montreal street fashion

Trust @ Club Soda

     My fingers were numb. It may have been the foreshadow of our first break of snow or maybe it was the feelings of lyrical lust pounding through my ears. It seemed simple was just running to the theatre, had my tickets trusted inside my leathers pocket, booted up, stars hiding away in fear.  The line up, a sea of tar and motor oil; shades of military and denim, of ravencrow and bear mo.

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Sweat whipped from his hair, a mane of insane pulchritude. A danse aroma of angst, eroticism, pain, and euphoria. Alfons belts out a bunkered croon, the days are numbered but each second eternal damnation and were all damned nationalists. Each breath taken away from us like a gasp from the smoke machine set up by his eagerness to hide and our pull to be spellbound. Transporting us to imagry of or childhoods nawakened dreams, of industrial white houses and moody trains of drugged out drones.

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A set all too short a taste of the possibility headlining next time around. For those few minutes the room connected in eternal dance, rocketing into each other but no one could be angry. Highlighted only by the colors of the lights scratching at our faces and slamming into walls. Synth grabbed at my dog collar and each break pulling tighter suffocating almost losing my beer. We swung around each other praying this will never reach the end and we will never leave another curtained chapel again.

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Leaving us gasping for more, unable to comprehend what just happened. Thirty minutes in Vegas and no one will remember anything but blurs of brightened brilliance, the moody gritty beats stretching our ears and blacking our eyes. Man crushes, and beer crunches the ceilings illuminate and its your own walk of shame back to coat check , the elixir takes form and once again thrown out into wools cold.

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Hall lights were glowing and I wasnt sure if I should leave. But as if a notice of fate or just a fortunate taste of the reality of still being a local act, there He was. Robert Alfons, the lead singer of Trust glaring past the window, or the skank prying for his attention. Shy in sulk we graze hands and Sunday is no longer for mourning.

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Oh, yeah. And one of my high school day bands, the Faint came on right after. They were good, and sounded just like the record but I had still not come off my high of the set Trust bellowed prior.

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The Faint – Headliners

All Photos courtesy of @debbiedahmer and @bobbileon on Instagram.

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