TIMBER?! TIMBRE. |

By 9:30 PM, bike parking around La Tulipe on Papineau was scarce. Up and down the block, frazzled kids searched for parking metres, garden fences, trees—anything anchored to tether their wheels to. Inside the venue, at the clusterfuck fire trap La Tulipe calls an entrance, cool kids of all stripes were pushing and pulling for space and status; dreadlocked tam-tam hippies, lesbian cyclists, boys and girls with Mile End short-longs, loud-mouthed A & R a-holes and radical hipsters all competed for a tiny patch of floor to call their own.

I found my little piece of heaven right behind the sound board near the back of the room at a tall table with a few vacant stools perched around it. At exactly 10:45 the house lights dimmed and the stage light (yes, that’s “light” in the singular) came up. Taylor Kirk (the main force behind Timber Timbre) is known for his despotic controlling of the ambience at his shows. At one of his last Montreal performances, he instructed venue staff to all but extinguish all the lights in the room, choosing instead to light his set with a little desk lamp he’d brought along. At La Tulipe last Thursday, he was backlit with radiating sun-like rays, ensconcing Kirk the sun king on his throne. The smoke machine was cranked to 11, and coupled with an exclusively backlit stage, made it impossible to see any of the performers.

Behind me, a young French couple, perhaps on a first date, began a conversation that would become the second most entertaining soundtrack of the evening. “I really like Radiohead,” said the young man, sardonically, flexing his music knowledge muscles for the benefit of the young woman. “No, really, it’s crazy how much it sounds like Johnny Cash,” he continued, again totally missing the mark. “Or SAM ROBERTS,” he concluded ecstatically, convinced that he’d hit the nail on the head with that one. “Wow,” I exclaimed loudly in response, in conversation with myself. (Mr. Music Encyclopedia would later see Patrick Watson walk by and proclaim “Hey, there’s Sam Roberts.”)

Running commentary aside, Kirk was doing something new with his music. The songs as he played them were slower and more lilting than the versions released on his self-titled full-length album. Later in the show, he created a soundscape reminiscent of a muggy summer duck marsh, complete with mallard honks and a swelling sound wall of crickets. Out of this wild wonderful mess, came Kirk’s haunting, sweet warble, drawing me in, but just coming short of enveloping me. His is the sort of music that makes one want to have a secret life, the way children imagine other families, the way single people imagine the home life of their favourite couples. Timber Timbre is contemporary chamber music—emotional and intimate and designed to be enjoyed in close proximity. Not a year ago, Kirk played for 14 people on a Monday night at Bar St. Laurent II. Sitting at the back of a sold out La Tulipe, it was obvious that we’ve lost him to the world.