Marc Robillard, Biography

Marc Robillard @ The Rivoli, Toronto.


Most musicians discover their passion at an early age. But Toronto’s Marc Robillard has taken a different path before releasing his debut album. Unlike other recording artists, music wasn’t always his first obsession. Sometimes life can take a different course.

To explain how, we need to turn back the clock …

From the age of three, Marc Robillard’s instruments of choice were a pair of skates and a curved stick. His sights were set on becoming a pro hockey player. As a teen, he moved from city to city to play competitively. His skills quickly caught the eye of OHL scouts. At age sixteen, he was the first choice draft pick from Atlantic Canada. The newly-signed rookie found himself playing shoulder-to-shoulder with some of today’s top NHL players. Looking to the future, making it to the NHL was only a matter of time.

But it didn’t happen that way. His hockey career ended suddenly after breaking his collar bone during a game. Unable to continue as a pro-athlete, with his future uncertain, he found work at a local café in Halifax to make ends meet. Infected by the buzz of the thriving music scene, Robillard transformed his passion for hockey into a new obsession: making music.

Soon after, he started a record label in Halifax producing and promoting independent bands. Two years later, he realized he wanted to be on the other side of the glass. With this realization, he moved to Toronto and started to work on the songs which would become his debut album. To earn money on the side, Robillard began writing soundtracks for TV commercials and movies. Ironically, his music aired anonymously on national television during Hockey Night in Canada.

In his spare time, he continued work on his album. Using his savings, he bought a second hand piano, bringing, renewed inspiration to his basement apartment. His efforts grew into a collection of highly personal songs that journal his search for a passion, a true love of something, and overcoming the overwhelming. In collaboration with producer Annelise Noronha, Marc Robillard’s debut EP, Paper Airplanes unfolded.

Sometimes a clean break is all you need.

www.marcrobillard.com

Why Montreal is a Cool City

Montreal. It is the old and crumbling buildings, roads, factories that may give it an old worn-out look. But green grass and fluffly weeds always grow up between the hard spaces; life. New cities, ones that are growing with new concrete and condos, transform every surface and road into things that are efficient, "useful" or "pleasant." But there is never any life between the cracks.

Old Montreal

EXT. MONTREAL TRAIN STATION -- DAY

$2.25

Outside Gare Montréal, I flag down a taxi on Rue Réné Levesque. A taxi ride in this city is always a good way to get a sense of how life works around here. The cab driver, with a smoke dangling from his lip, asks me where I want to go. I feel like I am sitting inside an ashtray, the smell of old smoke in the seats sinks into my clothing, flecks of ash pepper the dashboard.

I ask him to deliver me to the intersection of St. Laurent and Clark Street. He nods, turns the car onto the road and... and we are stuck in traffic. Cars everwhere. This isnt rush hour traffic either-- its Saturday afternoon. The lights at the interection change from red to green, but the jagged, serpentine lines of traffic are not moving. The only thing that is moving is the fare meter.

$3.75

Finally, the cab driver bangs his fist on the wheel.
- Mon dieu! he shouts, le traffic!
- An accident?
- No there is a street festival, St. Laurent.

Only in Montreal do they block one of the main intersections for a street festival. Sensing my impatience, the driver pulls off onto a sidestreet. We reach Sherbooke Stree,t and again, we are stopped. Not by traffic but by a massive hole in the street. Not a pot hole, but a bomb crater. There are metal pylons and signs directing the mess of cars around.

$5.80

- Lots of construction, huh? I say to ease the pain of inertia.
- Ya ya, too much, all the time. Construction.
- When will it be done?
- Done?

He seems amused by my question:

-That hole, he says, that hole has been there for a year. You think anyone is going to fix that I dont think so.

$7.20

Our journey along Sherbooke is painfully slow. We pass more and more holes, until we reach St. Urbain. Here, a massive crater has overtaken a chunk of the intersection like a bullet wound. But unlike the holes before, this one is special. Looking in, you can see there is a river at bottom. Amid the sound of idling engines and squeaking breaks, its babbling sound is ironically peaceful.

Where are the road crews to fix this? Probably at the street festival.

I ask the cab driver (who is now on his second cigarette) if you are still allowed to smoke cigarettes inside bars and restaraunts in Montreal.

