The Trews, The Whole Trews And Nothing But The Trews
Pronunciation - trooz
Etymology - Scottish Gaelic
Date - Circa 1568
Tight-fitting tartan trousers typically worn in the Scottish Highlands
Recent Accomplishments & Awards:
Group of the Year at the 2005 East Coast Music Awards
Favorite Album at the 2005 Canadian Independent Music Awards
Best New Rock Group at the 2005 Canadian Music Radio Awards
"Not Ready To Go" became the #1 Most Played Rock Song at Canadian Rock Radio in 2004
Nominations for New Group of the Year & Single of the Year ("Not Ready to Go") at the 2004 Canadian Juno Awards (Canada's version of The Grammys)
The Trews are:
Colin MacDonald (Vocals/Guitar)
John-Angus MacDonald (Lead Guitar/Vocals)
Jack Syperek (Bass/Vocals)
Sean Dalton (Drums/Vocals)
Niagara Falls is an unnecessary city situated at the fundum of Canada's southern border. It has, over the years, produced a tragic assortment of killers, scam artists, and petty-thieves - as well as providing, for most tourists, a perfect contrast between the majesty of nature let loose and the ignominy of bad-taste let-looser. This is also the city that the Trews call home, in its thriving crack district, where demented rats sometimes three feet in length feast on the cadavers of American tourists unprepared for the potency of Canadian narcotics.
They are Niagara's second wonder.
Jesus Christ. The Trews piss me right off. For one thing they're younger than everyone else I know and for another they don't appreciate how much God loves them. While the rest of us are consumed with earthly troubles like eating, sleeping, and fixing our credit history - the Trews blithely fart about, dripping talent and blowing the rest of us off the stage. How many girlfriends do they have to steal before somebody finally takes a machine gun to these feckless little satyrs? What proof does one need that the universe is a hostile, random and brutish place, other than four saucer-eyed and clueless pixies behaving as if it isn't - and getting away with it.
Take singer and keyboardist Colin, for instance - he's like a fairy-tale character...or a magical eunuch who floats in and out some somnambulant trance to unleash a voice marked by its fathomless beauty and sense of joy. His band-mates are apparently afraid to look at him for too long, lest his spooky gifts evaporate or worse, kill them.
Meanwhile, John-Angus MacDonald wields his guitar with the certainty that it will at least save his life and at most save the world itself. In a corrupt and savage century it is incumbent on each and every one of us, striving towards any kind of rationality while the air around us conspires to bring death and sorrow, to protect, cherish and foster John-Angus MacDonald. His kind is rarer than miracles.
Bassist Jack Syperek is like a forty-foot boner squeezed into Montgomery Clift's haircut. He plays like a sixty-minute man and acts like a homeless and barely sentient enigma who can chew the glass off a long-neck beer in a bar fight. Or a dime-a-dance kinda pretty boy all lost and beautiful, out of some anthropological survey of Times Square back in the days of Toilet Dating.
As if that's not enough, you also have Sean Dalton, whooping it up on the drums with nary a thought for the rest of us who have to practice for half our goddamn lives only to discover that it will never matter. This kid is so fast that I actually saw him finish a song before he even started it. Fittingly, he was both the first and the last member to join the Trews, starting the band long before the others were born and then showing up late. Such are his inexplicable time-keeping skills.
And the music? Well it hardly seems to matter now does it? But, for the record, it's perfect, seamless, blue-eyed soul that buggers off into chunky rock and back again with a tightness found only in nature, like an un-neutered bulldog observed from behind. Swinging, braying, good-time stuff that makes you wanna start your own band. Then you do and it's terrible and difficult and you realize with the kind of certainty that makes suicidal madmen out of French poets that some people just have it, and you don't.
Sadly, there are laws out there to protect the likes of the Trews. So, breaking fingers and smashing their heads in is not an option. Better to get on board and love them now so that when they're bigger than the country that spawned them, and I have finally found some measure of peace in the cold, cold ground, you can run around and tell people that I was right all along.