The producer is considered part of the emotive chillwave crowd, but separates from the pack by maintaining the kind of energy intended for long nights out on the town, even if every moment isn’t action packed. In fact, it’s more about those reflective moments in between.

Less than a year ago some friends got together to celebrate the final days before turning 20 years old. To mark the passing of the teenage years, they did all the things teenagers do–loitering, trespassing, eating candy–and thus Teen Daze was born. The producer’s debut EP, Four More Years (Arcade Sound Ltd.) made listeners happy with wistful songs like “Saviour” and “Around,” plus he’s done remixes for Yeasayer and Local Natives.

Catch him on tour in December with stops along the West coast up to his hometown of Vancouver. There are plenty of nice things we could say about Teen Daze, but we’ll let the man speak for himself on everything from late night recording sessions to religion.

Wintersleep is a five-piece band that bears accolades (Juno, Much Music) and handles mid-tour robberies of their gear with equal aplomb and grace (as only Canucks can). They also happen to–when not buried in piles of dust and moldering books in library stacks around North America–crank out some sweet tunes.

Citing such literary lightweights and sillypants-funster authors as Sylvia Plath and Don De Lillo as influences on their music (that’s sarcasm, people), you might expect to have a sloppy sobfest on your hands, but in reality, they’re just as dance-party-worthy and fun as Arcade Fire.

Maybe because they’re Canadian, maybe because they’re obviously brill, or maybe because they’re infused with some miraculous confidence-building serum not yet available to the drooling, unwashed masses, they manage to wear their smarts on their sleeves without coming off as supercilious blowhards or hopelessly nerdy schlubsters.

They confess to reading “City of God” by E.L. Doctorow with as much bemusement as most bands regale the public with tales of their last Pabst-fueled barfarama. They make book clubs seem…cool. Plus they look like the kind of unshaven, wild-haired ruffian hotties who could keep up with you shot-for-shot on Friday night, then clean up in time for Saturday brunch with Mom to boot. Swoon!

The logical stuff, first. Among the nominees are three Uncensored Interview-heralded acts: City and Colour, nominated for Artist of the Year and Songwriter of the Year; Plants and Animals and The Stills, pitted against each other for New Group of the Year; and once again, Plants and Animals and The Stills for Alternative Album of the Year. Parc Avenue vs. Oceans Will Rise! Healthy competition! If the Stills triumph, no doubt they’ll treat themselves to some of that fancy American alcohol they like so much.

But really, we wish all three outfits could take home shiny trophies covered in glitter, magical snow that never melts and a never-ending supply of poutine. (Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. This heart-attack on the plate may well be the secret to the Montreal music scene. Wonder if they serve it at any of the places Plants and Animals recommend above?) What we don’t understand, or perhaps want to understand, is why Nickelback has gotten the nod in no less than five different categories. Everyone loves to pick on Nickelback. We get that. We’re happy they’re around, doing their thing, and that they have fans who appreciate them. But Canada, seriously? You genuinely like these guys?

We can count on Dallas Green, at least, to direct polite, congratulatory remarks at Chad Kroeger if the latter somehow manages to wins it all.

ThePerryTrain has been riding the rails to Canada to visit family and to get all pruney in my mom’s new hot tub. Last night my mom and I ordered Chinese food. Satiated and sleepy we opened our fortune cookies before bed. I was fortunate to have a cookie replete with three fortunes, all the same: “Good fortune is on the way, especially in your business ventures.”

This was good news, I could feel it. The cookie had blessed my business prospects in triplicate. Then my mother let out a sad sound like a noisy toy whose batteries just ran out. In an unfortunate turn of events it appeared her cookie was empty.

As happy as I was with my plethora of good fortunes I couldn’t feel happy anymore because there is nothing sadder than an empty fortune cookie. I decided since I had a fortune of fortunes I would give to the less fortunate. “Here, have one of mine. Now we both have good fortune on the way.”

I just gave away a third of my fortune and for just a moment, I knew how Angelina Jolie must feel. I guess it’s true when Mark Twain said “To get the full value of joy you must have someone to divide it with.” But to be honest, there are some kinds of joy you might want to keep to yourself. Just ask Brandon from The Architects.

Blood, fear and pain make for excellent stories. My top three stories to tell at a party are when Fred Durst threatened to kick my ass (really), when I got bit in the face by a dog and when I spent two weeks on a bus across Canada with a group of contest winners from a beer promotion who were doing blow, dropping deuces in the bus toilet and talking about how they were “gonna meet up wit’ my ol’ man Smokey because he’s been off da sauce.” All highly traumatic at the time, these turned out to be some of the best moments of my life, or at least hilarious in hindsight. So, for anyone worried about the economy, here’s a suggestion for a way to look on the bright side: The worst experiences always make the best stories. That Steinbeck fellow sure made a killing off his tale of the last worst economic crisis in America.

The only thing about being honest is that sometimes people don’t want the truth.

Here in Chicago the weather has turned cold and I’m now subjected to the predictable response from strangers, usually in a conversation in an elevator, when I tell them I’m originally from Canada. “Ohhh, so you don’t have a problem with the cold! You’re used to it!”  The truth is, I’m not okay with the cold. I hate the cold, it’s only useful to me to keep my food from spoiling. But until I move back to LA in February I’m going to be forced to deal with this unsurprising, mindlessness from strangers.

