How Do You Spell Holiday?

All In The Family: in conversation with Kiva Stimac

Pre-Christian festivals traditionally marked the turning of the seasons, celebrating solstices, equinoxes, the planting and harvesting of crops, and other sundry natural cycles.

Festivals nowadays are largely symbolic of such seasonal celebrations, centering more upon common interests and activities like film, theatre, dance, and music.

The festivalization of cultural industries in the 21st century has meant that patrons more often than not expect a curated round-up of events rather than any stand-alone experience. There are such things today as “festival circuits,” a secondary calendar upon which cultural products and producers travel and tour year-round.

Without doubt, one of Montreal’s most interesting springtime festivals is Suoni per il Popolo, currently entering its 24th iteration.

Founded in 2000 by the artist, printmaker, and chef, Kiva Stimac, Suoni, for short, has become a much anticipated and lovingly lauded launch pad for those with big ears for experimental sounds.

“Montreal is at its most beautiful right now,” Stimac observes as we chat over the phone on a sunny late May morning. “And the festival this year — I’m very proud of. We made it so we’re going to have challenging, revolutionary, good times.”

“Montreal audiences are very enthusiastic.” Kiva Stimac for Popolo Press.

Stimac and Godspeed You! Black Emperor bassist Mauro Pezzente have collaborated since the festival’s inception on booking bands at Casa del Pololo and La Sala Rossa, twin venues that they started nearly a quarter century ago, which have become go-to stages for local and international musicians, and venerable institutions for Montreal’s music aficionados.

“We had a very deep love for music of all kinds,” Stimac says of the impetus behind Suoni’s founding. “But we noticed that bands were skipping Montreal. People would play Boston, Toronto, but they would skip Montreal. For instance, Arab Strap wasn’t playing Montreal. So, we booked them a show at Casa, and it sold out in 10 minutes.”

Originally called Artichaut, the venue that now houses Casa del Popolo in 2000 was “more like a hippie space,” Stimac remembers.

“At that time, this part of St. Laurent was very desolate, uninhabited,” recalls Stimac. “The rent was affordable enough that we signed a lease. And everybody started coming in while we were trying to renovate, trying to get our permits and stuff, saying, ‘hey, I was supposed to play a show here next week, or ‘I was supposed to do something here in a month from now.’ So, we just started saying ‘okay’ to people.”

Quickly, demand for these live happenings coalesced and Stimac realized that she could invite artists of her own choosing, renting the Spanish Cultural Center across the street soon afterward and transforming its upper level into La Sala Rossa.

“Montreal audiences are very enthusiastic,” Stimac notes. “From the first year of the festival, everybody that we called and asked to play said ‘yes.’ And to come and play an artist-run, small venue, not necessarily knowing us, once they showed up and it was a family vibe, and we cooked them food, and gave them advice on the sound, even though these were small spaces, with the vibe of the audiences, everybody was really enthusiastic.”

A singular aesthetic is Suoni’s hallmark, but the festival is recognized for curating artists from diverse genres — from punk to funk, classical to jazz — and across various demographics, too. It is not a youth-oriented or fashion-specific affair.

Some of this year’s highlights include No Hay Banda on June 13th performing a commissioned piece that Sarah Davachi composed; the Swedish vocalist and electronic composer Erika Angell on June 17th, and industrial-rap superstar Backxwash, aka Ashanti Mutinta, on June 21st.

“Having our final show be Anthony Braxton and Wolf Eyes is a pretty big deal,” Stimac remarks. “That’s the elder free-jazz experimenter hero, and then the noise-making trickster Detroiters, also heroes, coming together and making a sound that is really special.”

For the first time, day passes will also be sold this year for $45, allowing patrons to attend every event on any given day.

“Sometimes, it’s challenging,” Stimac admits, regarding programming Montreal’s premiere avant-garde festival. “A lot of times, it’s problematic. It’s not like, oh my God, we’ll play Kumbaya and everybody’s going to come together. Oftentimes it forces people apart or sets people into scenes, like ‘oh, I can’t interact with this or that scene.’ So, having multiple intergenerational interracial scenes here, that is very important to me.”

While the city’s bigger festivals like Osheaga, Pop Montreal, or the Jazz Fest court corporate sponsorship and attempt to attract higher-profile star power, Suoni deliberately remains committed to showcasing the best underground artists from Montreal and internationally. Stimac believes that a strong sense of community and solidarity through struggle is at the heart of Suoni’s ethos.

“We want to sell these shows, but also be true to who we are as people.” Kiva Stimac for Popolo Press.

