.

The performance began with a raucous version of “Paint the Rust”, with singer/guitarist Meric Long firing off slide riffs as his vocals alternated between a deep croon and a strangled yelp. Behind him, drummer Logan Kroeber pounding out thundering beats, while newcomer Keaton Snyder thrashed away at a battered-looking garbage can.

The Dodos at the Biltmore, Oct 26 2010. Jessica Bardosh photo

Not all of the set was quite so unhinged as the first song. “Two Medicines” was chugging and robotic, while “Fables” was so sweetly catchy that it could have almost passed for a nursery rhyme. The stage lights were turned off for a haunting take on “Troll Nacht”, during which the Dodos were only visible by the green and blue lights tied around their wrists. Much of the tune was based around Snyder’s plunking vibraphone, although God knows how he could see what he was doing in the dark.

The Dodos ended the night on the same frenzied note it began, blazing through the blog favourite “Fools” before launching into an epic version of “The Season”. During the latter, Long joined Kroeber on percussion, and helped hammer out an extended tribal jam before returning to guitar for a breathtaking coda. It showed that, even though the Dodos’ new album is quieter than their last, they still know how to rock as hard as ever.

Logan Kroeber of the Dodos at the Biltmore, Oct 26 2010. Jessica Bardosh photo

New Zealand trio the Ruby Suns, who charmed the crowd by explaining that Canada is to the USA as New Zealand is to Australia (”and Australia sucks!”), opened the evening. The three members switched off between guitars, percussion and synthesizers, and their sunny Afro-pop style sounded like a cross between Graceland and Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavilion. With burbling, electronic ambience mixing with summery melodies and pulsing dance beats, don’t be surprised if the group’s upcoming album (due out early next year) earns them a bigger following on this side of the Pacific.

Two Hours Traffic’s latest album, Territory, has been billed by some as the group’s “dark” record, a label that even the band members themselves acknowledge is a misnomer. Still, when it comes to a sunny pop rock act like Two Hours Traffic, darkness is a relative term. Certainly, there was nothing remotely creepy or disturbing about the Charlottetown quartet’s performance on Thursday night at the Biltmore.

It may have been pouring rain outside, but the atmosphere inside the Biltmore was pure summer, as the band opened with a trio of its catchiest, most upbeat songs: “Territory”, “Nighthawks” and “New Love”. The latter, a cut from 2006’s Isolator EP, is as ebullient as anything the band has ever written, and its choppy guitars and ebullient synth riffs earned one of the biggest cheers of the night – especially impressive considering most of the audience didn’t seem to know what the song was. (For the love of God, someone please convince the band to put this tune on an LP.)

Two Hours Traffic at the Biltmore, Oct 1 2009. Jon Healy photo

Aside from the odd cursory comment from lead singer Liam Corcoran about the new album and the occasional thank you, Two Hours Traffic didn’t interact with the audience much. Bassist Andrew MacDonald wore a retro Canucks shirt (the orange/yellow skate logo), but that’s as much as any of the musicians bothered to pander to the audience. Mostly, they just raced from one pop gem to the next, making sure to hit all of the highlights from their past two albums. The rollicking, quasi-country gallop of “Sure Can Start” was a standout, its bubblegum groove giving way to a crashing, dramatic breakdown.

The good vibes subsided slightly mid-set with a back-to-backing pair of the band’s two worst songs, the over-earnest “Just Listen” and the syrupy “Stolen Earrings”. Thankfully, the group rescued the performance by following up these two duds with the best song of the night, the blistering, Strokes-indebted single “Stuck for the Summer”.

Two Hours Traffic at the Biltmore, Oct 1 2009. Jon Healy photo

Nearing the end, the band toned it down with “I Did What I Could”, an extended version of the 30-second snippet that appears on Territory. An adaptation of an old folk song by Oscar Brand, its touching lyrics and delicate arrangement were enough to make listeners wish the full version had been included on the album. This was followed by the searing fuzz-rocker “Happiness Burns”, its biting guitar chords paired with sweetly jangling leads and gorgeous, sunburnt harmonies. It wasn’t exactly dark – especially not with lyrics about “daffodils in your eyes” – but it did provide a touch of grit otherwise missing from the cheery performance.

