There is a sound. A real old one. It comes in off the Prairies, wanders in from Cape Breton and it pings off the giant nickel in Sault St. Marie. This sound has memories of Anne Murray’s all-junkie band of the 1970s. The junkie bass player still owes the sound 20 bucks it will never get back. Twenty bucks was a lot of money back then. The sound grumbles about Toronto but settles there anyway. The sound finds its ass dragging pretty close to the ground in the city. It walks into some bars: the Cameron; the Shoe; some basement on College St. prone to flooding. The sound finds that it’s welcome in Toronto. WTF? the sounds asks. Really? The sound is an ancient memory of all things not big city or fancy: it’s gingham and gasoline; it’s the sound of drunk daddies laughing on Friday night and weeping mommas on Sunday; it’s a natural resource, like something hauled in a net or burned out of a smokestack. The sound is The Pining. It’s about everything lost and found.
(Brian Joseph Davis –

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