“I didn’t create this thing as a business,” says Stimac, “or even as a festival. I created this as a family situation. Family isn’t just blood, either. It’s chosen family, too. The outsiders, the misfits, the queers, the punks — we’re all an international family. How do we exist in a world that’s so tragic and horrific?”

Stimac answers her own question: “I think making music and art of all kinds — dance, theatre, visual art — is an important connecting point to get to the next step of, hopefully, creating something different in this world.”

Montreal and music’s independent scenes have changed significantly since Stimac conceived of the festival. Covid and its restrictions were particularly difficult on the arts and one of Stimac’s performance venues, La Vitrola, was forced to close its doors.

The cost of mounting major events like Suoni increased three and four-fold as artists and their surrounding industries attempted to make up for lost revenues. Even though her festival has thrived for more than two decades, Stimac seems acutely aware of wanting to share the wealth as ethically as possible.

“When you’ve been around for 24 years, and you have some funding, a lot of times you’re also seen as ‘the man.’ We want to sell these shows, but also be true to who we are as people. That’s the hustle,” Stimac explains.

At twelve days, this edition of Suoni is leaner and more focussed than previous years, with fewer shows programmed against each other, leaving more room for audiences to discover the depth and diversity of Stimac’s vision. Still, she is generous to give credit where it’s due. From ancient fairs and feasts to modern festivals, the central theme of any seasonal celebration has always been a spirit of communion.

“I’m not looking to be the curator of the entire festival anymore,” says Stimac. “I’m doing this with over 25 different co-presenters from all different backgrounds. I just do what I can do with my own hands. So, I make the posters, I make the food, DIY. But hopefully we’re figuring out more how to DIT — do it together.”◼︎

The 24th edition of Suoni per il Popolo runs 12-23 June 2024.

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Ring Them Bells

Errance, with Joël Lavoie, and Philippe Vandal, La Sotterenea, 25 April 2024

Left: Joël Lavoie; Right: Errance perform at La Sotterranea, 25 April 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

“What good am I if I know and don’t do,
If I see and don’t say, if I look right through you,
If I turn a deaf ear to the thunderin’ sky,
What good am I?” —Bob Dylan

In The Divine Comedy, the well-known fourteenth-century Italian trilogy by Dante Alighieri, the poet Virgil leads the author through Hell and Purgatory.

Finally, Dante is pointed toward Paradise by Beatrice di Folco Portinari, a character symbolic of God’s loving grace.

It seems that Beatrice got the cushy job, while Virgil drew the short straw. Not only did “Bice,” as she was known amongst her squad, manage to avoid the underworld’s mud and blood and beer, but she also served as tour guide to just one — and obviously the best — of the three divine realms.

Virgil, on the other hand, had to pull a double shift in the Infernal rings and the apparently never-ending drone of Earthly life. Plus, there were no unions back then, so going on strike wasn’t an option.

Sara Mericle, Infinite Vessel, Ateliers Belleville, 22 April 2024

Sara Mericle, Net (2023), ceramic and metal. Photographed for NicheMTL.

Ye have sown much, and bring in little; ye eat, but ye have not enough; ye drink, but ye are not filled with drink; ye clothe you, but there is none warm; and he that earneth wages earneth wages to put into a bag with holes. —Haggai 1:6

Steve Bates, with Elizabeth Anka Vajagic, Mark Molnar, Timothy Herzog, and Sam Shalabi, Casa del Popolo, 29 April 2024

Steve Bates and friends perform at Casa del popolo, 29 April 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

From an ocean of noise, harmony differentiates itself.

Though noise and harmony are not mutually exclusive. Noise contains every frequency. Like sculpture, all that is necessary to reveal Heaven’s eternal song is to chisel the extraneous bits away.

Bourgie Hall’s 14th Season Launch, Bourgie Hall, 30 April 2024

Charles Richard-Hamelin performs at Bourgie Hall, 30 April 2024. Frédéric Faddoul for Bourgie Hall.

“THE TEMPERAMENT — MIDDLE — Circling and circling, I mold my temperament, urging the unruly into balance. Each interval must blend with the next interval, which must blend with the next … and back to the beginning. In the center we make a secret well together, this piano and I, to drown the leftovers. It is Nowhere.” —Anita T. Sullivan, The Seventh Dragon.

Beethoven’s Poetic Fourth Piano Concerto, Maria João Pires with The Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal, Maison Symphonique, 24 April 2024

Maria João Pires performs with the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal, 24 April 2024 at Maison Symphonique. Antoine Saito for the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal.

The clavier-style keyboard is a standard that brought music to the masses.

Yes, it’s a compromise. There aren’t any notes between its twelve tones, and there is a sense of bureaucracy about sitting down at what is essentially a musical desk, typing out a tune.