Two Hours Traffic at the Biltmore, Oct 1 2009. Jon Healy photo

If Two Hours Traffic was lacking in weirdness, the same cannot be said about opener Spiral Beach. The band members walked on stage looking like extras from a Siouxsie and the Banshees video, with singer Maddy Wilde dressed like a rag doll and sporting a massive pink bow in her even huger hair. Guitarist Airick Woodhead, meanwhile, resembled a bleach blonde Nick Zinner, while bassist Dorian Wolf had a pompadour and mutton chops.

Tearing through a series of cuts from the newly released The Only Really Thing (sic), the Toronto band mixed punkish new wave with Eastern-inflected melodies and bizarre forays into carnival music. Blood red stage lights set the tone for “May Go Round (in a Mania)”, a psychotic goth rocker with distant, echoed vocals. The set closed with “Cemetery”, which resembled a spiky, guitar-heavy version of Blondie’s “Call Me”. As Wilde walked over to Woodhead and calmly placed a traffic cone on his head, it was clear that no one would be forgetting the name Spiral Beach anytime soon.

Spiral Beach at the Biltmore, Oct 2 2009

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Concert review – Two Hours Traffic at the Royal Albert Arms, Winnipeg, 24.09.09 (author: eugene osudar)

Concert review – Two Hours Traffic at Music Trader, Winnipeg, 06.10.09 (author: eugene osudar)

Pink Mountaintops‘ latest full-length, Outside Love, is a sonically gorgeous album, its string-heavy arrangements as lush and romantic as the satin sheets pictured on the cover. Replicating the songs live would be difficult under any circumstances, but during Sunday night’s hometown performance at the Rickshaw Theatre, the Vancouver band faced a slew of technical difficulties that made it damn near impossible.

The sound at the Rickshaw was a murky mess, the six musicians proving too much for the converted cinema’s PA system. The stage monitors weren’t working for the first few songs and even once that problem was fixed, the set was punctuated by squeals of feedback. To add insult to injury, frontman Stephen McBean broke three guitar strings during the performance; by the end of the evening, he had enlisted a fan to help restring his guitar. This perhaps explains why McBean seemed a little grumpy throughout the set; then again, the hirsute singer has never exactly been talkative.

Pink Mountaintops at the Rickshaw Theatre, Sept 27 2009. Jessica Bardosh photo

Despite this bevy of setbacks, McBean and co. still managed to pull off an enjoyable performance. The band wasn’t able to top the majesty of Outside Love, but it still offered a compelling reminder of what makes the album so good. Slow, thundering toms propelled “Vampire” to a sublime climax with five-part harmonies that even the muddy sound couldn’t ruin. “Closer to Heaven” was similarly stunning, a sawing violin evoking (although not quite replicating) the grandeur of the studio cut.

With hazy, pinkish lighting and a white screen backdrop, the stage looked a little bit like the back cover of The Velvet Underground & Nico (minus the huge, creepy projection of Lou Reed’s face). This fit the dark, psychedelic undertones of Pink Mountaintops songs like “I (F*ck) Mountains,” a looming waltz laced reverb-soaked guitar leads. “Sweet ‘69″ was similarly hypnotic, a two-chord vamp with stuttering, machine-gun rhythms and steamy, thinly-veiled lyrics (”Sweet ‘69 /Let me wrap my legs around you”). Unlike the material from Outside Love, these older songs sounded much better than the versions that appeared on the group’s early, home-recorded albums. Perhaps with a better mix, all of the songs could have fared as well.

