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Words by: Lara Purvis
The Golden Dogs :: 09.16.06 :: Maverick's :: Ottawa, ON
The Golden Dogs |
Sometimes a band just gets to you in a way you can't explain. It's been four days and I'm still singing those songs. I'm smitten. So allow me to throw all journalistic guidelines to the wind and pen the blissful memory of The Golden Dogs, with foolish abandon.
The show was being held at Maverick's, a much-loved watering hole in Ottawa's buzzing downtown. The venue is small, a respectable pub during the day, but after dark it morphs into a mecca for innovative underground bands and the fans who love them. There is something special about Maverick's. Some of the best shows I've ever seen have been held in this small, dark room.
It must have been an ironic sense of humor that had The Golden Dogs choose the opening band, The Golden Seals. As I watched the four-piece opener, I was grateful to learn that they were not only chosen for their name. Gently and persuasively they warmed the crowd with a charming set. I settled into the soft pop and subtle melody, took a long sip of my ginger-ale, and felt myself relaxing. I truly had no idea what I was in for.
The Golden Dogs by Brent Pike-Nurse |
In my dreamy state I was entirely caught off guard when The Golden Dogs took to the stage and launched into "Birdsong." The Golden Seals had been the blue sky preceding The Golden Dog's turbulent weather. Drawn by the forceful drumming and insanely pretty guitar riff, I headed sidestage, where I could see it all.
I had seen photographs, but still the visual made me grin. The Golden Dogs are a motley crew, perhaps scraped together in the corner of a library café. Quirky and unabashed, they are cool in their geekiness and their lack of inhibition.
The Golden Dogs by M. & P. Richardson |
They moved into "Dynamo" without hesitation. Front man Dave Azzolini howled into his microphone as keyboardist Jessica Grassia pounded away feverishly. I watched the drummer, Taylor Knox, move them swiftly through the applause into "Saints at the Gates" as Dave and Jessica marched dramatically to his mad pounding. Taylor was really quite the sight - picture Jack from the old Beanstalk, early twenties. Long, lean, and lanky, wearing a plaid shirt, tight faded acid jeans, and a mop of red hair concealing the glasses falling down his nose. He hunched over his kit, his drum sticks flying wickedly close to his head. The band continued with several other newbies from their recently released Big I, little eye, including the "Construction Worker," "Never Meant Any Harm," "Strong," and "Runouttaluck." These new goldies (for lack of a better term!) spectacularly highlight Dave and Jessica's vocals and their incredible harmonic possibilities. These are voices that were made to blend, like bananas and strawberries, vodka and tonic – eerily distinct but together, worth so much more than the sum of their parts.
Eyes on the guitarist and bassist, deep in their groove, I admired the band as a whole as they continued into an awesome cover of "Jet." They threw themselves into every note so fully, each in their own way but none less than the others. Bassist Stew Heyduk was by far the most subtle of the dramatic lot. In an understated way, he drew out complex bass lines and maintained a blend between shining and supporting. Meanwhile second guitarist Neil Quinn was part three in the harmonic triangle and a rhythmic support to Dave's impulsive guitar solos. As a whole the five of them hurtled through the giddy schoolgirl pop with a defiant edge.
The Golden Dogs by M. & P. Richardson |
Caught in the glorious sound, I was their plaything, an insignificant piece of driftwood upon a raging ocean. They tossed me up and spun me around. Any moment that I thought I spied reprieve, perhaps a safe landing to catch my breath, the music sucked me back. Caught in the roaring, glorious sound, I was feeling a wild new urge. I, the player of no instruments, wanted to be in a rock band - and not any rock band. I wanted to be up there, right now. I wanted to be in The Golden Dogs!
Ending the set with "Yeah!," the band left the stage and briefly huddled together, while we caught our breath. Then, as if they wanted it even more than the screaming crowd, they spun on their heels and hit the stage again, for covers "Traffic Cops" and "Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five." The sound that I was now willing to live for didn't last forever; in a flash it was gone, and my knees buckled with the abruptness of it all.
I consoled myself, nursing reality and my now-warm ginger-ale that had been forgotten in my reverie. It was a good thing the band played a short set. I don't think I could have handled anymore. One more song and they would have had to carry me out on a stretcher, on account of my ecstatic cardiac arrest. It was a good thing, I keep telling myself. It was a good thing.
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