I used to think that honesty was the best policy as I would reply “Actually I hate the cold. Just because I’m from Canada doesn’t mean I have ice in my veins or that I’m a reptile or an Eskimo. I’m all bundled up just like you and I can’t wait ’til this nightmare ends.”  Mostly people don’t know how to react to that and I’m usually met with an awkward “Oh.” Apparently the truth comes off as rude, which means that now I’m torn between feeling rude and telling the truth or being agreeable and a liar.

I’ve decided just to “go with the flow”, “take the path of least resistance” and just agree with them.  People generally respond better. “Oh, yeah, this cold, it’s just peachy. I’ve got ice in my veins. You know my relatives are all Eskimos. Ha, ha, ha.”  It turns out people don’t want the truth. They just want you to agree with them.

One of the best things about going home to Canada to visit my family is that my mother has become a “hot tub enthusiast.” What this means is that a few years ago she moved into a new house that had not only an outdoor but also an indoor hot tub. I’m not talking about some rinky-dink bathtub whirlpool. I mean that the previous owner of the house installed a legitimate, full force, two person hot tub in the master bathroom. It is a soaking vessel of monolithic proportions whose retractable vinyl cover doubles as a catch-all for towels during the summer months.
The indoor hot tub has been enjoyed so much that this fall the aging outdoor hot tub was replaced with a brand new model, complete with variable jets and underwater disco lighting. For my mother the hot tub has become a new child or a lap dog; something that receives constant attention. Now she’s buying accoutrements for it like plastic pillows and a new pergola to keep the snow off in winter. Every morning she wakes up and heads for the tub and in the evening her favorite activity is to have a glass of wine and wind down in 102 degrees of frothy heaven. It’s like she’s marinating herself with a red wine jus in a giant crock-pot. I’ve realized that this is the house you go to die in relaxing comfort.

I’m Canadian and grew up with socialized health care.  After hearing yet another person complain about how they can’t afford health care I realized I have never EVER heard someone who has socialized health care wish they didn’t have it. They’ve never said “I wish I could just find some confusing forms to fill out and pay an ass load of money to someone for a service I’ll rarely use.” I have never heard someone complain about having health care and just wish they had insurance.

I mean, we Canadians know how you talk about us. We know you think we’re your dumb, younger brother with a bad case of ADD who still shits his pants once a week, just emptied an entire jar of pickles into mom’s purse and is now sitting under the coffee table wrapped in tin-foil wiping peanut butter on the dog. But if Canadians can get this health care thing figured out, why the F can’t you?

Let’s face it, the insurance companies are the parasites of the medical industry. They’re the equivalent of the major record label finding a decent band, signing them to a shit contract because they are artists and don’t know business law, forcing them to spend thousands of dollars on recording, touring and making videos which will all be recouped (deductible, anyone?) before a band makes a dime and ultimately get dropped unceremoniously when they no longer meet the standards of the label.

I realize right wing Christians think we’ve only been around this planet for 2000 years or so, but how many people have to die before we realize that we’re all going to? The human body is a disgusting organism. It produces foul odors, leaks, it’s prone to infection and disease, it produces children, ages, breaks when you drop it, falls over accidentally, runs with scissors, creates and uses weapons, becomes addicted, is sleep deprived, spills hot coffee and gets bitten by animals.

Call me a pessimist but there is NEVER going to come a day when human beings are not going to require medical attention. Get it? Health care is not an option like “Should I buy the second pair of Nikes?” It’s as essential to every human life as air, water and food. This country needs a better plan.

Let’s face it. The system is faulty. Its time has come. Do something about it. Make a change. It is your responsibility. Go register to vote.

But enough with the Canada jokes.  In honor of new blogger theperrytrain, I thought I’d confess.

Most of us Americans deep down do want to be Canadian.  Well, no.  We want Canadian stuff, while still being the cocksure rulers of the planet.  It’s like when you go to a clean freak’s house, and you’d love for your house to be that clean, but really, you’re never going to put in the time or effort.  You still want to go to shows and get trashed and come home to your dirty hovel.  Sure, I’d like safer, cleaner streets, but I also like guns and littering.  Sure, I’d love better health care, but higher taxes make Jenny angry!  Sure, I’d like Pamela Anderson, but–oh wait we got that one.  And you can keep Celine Dion, Canada.  We already have Michael Bolton.

But really Canada, you have a lot going on.  And we kid you, because we love.  And because you’re an amazingly dorky butt of a joke.  But mostly, love.  Even rockstars like Dead Girls Ruin Everything agree though, we’d all move to Canada:

Personally, if I were to period date porn as art, I’d call it the “Pre-Ejaculate Period”.Oh, and don’t forget to vote every day for Uncensored Interview to win the SXSW viewer’s choice award. Just go to http://sxsw.com/peoples_choice/, enter your super-secret passcode, and send us some love, unlike your high school prom date, who whored herself out to the tight end on the varsity football team. The Tight End! Not even the fucking quarterback! What a whore! Ok, seriously, maybe we have some unresolved issues here.