But the gift of portability and universality that the keyboard has given to the world is worth orders more than its conciliatory limitations. There is no other instrument that can bring a place to life, to fill a space with joy, wonder, and magic, quite like a piano.

A piano in the right hands is just enough of a music machine, no more and no less than perfect.

Quiet Night, 163 Av. Van Horne, 26 April 2024

Xander Simmons and friends perform at 163 Av. Van Horne, 26 April 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

“Happy are those who have what they need and no more.” —Saul Ha-Levi Morteira

In a time of war, famine, and death, it is vanity to seek out greater abundance when others are struggling for basic survival. But if one pursues only bare necessity, they will invariably find more than what they were looking for.

Such was the case last Friday evening when I attended what was billed as a “Quiet Night,” organized by Illy Duval in a cozy loft space on Van Horne. I arrived to find the room packed to the rafters with standing room only, except for a seat on the armrest of a battered old couch.

« Confortable? » asked the girl sitting next to me, smiling.

« Pas pire, » I replied, my legs awkwardly splayed akimbo.

Though I felt claustrophobic and couldn’t help but think, with scores of burning candles inserted precariously into empty bottles, of the Ghost Ship warehouse fire, I stayed and immensely enjoyed the music and the scene for as long as possible and ducked outside during an intermission.

Beneath the Van Horne overpass, I watched a group of skateboarders smoking weed and doing ollies and rail slides and was grateful for having had a reason to leave — both my house, and the gig I’d come to see.

Skateboarders underneath the Van Horne overpass, 26 April 2024. Filmed for NicheMTL.

Sandeep Bhagwati, How to inhabit these different temporalities?, Museum of Fine Arts, 21 April 2024

A patron rests in the contemporary art gallery of the Museum of Fine Arts, 21 April 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

“People don’t know what they want any more. People are only sure about what they don’t want. The current processes are processes of rejection, of disaffection, of allergy.” —Jean Baudrillard, “The Violence of Indifference.”

The tyranny of mediocrity despises competition, finding every possible means to suppress it. The resistance of excellence, however, welcomes competition as the essence that makes the good better, the great greater still.

Lolina, with Man Made Hill, Tenses, and Please, Brasserie Beaubien, 27 April 2024

Catherine Debard performs as Tenses at Brasserie Beaubien, 27 April 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

We might imagine Hell as the past, Purgatory as the present, and Heaven as the future.

Certainly, there is an implied chronological teleology to history, where life is supposed to get better with time, progress bringing more knowledge as some ultimate form of truth emerges victorious.

This process appears to have reversed. Time is running backwards as the present reiterates Hellish precedents.

Alice De Visscher & Evamaria Schaller, Le Centre CLARK & Le lieu, Ateliers Belleville, 2 May 2024

Alice De Visscher & Evamaria Schaller perform at Ateliers Belleville, 2 May 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

Alchemy is most commonly conceived as the transformation of lead into gold. But alchemy according to philosophers is understood as a spiritual process of transformation, embracing those parts of ourselves that we might think of as weaknesses and converting them into strengths.

Gold is the most precious of all earthly metals, superconductive, malleable yet solid, ambivalent, associated with the sun, the celestial body where universal life originates. The Swiss psychoanalyst Carl Jung wrote, “Just as the physical sun lightens and warms the universe, so, in the human body, there is in the heart a sunlike arcanum from which life and warmth stream forth.”

Springtime represents the return of the sun, and thus accelerates matters of the heart.

Spring Symposium, Librairie Saint-Henri Books, 25 April 2024

Patrons attend the Spring Symposium at Librairie Saint-Henri Books, 25 April 2024. Photographed for NicheMTL.

My idea of Heaven is a place surrounded by all words, where no thought or feeling is misunderstood, where there is total communication, a way to say everything.

My idea of Heaven is also a place where there are no words, where nothing requires understanding because all is already known, and language is an obsolete technology.◼︎

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Cover image: Sara Mericle, Sun Bleach (2023), porcelain and glaze.

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How Do You Spell Holiday?

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

The air conditioning broke. So Casa’s doors stood wide open to the smoky night.

Montreal is known as the ashtray of North America. It’s a fuming city. People mill about outside of drinking establishments and music venues huddled around cigarettes. There’s a way people stand when they’re smoking, as if searching for something to do while performing a perfectly acceptable task: smoking.

Cigarettes, much like the people who smoke them, are on a spectrum of pleasantness. Sometimes, cigarettes smell like the backseat ashtray in a taxicab, or of a 1976 department store cafeteria. Other times, cigarettes possess a luxurious warmth, deeper and unplaceable across history, a mossy autumn evening’s air spiced with Portuguese chicken and passersby’s musk. A smell you want to take your time with, get lost in, a smell that wraps its tendrils around you.

