Tyler Colins's Blog

Given I’ve not posted about the Triple Threat Investigation Agency series (cozies with wit and grit), I thought it might be a fine time to restart … at least once before I begin pushing the new series (which I’ll remain mum about for the interim).

Hawaii-based private eyes JJ, Rey, and Linda have a high success rate re solving mysteries (MIAs and murders and misdeeds)—though they go about it rather unconventionally. If a B&E will provide answers, they’ll commit the offence—immediately and confidently. They don’t take no for an answer. As Rey asserts, no one messes with these pretty P.I.s

The Connecticut Corpse Caper, the first in the series, has the trio solving multiple murders at Aunt Matty’s haunted mansion. Twists and turns (and countless red herrings) eventually lead to resolution. Pleased (if not surprised) by the outcome, Rey determines they should (will!) become professional private investigators.

Setting up the Triple Threat Investigation Agency on Oahu proves a productive if not profitable move. The cases are steady, and each one is more complicated (if not crazier) that the previous.

JJ, Rey, and Linda would love it if you checked them out. You can find The Connecticut Corpse Caper, Can You Hula Like Hilo Hattie, Coco’s Nuts, Forever Poi, HA-HA-HA-HA, and Disco’s Dead and so is Mo-Mo on Amazon, Kobo, and any number of on-line “bookstores”.

Aloha.

The concert season for my friend, Leda, and I officially started about six weeks ago (frigid temps and icy sidewalks can put a major damper on winter show attendance). But we caught another gig at History last weekend—thanks to Leda’s perpetual good luck at winning tix): headliner The Sheepdogs, hailing from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, with opening act, Surf Hat, from Squamish, B.C. Hey, it was Juno weekend, so it was all about anything and everything Canadian.

The Sheepdogs—Ewan Currie, Ryan Gullen, Ricky Paquette, and Shamus Currie—have been around a couple of decades and are pretty much mainstream rock, with a distinct 70s (and southern rock leanings) feel. They’re very good at replicating certain sounds/artists. You could hear great vintage acts throughout their performance: Doobie Brothers, Santana, George Thorogood, Allman Brothers, Doors, Pink Floyd.

The fairly full house, primarily people 40+, obviously enjoyed what they saw. They applauded and cheered politely. It was a somewhat subdued crowd, quite a different scene than what we’re used to (given we tend to like bands with more punch/crunch), but it was great to see the support the award-winning band received.

An indie surf rock band, Surf Hat opened the show with a distinct style that was non-abrasive, maybe a bit folksy; it was a pleasant, chill kinda sound. Jon Allan and Evan Camm, the main members, have only been around four years, give or take, but with time, they’ll undoubtedly garner a wider audience.

Evidently, I was the only one at History last weekend that hadn’t seen The Hives previously—at least thrice. Hailing from Sweden, the multi award-winning five-man band—Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist [vocals] and his brother Nicholaus Arson [guitar], Vigilante Carlstroem [guitar], The Johan and Only [bass], and Chris Dangerous [drums]—have put out seven albums since their inception in 1993. Pretty impressive. But not as much as their performance. These guys rock … and roll … and give their all. Like bees in a hive, they were lively, focused, and fluid.

Where’d the name of the band come from? Drummer Dangerous had suggested it after reading the word for the skin disease in a dictionary. A slight misinterpretation ensued: believing the word meant a “lethal” and “contagious” illness, the guys embraced the name (and later added “The” because they believed “all good band names were plurals”). 

Almqvist is a true entertainer, a showman; he does a superlative job of interacting with, and engaging, the audience—shaking hands, stepping into the crowds … ambling/dancing along a 6”-wide balustrade. Can’t say I’ve ever had a musician’s shoe 2” from my face before, never mind having a performer hover directly above me (my friend and I had secured spots right before said balustrade). Fun as it was, the thought that he could tumble—onto us—did cross my mind, as it obviously had the security folks following him closely behind, given their tense, good-gawd-what-if-he-falls expressions.

I don’t do long reviews (though I’m giving considerable thought to changing that somewhere down the road), but if I did, I’d share more about The Hives’ accomplishments, the interesting little tale about who does all the songwriting, and their collaborations with other artists. Check ‘em out; you won’t be disappointed.

And speaking of checking, before I check out, I must mention the opening band, The Chats (Eamon Sandwith, Matt Boggis, and Josh Hardy), a punk band hailing from Australia. They’re punchy and energetic, if not frenetic. A perfect pairing for a fantastically entertaining, rock-n-rolling evening.

Oh fudge! I missed posting last week. Too much on the ol’ plate? You betcha!

Too much confectionary intake due to too much bouncing around, attempting to get things done? You betcha! And for the record, excessive candy intake does indeed equal a mega sugar rush (it’s not a myth).

