I am not an impeccable record-keeper of the shows I've attended, in fact I rarely even bring a camera because I find that cameras and booze don't mix so well. What I do know for sure about my show attendence record is the following:
1. Have been slacking the last few years.
2. I have seen a shitload of fantastic bands.
3. Many, many of the fantastic bands I saw; I saw on the stage of The Embassy Hotel in London, Ontario.
The Embassy Hotel wouldn't garner even the most casual of glances from your average tourist. Partly due to the fact that it's not much to look at, and partly because it's in an area of the city that most tourists would avoid like the plague (probably because of the high incidence of Bubonic plague there). However, for a punk rocker or a metalhead or an indie kid I doubt very much that there's a more appealing building in the entire city (with the possible exception of whatever building happens to be housing Speed City Records at that time).
Going inside doesn't solve the problem of appearances, by the by--just in case you were waiting for me to say something like, "But the grimy facade belies a..." nope, nothing like that. Inside the building is no better than the outside. What you get is a floor that feels soggy and probably has been since 1977 when it was converted to a live music venue featuring mainly country acts (I swear, I won't draw any romantic parallels between The Embassy and CBGBs).
The bar is divided in half. When you enter, to the right, you find The Whippet Lounge, a small dark room with a small dark bar (that was non-functional last time I was there) and a miniscule stage.
If you go left when you enter you come into The Embassy proper. You'll be standing right next to the stage which has been graced by the likes of Our Lady Peace, Cowboy Junkies, Jesus Lizard, The Melvins, Henry Rollins, Helmet, Biff Naked, Voivod and the Misfits just to drop a few names.
Beyond that there's the Dancefloor, on which I watched Tim Drew writhe around in broken beer bottles during his stint in Oxbaker (pictured below; that is a much-less-fit me by the stage clapping like a ninny). Come to think of it, that turned out to be Oxbaker's final show and, while sparsely attended, it remains one of my fondest memories.
Beyond the bar there used to be a photobooth. I got my picture taken with Brady Caeser of Black Cat Music (he was playing guitar in The Criminals at the time) and my friends Mike and Nicole.
Upstairs, above the bar, are small apartments. It was in one of these that the afforementioned Mike and I hung out with Blanks 77. We stayed until 4 in the morning discussing the finer points of cell phones, country music and Jenny Jones.
Probably my best memory of The Embassy though, would be my most recent and, sadly, my last. It would be the night that Steph and I saw Cursed play. It was the second last show of thier last Ontario tour before thier breakup. It was also the night Steph and I got together. Maybe it was the lack of booze, maybe it was the heat in The Whippet, maybe it was the music--but that night forever changed my life in the best of ways.
But time marches on and the good times had by a fistful of countercultre malcontents means sweet fuck all in the shadow of progress. Our capitalist overlords have decreed that The Embassy, London's best independent music venue for the last 32 years, should be torn down to make room for Condominiums. Who needs a scene? Who needs a neighbourhood? Who needs a home-away-from-home?
Lots of people. But I suppose not as much as some pepople need just a little more money. Not as much as some people feel the need to banish colourful chaos (no matter how harmless) to replace it with bland, humdrum order.
So long, Embassy Hotel, you will be missed.
1. Have been slacking the last few years.
2. I have seen a shitload of fantastic bands.
3. Many, many of the fantastic bands I saw; I saw on the stage of The Embassy Hotel in London, Ontario.
The Embassy Hotel wouldn't garner even the most casual of glances from your average tourist. Partly due to the fact that it's not much to look at, and partly because it's in an area of the city that most tourists would avoid like the plague (probably because of the high incidence of Bubonic plague there). However, for a punk rocker or a metalhead or an indie kid I doubt very much that there's a more appealing building in the entire city (with the possible exception of whatever building happens to be housing Speed City Records at that time).
Going inside doesn't solve the problem of appearances, by the by--just in case you were waiting for me to say something like, "But the grimy facade belies a..." nope, nothing like that. Inside the building is no better than the outside. What you get is a floor that feels soggy and probably has been since 1977 when it was converted to a live music venue featuring mainly country acts (I swear, I won't draw any romantic parallels between The Embassy and CBGBs).
The bar is divided in half. When you enter, to the right, you find The Whippet Lounge, a small dark room with a small dark bar (that was non-functional last time I was there) and a miniscule stage.
If you go left when you enter you come into The Embassy proper. You'll be standing right next to the stage which has been graced by the likes of Our Lady Peace, Cowboy Junkies, Jesus Lizard, The Melvins, Henry Rollins, Helmet, Biff Naked, Voivod and the Misfits just to drop a few names.
Beyond that there's the Dancefloor, on which I watched Tim Drew writhe around in broken beer bottles during his stint in Oxbaker (pictured below; that is a much-less-fit me by the stage clapping like a ninny). Come to think of it, that turned out to be Oxbaker's final show and, while sparsely attended, it remains one of my fondest memories.
Beyond the bar there used to be a photobooth. I got my picture taken with Brady Caeser of Black Cat Music (he was playing guitar in The Criminals at the time) and my friends Mike and Nicole.
Upstairs, above the bar, are small apartments. It was in one of these that the afforementioned Mike and I hung out with Blanks 77. We stayed until 4 in the morning discussing the finer points of cell phones, country music and Jenny Jones.
Probably my best memory of The Embassy though, would be my most recent and, sadly, my last. It would be the night that Steph and I saw Cursed play. It was the second last show of thier last Ontario tour before thier breakup. It was also the night Steph and I got together. Maybe it was the lack of booze, maybe it was the heat in The Whippet, maybe it was the music--but that night forever changed my life in the best of ways.
But time marches on and the good times had by a fistful of countercultre malcontents means sweet fuck all in the shadow of progress. Our capitalist overlords have decreed that The Embassy, London's best independent music venue for the last 32 years, should be torn down to make room for Condominiums. Who needs a scene? Who needs a neighbourhood? Who needs a home-away-from-home?
Lots of people. But I suppose not as much as some pepople need just a little more money. Not as much as some people feel the need to banish colourful chaos (no matter how harmless) to replace it with bland, humdrum order.
So long, Embassy Hotel, you will be missed.