Pink Mountaintops at the Rickshaw Theatre, Sept 27 2009. Jessica Bardosh photo

The evening was opened by local garage blues duo the Pack A.D. With only a guitar, drums and vocals, the group’s minimalist style was much better suited to the limitations of the venue’s PA. While the band’s ferocity has never quite translated on its albums, its live show is something to behold: singer Becky howls and shrieks like a woman possessed, while drummer Maya Miller makes a terrific racket without ever losing the groove. The pair’s songs bear a more-than-passing similarity to the White Stripes:”Blackout” is almost identical to the breakdown of “When I Hear My Name”, while “Don’t Have to Like You” cribs its riff from “Goin’ Back to Memphis”, a Henry and June cover that the White Stripes frequently perform live. Still, so long as Meg is laid up with acute anxiety and Jack is busy with his innumerable side projects, the Pack A.D. are well worthy of taking up the blues-rock torch.

The Pack A.D. at the Rickshaw Theatre, Vancouver, Sept 27 2009. Jessica Bardosh photo

Fans who purchased a ticket for the Dead Weather’s show on Friday night probably thought they were going to see just another Jack White side project. Indeed, walking into the Commodore Ballroom, it seemed to have all the hallmarks of a Jack White production: copies of his new solo single, “Fly Farm Blues”, were on sale at the merch booth, while dapper, fedora-sporting roadies milled about on stage. There was a smattering of White Stripes and Raconteurs shirts in the audience, and there were even some misdirected cheers when, a few minutes before the show, a pasty-faced drum tech came out to make some last-minute adjustments.

Once the set began, however, it was clear: this was the Alison Mosshart Show. White may be a megastar, but his presence behind the drums seemed almost incidental compared Mosshart’s snarling vocals and magnetic stage presence. The frontwoman, who got her start with the skuzzy garage-electro duo the Kills, overshadowed White figuratively as well as literally, spending most of the set prowling around the front of the stage, lurching and swaying like one of the zombies from “Thriller”. With her black hair matted across her face, she stroked and gyrated around her mic stand; it couldn’t have been any more erotically suggestive if it were stripper pole.

Alison Mosshart with the Dead Weather at the Ottawa Bluesfest, July 19 2009. Ming Wu photo

The show began with “60 Feet Tall” which, unlike the aimless rambling of the studio take, thundered with jarring start-stop drums and searing guitar fuzz. Mosshart climbed on top of the monitors to scream the song’s chilling chorus, “I can take the trouble/I’m 60 feet tall.” With one arm extended high above her head, she could have easily passed for 100 feet tall.

Mosshart and co. proceeded to tear through most of the tracks featured on their debut album, Horehound, including a ragged version of the Bob Dylan cover “New Pony” that upped the ante on the already-menacing recorded cut. A few songs later, Mosshart took up a strange, box-shaped guitar for a stunning rendition of “So Far From Your Weapon”, its woozy, warbling verses giving way to a fist-pumping chorus. Throughout, bassist Jack Lawrence provided his usual solid accompaniment while Dean Fertita doubled on guitar and keyboards, offering up a noisy, tremolo-laden solo during “Bone House” that was downright twisted.

Dead Weather at Ottawa Bluesfest. Photo by Ming Wu.

The lucky recipient of Mosshart’s attentions, however, was Jack White, who came out from behind the drums to sing the slow-burning blues duet “Will There Be Enough Water?” The chemistry between the pair was nothing short of smoldering and, sharing a single microphone, they spent most of the song just millimeters away from a full-blown makeout session. White’s wife, supermodel Karen Elson, must be one secure lady; either that or she’s super-pissed.

Mosshart only got one thing wrong the entire night. It came during the final song of the set, the spiky single “Treat Me Like Your Mother”. Gasping into the microphone and flicking her tongue lewdly between lines, she spat out the venomous refrain, “I’m just like your mother.”

No, Alison, you’re nothing like my mother.