Rediscovering the flavorful world of fudge was a pleasant (scrumptious) diversion. Loved it as a kid. Maple walnut is still the best. Hadn’t seen it in a forever, but then I wasn’t looking for it … until it leaped from the cookies and candies counter. Outta sight and outta mind was now into buggy and into mouth. And really, what’s better than a delicious bite (or three) of sticky-sweet, creamy, melt-in-your mouth goodness?

Like my mouth in expectation of a tasty treat, my ears are forever perked in anticipation of kickin’/rippin’ rock-and-roll, be it old or new. Timing’s everything—or is that coincidence? A classic tune caught my attention … Vanilla Fudge … playing their big late 60s hit, “You Keep Me Hangin’ On”.

For those not into rock history, American rock band Vanilla Fudge have been said to have inspired greats like Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin and cited “to be one of the few American links between psychedelia and what soon became heavy metal”. Impressive. As an FYI, they popped out five albums between 1967 and 1969, then disbanded a year later. But they’re back. Per their site, they’re still touring around with three of the original members. If you haven’t heard “You Keep me Hangin’ On” (yeah, the one originally recorded by the Supremes), take a listen. A different treat, to be sure.

You could have, had you’d attended last night’s Abbamania Canada show—with Night Fever and Tribute to Cher—at Roy Thomson Hall. Primarily composed of studio musicians, there was also a front band and a live strings and horn section.

Kara Promise (Chandler) opened as Cher, looking and sounding close to the real deal. She had presence and demonstrated effortless and entertaining ease connecting with her audience. As a Cher fan (yes, t’is true, I’m not all about hardcore rock-n-roll), the only thing disappointing about her performance was that it was too short at three songs. It would have been easy—and enjoyable—to sit through triple the amount of tunes!

I’ve always liked the Bee Gees (who doesn’t delight in a little dance and disco now and again?) and found the Night Fever set fun. Though yours truly felt Barry’s falsetto was a bit too, well, falsetto at times, the trio performing as the Gibb bothers were vibrant. Clearly, they were in their element and enthusiastically gave the audience what they wanted: a damn good shake-your-booty time.

The Abba tribute act offered solid renditions of the various Swedish pop band’s hits and presented an energetic, feel-good vibe. Not a fan (sorrrrrrry), yours truly bowed out after four songs, but others were on their feet and frolicking about, many joyfully embracing nostalgia and others delighting in dance-inducing songs. Applause and cheers reigned—a commendable tribute to a tribute band.

As this particularly cold/harsh winter drags on (and on), one has to find things to take one’s mind off the gloominess leaden skies cast. TV’s not really my thang, though it does serve for background noise on workdays. Writing works, but sometimes the ol’ gray matter doesn’t oblige by being creative (undoubtedly influenced by the gray snow and sludge outside). So, a book will oft do the trick—like the recent reading of Scottish author Stuart MacBride’s The Dead of Winter. It’s truly sheer brilliance.

I’ve posted about his most recent contribution to the literary world: This House of Burning Bones. This first [thrilling] foray into a MacBride book was a guarantee of more reads to come. And they have!

The Dead of Winter, a standalone, follows the adventures of DC Edward Reekie and his boss, DI Montgomery-Porter (“Bigtoria”) as they get caught in a blizzard in Glenfarach, a secured haven of sorts; it’s a place where people who’ve served most of their sentences go because they can’t be released into the general populace. Nice folks—like pedophiles and rapists, and a plethora of criminal sorts that fall in between.

It’s not necessarily an easy read, given the darkness of the crimes and criminals, but damn, it’s fun and enjoyable. Only MacBride can weave such grim, dry and wry humor into the absurdist of situations and dilemmas. The plot twists and turns like a cloverleaf interchange, and just when you think you’ve figured it out—you haven’t! You’re kept puzzling out who the perp—or is that perv?—is to the very end.

In some ways, I’m tempted to draw a parallel between the book and a great rock song—both have crunch and freneticism. One has heavy drumming and strumming, and both have a level of calmness or softness before the feverishness erupts again.

Perhaps that’s a good note to end on. Enjoy this oldie but goodie (may it rock your socks off) …

With a bout of February funk running rampant, thoughts and reflections and imagination twist about like the introspective (sometimes brooding) chewing of a Twizzler. TV’s on more than usual, though only 10% is actually being absorbed.

I’ve been negligent in writing—some reasons legitimate, others unsubstantial—though I have [thankfully and happily] started reading again. And that, as I glanced at the cooking competition on screen, got me to thinking how alike artists are: we engage in our chosen craft with heart and soul, endeavoring to perfect whatever project(s) we’re currently working on.

A cook will ensure the ingredients and seasonings in a dish, a recipe, are just right. A writer will revise wording and scenes until they gel. An editor will reshape a manuscript so that it’s logical/readable. A musician will sing and/or play a song until it’s spot-on. A painter … and on it goes. Essentially, we’re all cut of the same cloth because regardless of the craft, we practice, run through, rehearse. Repetition [with intent to improve] = eventual perfection.

