Painted Thin, and missing the local scene

I found this clip on YouTube and waves of nostalgia crashed over me and pulled me under.

Being 15 years old.  Buying this record at The Cellar.  Sneaking out of my parents' house to go see shows at the West End Cultural Centre.  Spending every spare dollar I had on CD's/tapes/vinyl/concerts/stickers/posters and other music-related merchandise.

I fell in love with local indie music that year.  Endearing Records.  G-7.  The Bonaduces, Painted Thin, B'ehl, The Weakerthans, Evie, Kicker, and all those miscellaneous local bands whose names I have forgotten over time. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVKDEg5siN4

(I typed out the lyrics of these songs, which were printed in the liner notes of "...still they die of heartbreak".  It's pretty much undecipherable otherwise.)

John Wayne's Wettest Dream
Protectionist hatred, only necessary for the survival
of a reflection that haunts us over and over.
Male sexuality confronted with the fear of itself.
Palms start to sweat right before every fight starts.
"Gay men can't be men, because gay men must not stranger rape".  Homophobia does its best to keep men safe.
You're just trying to lay the blame, and fondle insecurities that overshadow your wettest dream.

Piece by Piece
Imperfect hands just aren't enough to please.  They need a firm belief, my mind's upon its knees.
It's been made clear I'll be appreciated here
as long as what I say won't illuminate or interfere.
I suffer though:
homophobic,
sexist,
racist sentiments.
And, I grind my teeth through my tongue because my boss seems to encourage it.
Watching a rape-culture play unfold before my eyes with abusive male models and no consequence or reprisal.
Fighting off this atrophy with a dictionary and a magazine,
wondering how to make myself not feel so stupid.
Fighting off this apathy with a bottle cap and a bloated feeling, out of things to do.
I don't think this knife is cutting deep enough,
there's so many bigger things I haven't even touched.
Like the reduction of my life to profitability.  I get the table scraps, and the table's set by me.
But, I've got a place ensured as long as I:
#1 - stay within the bounds of these well-defined class lines 
#2 - accept my place as disposably employed
#3 - let working FOR not WITH people leave me completely satisfied
#4 - be resigned to a life of drawing chalk lines from side to side
and accepting all related acts of reduction.
Me to my time and imperfect hands, animals to their skin, flesh, or functions.  Reduction to your body or your womb.  Land is reduced to property,
and all I can think is that we'll all have to be
resigned to a life of drawing chalk lines
instead of looking up to acknowledge our puppet strings,
and working from there to take back our humanity, piece by piece.