Jack With with the Dead Weather at the Ottawa Bluesfest, July 19 2010. Ming Wu photo

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Concert review – The Kills at the Commodore Ballroom, Vancouver, 16.05.09 (author: Amanda Hutchison)

Just eight months ago, Japandroids were like any other noise band, toiling in obscurity and playing to half-empty dive bars. But 2009 has been kind to the duo, and thanks to a wave of blog-generated hype, Japandroids‘ show on Friday night (Aug. 7) was held in a jam-packed Rickshaw Theatre.

Guitarist Brian King and drummer David Prowse took the stage near midnight, opening with an ambient drone that was little more than pulsing feedback and wordless moans. Despite his tall, lanky frame, King had his microphone stand set low, meaning that he had to hunch with his legs spread in a slightly comical “power stance” (a la School of Rock). To make matters worse, King had a large floor fan pointed directly at him; with the wind dramatically blowing his long hair back from his face, he looked a bit like Zeus atop Mount Olympus, or at the very least Scott Stapp in the “With Arms Wide Open” video.

Japandroids at the Rickshaw Theatre, Aug. 7 2009. Melissa Skoda photo

Still, no amount of overblown posturing could obscure the fact that Japandroids‘ live show is pure rock ‘n’ roll mayhem. The duo played nearly all of the LP Post-Nothing (only “Sovereignty” and “I Quit Girls” were absent), as well as a selection of older cuts. With two amplifiers plus a Fender stack issuing a wall of fuzz, the pair tore through a thundering version of “The Boys Are Leaving Town”, which was especially fitting given the massive international tour that the band will soon embark on. The highlight came mid-set, with the pounding, almost-funky “Heart Sweats”. With a one-chord verse and a refrain that consisted of screaming “XOXOX”, it was garage rock at its most primal.

Japandroids at the Rickshaw Theatre, Aug. 7 2009. Melissa Skoda photo

Japandroids clearly considered the show a victory lap, a chance to indulge in the success they’ve had over the last few months. King dedicated the breakout hit “Young Heart Sparks Fire” to “every fucking one of you,” and both he and Prowse repeatedly marveled at the size of the audience. They finished with a series of older songs, joking that only the hometown fans were likely to know their early material. And, unsurprisingly, given the volume of friends and neighbours in attendance, the crowd ate up every minute of it.

Japandroids at the Rickshaw Theatre, Aug. 7 2009. Melissa Skoda photo

Second on the bill was the Victoria-based Listening Party. Despite a five-piece lineup, the band’s approach favoured minimalism, with many songs based around one-note basslines and swells of synth noise. With tribal drumming and garbage can percussion, the band’s harmonized chants evoked Animal Collective at its most straightforward. The highlight was singer Lindy Gerrard, whose vocals ranged from an angelic falsetto to a rich baritone, effortlessly rising above the clattering arrangements.

Listening Party at the Rickshaw Theatre, Aug. 7 2009. Melissa Skoda photo

The evening was opened by local noise rockers Twin Crystals. The group’s raucous post punk assault was convincing enough, although the songs were rarely memorable. The set ended with singer Jesse Taylor tripping backwards, rolling behind his stack of amplifiers, and intentionally pushing it over on top of the microphone. Trashing the instruments may have worked for the Who in 1965, but here it came off as a heavy-handed.

Twin Crystals at the Rickshaw Theatre, Aug. 7 2009. Melissa Skoda photo

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There are few ideas more outdated than the rock opera, but the Decemberists have never been ones to shy away from the absurd. So when the Portland folk rockers announced that they would be playing their latest album, the narrative epic The Hazards of Love, in its complete form during this year’s summer tour, it would have been fair to assume that they would be at their most campy and theatrical.

During this Wednesday’s performance at the Vogue Theatre, however, the group was surprisingly self-serious, running through the album with little pomp or vaudeville drama. Clad in dapper black suits, the Decemberists kept mostly to the shadows; even the usually talkative Colin Meloy downplayed the grandeur, singing most of his parts while half-obscured in darkness.