An annoyance, this February funk that weighs like a bank of wet snow. It rather brings meaning to the phrase “suffering artist” (though I imagine many people, from all walks of life, undergo similar feelings in and around this time of year). Fortunately, February is a short month and the feeling of ennui equally brief. In some ways, it’s worth enduring, because as it fades, life once again shines like a brilliant spring sun. Which makes the biggest and heaviest of tasks so much easier to take on.

A cook and a book and singing a song of sixpence. Perhaps not perfected, but a perfect, uncomplicated concept for a snowy mid-February Saturday post.

The latest catch-up on outstanding Brit shows for yours truly is Whitechapel. The four-season police procedural ran from 2009 thru 2013 and starred three stellar actors: Rupert Penry-Jones as meticulous, OCD-gripped D.I. Joseph Chandler, Phil Davis as crusty, streetwise D.S. Ray Miles, and Steve Pemberton (who also wrote the episodes) as erudite, enthusiastic writer/researcher Edward Buchan.

The first season follows the Whitechapel team in their search for a Jack the Ripper copycat … and sets the stage for ongoing character development and relationships. Most team members mesh well, with some (like Chandler and Miles) experiencing flourishing respect and camaraderie. Even the Buchan character, initially scorned and ridiculed, is eventually accepted—though perhaps begrudgingly—for his serial-killer expertise.

It’s not for the squeamish. Whitechapel proves [entertainingly] disturbing and grisly, with gruesome murders and grim murders/murderers. Even members of the team have their own personal demons to contend with. The storylines are gripping and dark, the latter not only in terms of the frequent night-time scenes [which results in a lot of eye-squinting and rewinding] but the settings: twisting passageways, rat-infested sewers, ramshackle dwellings, and the creepy, mold-tinged station that suffers from bad lighting and plumbing.

The final episode ends on a what-happens-next? note … with a supernatural element that has you dying (pun intended) to learn more. But there’s something to be said for curiosity: you can allow your imagination to run wild to create your own grand finale.

Just returned from a tropical vacation that was truly an experience—cosmically, unforgettably, laughably. It will be one that will remain forever etched in the memory banks, one so … extraordinary, shall we say? … one can only smile and chuckle, and say, okay, chalk it up to—yep—experience.

From the moment upon arrival, everything that could go wrong, did. Some trial-and-tribulation highlights include:

** Rooms weren’t ready for a good hour. One room, when finally available, hadn’t been cleaned. At all.

** New rooms were eventually gotten. Nice. Fine. … The balcony door didn’t lock. Not a big deal—unless you’re on ground level. Who wants an uninvited visitor at two in the a.m.?

** It rained—no, it teemed. And teemed. And teemed. Five days straight. Which resulted in a search for Noah and his ark.

** But it didn’t end with constant downpours; it was cold (unseasonably and unbelievably so). Can you spell “b-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r”? Those huddled in multiple beach towels sure could.

** Excursions were a no-go (not when you didn’t have the proper attire, which most people didn’t). And for the odd person who braved embarking on one, they were rewarded by an added bonus: minnows in a soup that wasn’t advertised as a fish/seafood-based concoction. Nummmm.

** When you could finally walk along the beach—Mr. Sun exposed himself for a couple of hours one day—there were sea worms to navigate (guess the ugly, squishy, slimy creatures didn’t care for the cool clime either and decided to protest by claiming the sand).

** Oh, and let’s not forget tummy troubles that make for fun times.

An experience of a lifetime, bar none. For those embarking on a vacation in the next wee while, may yours be infinitely better [and warmer]—an experience memorable for all the right reasons.

Some weekends it’s super simple to conceive of a post, others not. This one, I had a few so I’m going with the first on the list: the “fan-site”.

I follow certain bands and singers; a couple even follow me (thank you!). There’s one singer, though, a fave for sure, who has recently followed me with two-three different profiles. While it’d be fab to have him truly follow me, the likelihood of that is next to nil.

However, this time, I was curious—and I thought, hmm, this might make for an interesting post—so I followed back. And lo and behold, a message arrived a day later, as I suspected one would. “Hello beautiful” it began. Ooooh, Fake Rock Star has a discerning eye . Evidently, he’s decided to start an official fan site to address those who comment frequently and offer good wishes on the other [real] fan site.

I opted for the silent approach. Next day, Fake Rock Star admonished me for not responding—rather like a slap to the hand. “I’m a very busy man …”. Shades of Mommy Dearest, or Daddy Dearest in this case.

That quelled the desire to see where this would go. Though potential fodder for a potential study/post (some time in the future), who really has time for such nonsense? Fake Rock Star is now UN-followed.

It does make me sad though, not that Real Rock Star isn’t following/messaging me, but that there’s so much deceit going on, and on so many levels—in social media, the news, everyday life. What would it be like if honesty were the way of the world? Where Utopia existed? Where we could indeed make friends with anyone and everyone, and not be misled or betrayed?

Something to ruminate over on this snowy, settle-into-a-comfy-seat Sunday …