It depends on who’s smoking the cigarettes, though. You’ll have better memories than others of some smoking people, of the people as well as their cigarette smell. Bad cigarettes can have a way of grabbing you by the nostrils as would some ephemeral Three Stooges routine. The punch of hot smoke pumping through an air conditioner. Pleasant cigarettes, au contraire, gently caress the olfactory sense, an inviting scent. Addictive, even.

Nicotine is a stimulant, as long as it’s administered regularly. You can stay up all night smoking a pack of cigarettes. Or you can get that second-hand thrill and stay up all night watching someone else smoke their pack of cigarettes. In the olden days, when cigarettes were still allowed indoors as entertainment, we’d return home after a night out stinking of cigarettes and high as kites, not able to think of sleep until the new dawn’s first rays, whether we’d been smoking or not.

Live music is like audible smoke, wisping through the atmosphere, clearly discernible but ungraspable. Music, like smoke, is always moving, energetic when it appears (sounds) like it’s still. Layers of soundwaves accumulate like strata of smoke in a dusty old pool room. Recording is to music as film is to smoke, capturing but also subdividing the indivisible, preserving the beauty of fluid movement and losing something in its preservation.

Smoke is particularly cinematic as music is uniquely suited to audible reproduction in time. Music is a cigarette burning steadily in an ashtray, throwing off plumes and flares that always delight yet never entirely surprise, a comfortable unpredictability.

There is an undeniably sexy quality to smoke and smokers. They know something that others don’t. They can breathe fire. Smokers blow non-smokers away — literally — with the tough black leather air of hip rebellion, sneaking a puff behind the barn, or after a busy late shift. I love a smoking woman, like a Hitchcock glamour shot, glimpsed through gauze. It’s nothing if not romantic to watch a beautiful woman bring a cigarette tip to her lips.

We venerate smoking artists. There’s a rugged authenticity to copping wholeheartedly to addiction, to leaning in when logic and science say recoil. Leonard Cohen famously smoked, then gave it up, then rekindled his affection for cigarettes after age 80. George Orwell wrote a considered essay on his epic struggle between buying books and consuming cigarettes. The work was intended to defend reading as one of the cheapest and most rewarding forms of recreation. But today, George Orwell is just a number, and Leonard Cohen is a mailbox, transubstantiated in form as smoke — and capital — is: into the air, thick or thin.

A melancholy mood pervades the end of September, the gradual understanding that summer is as far away as it can be, with three full seasons between. As nights stretch out, cigarettes underscore the passage of time, and the inability to regain what is soon to be lost, spent, smoked. When the weather turns brisk, women tend to bend at the knees slightly and hurry through their cigarettes to rush back inside, to get elsewhere.

Because cigarettes aren’t the destination, they’re the journey, transient — what life’s about.

We can see the stub coming up ahead but can do nothing to slow its inevitable approach. There is no medium that faithfully recaptures sound and music and smoke.

Cigarette smoke is like the past haunting the present. There’s a reason that ghosts in the movies are always shrouded in clouds of billowing smoke.

I don’t believe in ghosts. But we are entering into the most haunted season, since smoke reveals the contours of what once was but can be no more. I do believe that smoke revives the dead, breathing life, if only briefly, into burning carbon and particulate matter. Our loved ones might return in spirit, marrying breath and body, reconstituting only to dissipate once more as clouds form and in an instant vanish above a fjord. It may be possible to conjure a memory sculpted in smoke.

Saint-Laurent Boulevard on any summer’s night late in the season is a choking vapour factory populated by scantily clad and curvaceous bodies that obstruct the sidewalk and divert the flow of pedestrian traffic out and into the street. The sidewalk smokers’ lives unfold as more lives glide by in cars with windows rolled down, trailing smoke behind them like a Cheech and Chong movie. Since marijuana was legalized, there is now the distinctive ubiquitous and pungent skunk aroma of weed that pervades the city’s moist and cool air, mixing with dead leaves and the burnt and earthy dust smell of baseboard heaters clicking on again for the first time of the year.

The smoke of a late summer’s night reminds us that we are simultaneously alive and dying, nudging us closer to home, closer to that biggest of sleeps.

And when we arrive, our sweaters will smell lightly of tobacco and vanilla, and maybe a hint of bourbon, and our memories as golden-age cinema and the wind-up recordings of yesteryear both preserve indelibly and sully our collective experience.

The Bible says from ash we’re born and to ash one day we shall return. In between, we smolder.◼︎

Cover image: Ky Brooks and Jessica Moss perform at Casa del popolo, 15 September 2023.

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