Rather than seeming dull, the Decemberists’ reserve was clearly intended to place the full attention on the guest singers. Becky Stark, best known as the voice of L.A. folk-pop band Lavender Diamond, wore a coral dress and an ethereal white shawl; with her hippy-dippy hand waving and strangely blank-eyed smile, she resembled an oddball flower child, perfectly suited to the role of the defenseless heroine Margaret. Surrounded by the withdrawn Decemberists, she was the star of the show.

Becky Stark with the Decemberists at the Vogue Theatre, July 22 2009. JaNicka Grayston photo

That is, until Shara Worden (of My Brightest Diamond) took the microphone. Despite her diminutive figure, the singer belted out a stunning version of the arena-sized rocker “The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid”, prowling around the stage lunching in time to the song’s thundering beat. With a bejeweled black evening gown and an austere black bob, she was downright terrifying. It could have been an accidental wave of the hand, but I’m pretty sure she threw up the devil horns at one point during one particularly soaring high note.

Shara Worden with the Decemberists at the Vogue Theatre, July 22 2009. Alex Hudson photo

The songs themselves were nearly identical to the album versions, right down to the hollering that punctuates the end of “The Hazards of Love 1 (The Prettiest Whistles Won’t Wrestle the Thistles Down)”. In fact, some parts were exactly identical to the studio cuts – the children’s choir on “The Hazards of Love 3 (Revenge!)” was a prerecorded backing track, as was the banjo interlude “The Queen’s Approach”. Still, the album-length performance was an impressive undertaking and, thanks in large part to Stark and Worden, was as emotionally gripping as it was polished.

After a 20-minute interlude, the Decemberists returned to the stage to play a second set, this time drawing on back-catalogue favourites and the occasional cover. Unlike his placid performance during the first set, Meloy began bantering with the audience before the first song even began, joking “it smells like my college dorm” before launching into “Oceanside” from the EP 5 Songs. The group went on to draw from each of its first four-lengths, including a spur-of-the-moment take on “July, July” to fulfill a fan request.

The band also played two new songs, both of which were countrified acoustic numbers featuring guitarist Chris Funk on mandolin. But it was the 2006 single “O Valencia!” that was the highlight, its tragic Romeo and Juliet-style romance buoyed by a stomping beat and joyous melody. The set closed with Worden and Stark trading off vocal leads on a raucous version of Heart’s “Crazy on You,” during which audience members pawed at Colin Meloy’s legs as he performed the guitar leads.

Colin Meloy with the Decemberists at the Vogue Theatre, July 22 2009. Alex Hudson photo

Wrapping up the show with an encore of “Shankill Butchers” and the audience-singalong “Sons & Daughters”, the Decemberists finished in rousing, crowd-pleasing form, an atmosphere similar to the group’s previous tours. Still, as good it as it was, it was hard to forget that for much of the show, the two guest singers were more memorable than the band itself.

This probably sounds a little ungrateful, especially given that Animal Collective is 2009’s undisputed blog buzz champion. Despite the Sasquatch-induced exodus, the band still managed to sell out the Commodore weeks in advance, and the crowd was teeming with excitement long before the house lights came down.

Animal Collective is currently touring as a trio, with longtime member Deakin taking a break from the group. The remaining members – Avey Tare, Panda Bear and Geologist – spent most of the night hunched over tables piled high with synthesizers. Above their heads, a huge white beach ball hung from the ceiling, serving as a screen for the psychedelic light show. The set began with “Blue Sky”, a new song built around a sample from the Grateful Dead’s “Unbroken Chain”. A dreamy groove, it’s every bit as light and airy as its name suggests, with warm washes of synthesizer and reverb-soaked vocal harmonies. This segued into a thundering take on “Who Could Win a Rabbit?” from 2004’s Sung Tongs, which was reworked as a tribal electro rave-up.

