I’ve been having this problem lately. I go to a show, and then I start sneezing. More on that later.
When I saw that the folks who were once behind the Sewing Machine Factory were putting on a show, I was excited. For those who know, the Sewing Machine Factory was a very special venue in Edmonton. Located in the basement of a multi-tenant commercial building at the Mill Creek end of Whyte Avenue, the Sewing Machine felt like a place where the freaks and weirdos could come and be fully uninhibited in their musicking. You descended a steep winding staircase and entered a tiny lowercase b-shaped room that could probably accommodate fifty people at the most. The bar essentially looked like someone cut a window and counter into the wall of a closet and stuck a mini fridge in there. There was little in the way of fancy lighting or decor, besides a banner at the back of a stage less than a foot tall. There was no backstage. There was no security. There was nothing professional about the spot whatsoever, and I mean that as a compliment.
As an attendee, the Sewing Machine always felt to me like an unfussy and sincere space where anything could happen if people had a vision and saw it through. It was there I saw many of my favourite shows ever and witnessed my favourite show-related anecdotes. It was there I saw lawrence teeth (fka soft cure) play a roaring shoegaze set (as part of a fest I wish I could remember the name of) with various antique children’s toys strewn about the floor. The set was followed by one of the fest’s organizers interviewing the band on a couch thrown in the corner of the room, with discussion oriented around how to be a successful scammer. It was fun and silly and for me, it was also the second stop on a first date I was on. I was into it, and when I asked my date what she thought of the show, she replied “that was……interesting.” We then went back to my place and made grilled cheese sandwiches before watching Tim Burton’s Christmas movie while sitting two feet apart from each other on the couch. Neither of us reached out to the other after the date. It was a good night.
Other highlights at the Sewing Machine included the recurring spoken word and drone events that would pair poets and guitar pedal/synth/tape machine nerds for impromptu collaborative sets, watching a local post-punk band’s keyboardist use an ironing board in lieu of a keyboard stand (true DIY practical shit), witnessing a death metal guitarist/vocalist having five of their friends stand in the front taking turns flipping them off while shredding out putrid filthy riffs, and overhearing a mohawked punk who had just spent the last hour slamdancing nonstop say as he got onto his bike in the parking lot “I can’t believe I’m getting evicted tomorrow fuuuuuuuuck.” I haven’t seen him at a show in a couple years. I wonder what he’s up to now.
I wasn’t expecting the Sewing Machine to survive the pandemic’s lockdowns, but it did it. I got to see a couple more shows there before they hosted their last one in October of 2023. The neon sign above the door in the back alley is still there. I see it multiple times per week as I ride my bike past on my way to work and I long to descend that rickety staircase and stand in that sweaty cramped room one more time.
To see that those behind the venue were putting on a show again, albeit in a different location in the same building, is exciting. I’d like to believe the Sewing Machine could rise again. If not, perhaps it will be replaced. This particular gig was in the Mill Creek Cafe, which I had been to for lunch before, but not to see music. It’s a quaint little spot, but not grungy in the way the Sewing Machine was. It has cozy booths, elegant light fixtures, and plenty of natural light. It is the type of place educated middle class folks in their fifties go for a lunch time soup and sandwich while donning their knitted sweaters. The cafe earns points in my books for having pretty good vegan tacos and not having a stage (I believe in floor show supremacy).
The tables and chairs were pushed into the back corner to make room for the standing crowd. Even still, the space was tight. While perfectly adequate for a show like this where there wouldn’t be any crowd participation, I’m not sure how well-suited this spot would be for a rowdier crowd. Aggressive pitters going side to side could fling themselves or another attendee through the pastry display case at the front counter or through the glass window facing out onto the patio.
The Exit Bags, a local act, played first. They played several cuts from their 2023 record Our Sun Will Clean Its Holy Wounds and some others I didn’t recognize. The trio consisted of a bassist, guitarist, and vocalist/synth/knob fiddler, each armed with plenty of effects pedals. Reverb was the main course, with the band clouding themselves in hazy wafts that made each strum, wail, or scream take on a vaporous quality that further emphasized the cavernous loneliness of their songs. Woeful and slow, gauzy and enveloping, The Exit Bags permitted all of us to wallow collectively in our emotional ruminations rather than breaking out of them.
San Francisco’s imy3 went on next. This was one of their last stops on a 30 date cross-continent tour. The duo shared some stories from the road in between songs. One excitedly mentioned seeing a moose for the first time on the drive between Winnipeg and Edmonton. This same member had seen several armadillos while they traversed the American south. The other member was not so lucky and didn’t see any of those armoured little critters, instead having spotted several of the Confederate flags dotting the region.
Most of the band’s set consisted of songs from their album released earlier this year. It’s a great little slowcore record with an intimate homespun sound. The sparse arrangements and subtle production meant that the songs’ transformation into live form was near identical to the recordings. The duo was dialed in, giving stellar performances that were the product of a long tour’s habitual refined playing of the same songs night after night. They alternated vocals and instruments, swapped guitars and bass throughout the set. The set ended with the album’s closing track “imy1,” which is the most cathartic tune of the bunch. For this one, both members took the guitar, with one strumming as the other played with a bow. Incrementally the hypnotic chord progression and repeating vocal lines were lifted into greater intensities before erupting into a screaming and fretboard slashing climax, before sudden;y stripping things back into a quiet hush. All in all, I was very impressed and had to buy a tote bag to show my support and appreciation.
Unfortunately as I mentioned earlier, I was fighting off sneezes throughout the night. It was especially difficult during the quieter moments of imy3’s set, where a potential achoo would have overpowered the band during their most restrained moments. My sinuses were suffering, and I had to dip out before local emo act Twenty Seven Club played the final set of the night. I’m sure they were great and I hope to get another chance to see them again. In the future, I think I need to preventatively start taking Reactine before pulling up to the gig. I don’t think I’m allergic to shows (please indie rock gods don’t do this to me) but I do know that I am allergic to cats. Most of the gigs I go to do have a lot of attendees who strike me as possible cat owners, and perhaps they are bringing some hair in with them inadvertently. In a small packed venue, perhaps my powerful nostrils are bound to hoover those allergens up. That’s my theory for now. If you are a medical professional and you have any other theories or differential diagnoses for my chronic show sneezing, please hit me up.