As the former frontman of
beloved Canadian indie rockers the Rheostatics and acclaimed author of a series
of non-fiction books, Dave Bidini is something close to a connoisseur's icon of
Canuck culture. Fitting, then, that he takes on one of Can-Rock's most
intriguing stars in his new Writing
Gordon Lightfoot. Using Toronto's 1972 Mariposa folk festival-which Bob
Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and Lightfoot all attended-as a jumping-off
point, Bidini explores his enigmatic subject's music and cultural influence.

Look, I know that for most
music fans, Lightfoot is maybe best-known-if he's known at all-as one of these
'70s sensitive singer-songwriter types who shows up on cheap compilations. But
for Canadians-as Bidini deftly argues-he's something more, closer to a
foundational figure. I called Bidini at his home in Toronto to discuss.

For non-Canadians, Lightfoot is generally remembered, I
think, as neither a star nor a cult hero. Would about him appealed to you as a
subject? His

I wanted to
talk with Paul Stanley for two reasons: First, when you have the opportunity to
talk to an original member of KISS, you talk to an original member of KISS.
Second, he's an old school rock'n'roll pro. I love those guys. They get how
interviews are supposed to work. I ask questions, they answer in good copy.
It's fun. Oh, and the band is a working on a new record. So I guess it's three
reasons. When I got an email offering the opportunity to talk to Stanley-pegged to his work with the City of Hope cancer, diabetes,
and AIDS/HIV research institute-I took it.

How did you get involved with City of Hope? "Honestly
you reach a point where it becomes clear that life isn't a one-way ride-not if
you want to get the most out of it. And for me, City of Hope has always been synonymous with being
one of the leading research, treatment and education centers for cancer and
diabetes and other illnesses."

You have a new baby daughter. You're 59-years-old.
Presumably there's a good chance

The other day, I was surprised to see that the Grid had posted an oral history of the HMV record store in Toronto where I spent many, many hours as a teenager. That place--posited in the article as kind of an oasis of caring staffers and care-free retail attitude--was so formative for me, and occupies such a large space in my memory, that to see it written about is like, I don't know, seeing an article about my teddy bear. Weird, but welcome.

It's no big news shocker to say that record stores have been having a hard go of it lately. Going to a physical location to buy music hasn't been a necessity for a long time. I still go to the places probably once a week. I like flipping through racks. I like chatting with the guy behind the counter. I like being reminded that the music industry is full of humans, that it's not been reduced to point-and-click interactions.

The by-now old saw is that people coming of age in a landscape bereft of record stores are losing out on making a similar

Tokyo Police Club is a band you could take home to mother. That's their charm. And if that doesn't make the affably nostalgic Newmarket, Ontario, quartet sound like the stuff of great rock'n'roll, well, they aren't likely to argue with you. Instead, they'll just prove you wrong.

On Thursday night at the House of Vans in Brooklyn, the band showed what makes them so special. After a raging, fist-pumping set by Against Me!, TPC strolled on-stage grinning broadly. Bassist and frontman Dave Monk said, a bunch of times, how thankful the band was to be there. Then they started playing, more quietly and warmly than Against Me! There was an obvious energy dip in the room-the different between listening to a band that sounds ready to fight and one trying to find common ground. But Monks, guitarist Josh Hooks, drummer Greg Also, and keyboardist Graham Wright, played their tautly concise songs about feeling old when you're still young with such charm and goodwill that, by the time they sprung into

It never stops being heartbreaking. We love these musicians-Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Jay Reatard, Amy Winehouse-for their talent, for their apparent willingness to get so close to the heart of rock'n'roll, for the way the turbulence of their lives allows us, like stupid vampires, to believe their art is more real, authentic, deeper. Then they die, and we say we saw it coming.

Sure, Amy Winehouse's rap sheet certainly made it seem as if the singer was either unable or uninterested in ceasing the behaviors that, too often, result in tragedy. Remember, too, that she was singing about rejecting rehab before she was became a superstar, so if we're gonna go down the twisted road of assuming she was singing about her life, then we can also assume that she hadn't been easy to help. (If, indeed, people tried.) Now, though, there will be folks who take Winehouse's death as evidence of something powerful about her art. I want those people to understand this: an early death proves

I know it's the way of
the world, but it's still a bit weird to see indie icons Superchunk (in 1989
the quartet's bassist, Laura Ballance, and singer-guitarist, Mac McCaughan,
founded indie label Merge) playing a show put on by the Vans shoe company. Then
again, I'm a long-time customer of both band and brand, so I guess the market
has already seen my endorsements.

And anyway, it
only took about 30 seconds on Thursday night at the House of Vans in Brooklyn for thoughts of commerce and credibility to be
crushed into nothingness by Superchunk's glorious, buoyant music. Opening with
their signature song, 1990's "Slack Mother-," (You can guess the last two
syllables), the veteran rockers tore through just over an hour of propulsive,
punkish guitar-pop. Impressively for a band that's been around for a minute,
the material from 2010's Majesty
Shredding was the strongest. Live, you can feel how that album's tightly
melodic songs like "My Gap Feels Weird," "Crossed Wires," and "Digging For

There's an interesting story today in the Wall Street Journal about how rock acts are taking measures to curtail their fans' drugging and drinking at live shows. According to the article, the Maryland jam band O.A.R. has even gone so far as to adopt a "fan code of conduct" that urges concert-goers to "refrain from fighting, doing illegal drugs, wielding laser pens, and drinking underage."

Hard to argue against something like that. Whether or not the fans will comply, though, is tougher to say. Almost regardless of who the band is, a lot of people going to rock shows—especially big outdoor summer shows—are doing so to get out of their heads a little bit. (Or a lot.) And the dynamics of a rock concert are such that no one wants to be a nag. It's rock 'n' roll—inhibition is the ideal. Which is why you're taking a risk if you ask someone to try blowing their weed smoke away from your face, or stop pushing you on their drunken quest to get closer to the stage, or to quit spilling beer (or

At a glance, there's not a whole lot in common between Wilco and Coldplay. The former undoubtedly have more indie cred. (The benefit of having an album rejected by a label, as happened with Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.) The latter are clearly the more popular. But I think both bands perform similar functions for their fans. They give comfort. They offer wisdom. I'm sure there are exceptions, but I don't think people gravitate towards either group because they're looking to lose their mind or rock out. Wilco and Coldplay are comfort bands. And they each have new music out.

"I Might" is the first single from Wilco's upcoming The Whole Love, due September 27. Over some nicely rinky-dink organ and tastefully noisy guitar, Jeff Tweedy sings about pissing blood and letting go as the rhythm section chugs along to a bouncy garage-rock rhythm. This is a trick the band has pulled before-setting dark, desperate lyrics to head-bopping music-but here the familiarity is a boon. There's an appealing