From that point on, the set was largely comprised of cuts from this year’s Merriweather Post Pavilion, as all but three of the album’s 11 tracks were played. “Summertime Clothes” was an early highlight, its heavy beat whipping the crowd into a pogo-dancing frenzy. In contrast, “My Girls” was mellow and trance-like, lacking the propulsive rhythm of the studio version; rather than being underwhelming, however, this gave the audience a chance to sing along with the song’s chorus, a moment more akin to an arena pop show than a typical Animal Collective gig.

The set reached its peak during an epic take on “Fireworks”, which included an interpolation of “Lablakely Dress” from 2001’s Danse Manatee. One of the only songs of the night to feature live guitar and drums (played by Avey Tare and Panda Bear, respectively), its frenetic tribal pulse resulted in a mosh pit near the front of the stage. Of course, this was a gentle, indie twerp version of a mosh pit – once it was over, several of the moshers became acquainted by stroking one another’s beards (no joke).

The show finished with the dense clattering of “Slippi”, a tune culled from 2003’s Here Comes the Indian, which seemed to confuse audience members, most of whom were waiting for more cuts from Merriweather (play “My Girls” again!). It was a disorienting end to the set, serving as a reminder that, despite skyrocketing album sales and pop chorus singalongs, Animal Collective is still unwilling to pander to a mass audience.

Best of all, once the show was done, I got to go home and get a good night’s sleep in a warm bed – which is more than I can say for those jerks at Sasquatch.

Here are ten songs in which the F-bomb still packs an explosive punch, reminding us that the word actually used to mean something.

The Clovers – “Rotten Cocksuckers’ Ball” (1954)

Cocksucking Sammy, get your motherfucking mammy
We’re going downtown to cocksuckers’ ball

Contrary to the stereotype we now carry about the socially stultifying 1950s, there was plenty of smut in the era of Eisenhower. At least before 1955/56, that is, when rock ‘n’ roll exploded and the censors swooped in to put a stop to all the fun. But prior to that, white kids didn’t listen to soul music, meaning that African American musicians had the freedom to be as filthy as they wanted. Case and point: “Rotten Cocksuckers’ Ball”, a barbershop-style a capella tune with lyrics that shamelessly glorify visiting a brothel. It would be decades before singers could get away with being this dirty again.

John Lennon – “Working Class Hero” (1970)

You think you’re so clever and classless and free
But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see

This politically charged folk song was John’s blatant attempt to rewrite “Masters of War”. But not-so-subtle pilfering aside, there’s something very satisfying about listening to him sneer about “fucking peasants” just seven years after he and three other mop-topped lads appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, singing songs about wanting to hold your hand. The song is a rallying cry for the oppressed masses, with political criticisms culled from Brave New World: “Keep you doped with religion, sex and TV.” As well as appearing on John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, it was included as the B-side to the peace anthem “Imagine”, making it all the more acidic by contrast.

The Clash – “Death or Glory” (1979)

But I believe in this and it’s been tested by research:
He who fucks nuns will later join the church

I’d like to see Joe Strummer’s sources on this research. And no—your friend Gary doesn’t count. Regardless, it makes for a classic “Did he just say that?” moment. Never try to pigeonhole the Clash: musically, they’re blistering punk one moment, horn-laden reggae the next; lyrically, they’ll offer up ominous warnings about police brutality, then joke about nun-fucking just two tracks later. The song makes a serious commentary about the wasted lives of the British lower classes, but the message gets a little lost—nun-fucking tends to have that effect.

N.W.A. – “Fuck Tha Police” (1988)

The jury has found you guilty of being a redneck, white-bred, chickenshit motherfucker

The only part about this choice that was difficult was singling out which of the song’s many F-bombs was most inflammatory. I chose the above mostly because it didn’t include any racial epithets (that’s a whole other list), and also because it provides context for the song’s courtroom context. Ice Cube, MC Ren, and Eazy-E each offer testimonials – ostensibly to condemn police brutality, but mostly they just brag about how bad they’re going to fuck up the next cop who crosses them. The song is so outrageous that the FBI wrote a strongly worded letter to Ruthless Records, who released the album Straight Outta Compton in 1988 (but I bet it wasn’t as strongly worded as “Fuck Tha Police”).

Radiohead – “Creep” (1992)

I wish I was special
You’re so fucking special

Even more so than the titular chorus lyric, Thom Yorke’s pained F-bombs provide the pivotal lyric for his group’s anthem of self-loathing. The lyrical equivalent of the muted ka-chunks that lead into the chorus, the profanity provides some much-needed catharsis for the barely-repressed desperation bubbling beneath every word of “Creep”.

Rage Against the Machine – “Killing in the Name” (1992)

Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me (repeat x16)

Usually, F-bombs are more effective in moderation; endless repetition tends to dull the effect of anything, no matter how shocking. But “Killing in the Name” flies in the face of that wisdom, and its seemingly endless outro of “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” is the perfect rallying cry for the politically disenfranchised. This song is also a favourite among 14-year-old suburban kids who don’t actually know what Zack de la Rocha is singing about. You want me to do my homework? Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.

The Offspring – “Bad Habit” (1994)

Drivers are rude, such attitude
When I show my piece, complaints cease
Something’s odd, I feel like I’m God
You stupid dumbshit goddamn motherfucker

What makes this song so memorable is that children loved the Offspring. I don’t think there was a kid in my fourth grade class who didn’t own Smash (or at least none that would admit to it). “Come Out and Play” might have been the hit single, but it was “Bad Habit” we all loved, gathering around a Walkman at lunch time and rewinding it over and over so everyone could have a listen. For a nine-year-old, the bridge of “Bad Habit” is something akin to a porno magazine for a 13-year-old, or alcohol for a 15-year-old – a little scary, a little shocking, but completely fascinating.

Ben Folds Five – “Song for the Dumped” (1997)

So you wanted to take a break
Slow it down some and have some space
Well fuck you too

When breaking up with dignity is no longer an option, there’s always “Song for the Dumped”. The song is a masterwork in juxtaposition, from the joyously poppy chorus of “Give me my money back, you bitch” to the ridiculous saloon piano break. What’s funniest is Ben’s complete overreaction to what appears to have been a fairly standard-issue breakup—it’s pretty easy to see why she needed space after this tantrum.

Belle & Sebastian – “Dress Up in You” (2006)

The men are surprised by the language
They act so discreet, they are hypocrites so fuck them too

There are two different methods to laying an effective F-bomb: the first is to be inflammatory as possible, and flaunt the profanity as a slap in the face of any fuddy-duddy who can’t handle it; the second is to subtly include the word in an otherwise passive song, its unexpectedness giving it maximum impact. “Dress Up in You” is perhaps the best example of the latter approach. Stuart Murdoch assumes the character of a meek woman working in a nail salon, griping over her more beautiful and successful friend. The narrator is so wounded that it’s remarkable she can even sum up the energy to drop the F-bomb into the chorus – which, of course, is what makes it so brilliant.

Britney Spears – “If U Seek Amy” (2008)

Love me, hate me, say what you want about me
But all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you seek Amy

OMG! If you say the title out loud, it sounds like “F-U-C-K me!” Okay, so this isn’t actually a good song – it’s just as bad as everything else Britney has ever sung-but-not-actually-written (aside from “Toxic”, which is still fantastic). But what makes it great is that it earned headlines on MTV and CBC, and prompted the Parents Television Council to call for the song to be banned from all radio stations. Let’s get this straight: over the past few years, Britney has been to rehab twice, attacked a photographer, married some dude in Vegas, and showed off her vagina in public (twice) – but after all that, she’s still able to shock us with a veiled use of the F-bomb? Are we worried about her corrupting our impressionable youth? I guess it’s okay if our children take a bunch of drugs, get married in Vegas, and then punch out the wedding photographers – just so long as they don’t swear at the alter. For the record, I definitely don’t want to if you seek a-Britney.