- Yes, you can. But not for long. Its gonna be very very bad.
- You think so?
- Yes, a lot of bars are going to close
- But they did it in Irealand, Toronoto...
-...Toronto! Ah, but Toronto is Toronto, this is Montreal. No smoking? Pah!
- When will the law come into force?
- Next year. Its so stupid.

$10.75

He bangs his fist on the steering wheel and honks the horn and a j-walking tourists and then continues edging forward with the car.

-You know what, he shouts, they want us to quit smoking, to stop smoking. They say it is for our health. Bullshit. This Jean Charest (the premier), he wants to stop smoking so that we dont go to the hospital so we can just pay more tax! Thats why!

We arent getting any closer to where i want to go; I ask him to drop me off at the next corner; I pull out my wallet.

$12.25

Bienvenue a Montréeal.

The Speed of Sound

All this talk of weather, and the new Coldplay single, had me thinking. Excuse me while I sound nerdy:

As a kid, I was told you can calculate the distance between you and a bolt of lightning by counting the length of the delay in seconds (one steamboat, two steamboat...). The number of seconds you counted was equal to the distance in kilometers.

However, it seems all that system of counting is completely inaccurate. There is mathematics and physics involved. So, I did some basic research which is useful for knowing when to run for your life:

The speed of sound is not constant. It varies with the air temperature and level of humidity. Sound travels much slower at colder temperatures than it does in hot humid temperatures. Why? It has to do with the way sound waves move through hot air faster because the particles are at a higher pressure. When you are watching a storm approach through your window, you must take this variation into account.

The basic range of speed:

• At 0 degrees, and 0% humidity sound travels 331.45m/s. (winter day)
• At 30 degrees and 100% humidity sound travels at 351.48m/s (hot summer day)

Today, for example, I can hear thunder. Right now it is 21 degrees, the humidity is 78%.

Therefore, the speed of the sound from the cars outside my window, the trees rustling, then airplane overhead, is moving at 344.99m/s (give or take 0.1 seconds).

On any stormy summer day, you can expect that as an average speed.

So when I see my next bolt of lightning, I know the BOOM of thunder is moving at 2.8 kilometers per second. A two-second delay means the heavens have opened up 5.7km away. I'm safe for now.

To get your temp/humidity levels go here. For calculating the speed of sound go here.

Weather is a force that gives us meaning

Today, Monday. Hot. The air outside is like stepping into a bathroom after you've just had a 20-minute shower with the windows closed, the fan off.

Looking out the window, a thick layer a smoke has settled over the city. The sky is constipated with moisture and pollution - a concoction of chemicals I know not the name of.

On the news the weather is the lead story. The TV anchor explains that this is the hottest day of the year, and tells us the last time it was this hot, on this date, was 1953.

Then she cuts to her "guest," a meteorologist, standing in front of a giant map. We learn that a giant air mass is sitting over the Mid East Seaboard, caught between two fronts, channeling hot air up from the south and keeping it here like a hot-air balloon. We can expect this heat to last. All week.

Then, the anchor cuts to the next guest, a representative from the Ambulance Service. We are told that we should stay indoors, drink fluid, and avoid activity outside.

Next, a scientist explains smog: low-level ozone, particulate matter, long-term effects. Asthma. High-blood pressure. Cancer. Madness. The elderly? Check in on them.

Next, cut to shots of sun-lovers on the beach playing volleyball near Lake Ontario -- but they can't go in for a dip in the water because it's too polluted.

Then we learn from a representative at Ontario Hydro that they are able to meet the demand for power (with coal burning plants, ironically)

Next, cut to interviews with people on the street:

"Oh it's awful," says one woman with a hoarse voice. "I have asthma!"

"I don't mind," says a well-tanned guy. "If it was cold I'd be complaining too, so I'll just put up with it."

"Oh I just turn on the air conditioning. I'll be fine," says another woman.

Then a list of phone numbers appears on the screen telling us whom to call if the heat causes unforeseen problems.

Looked at objectively, weather isn't a story. It is a series of pressures, winds, and moisture. It is empty. It just happens. No one notices it when it acts within norms. When tame, it is merely the container of our daily activities. But when it acts up, then it becomes endowed with meaning, with content. It has impact. It affects people. It is a headline, an event.

When things are out of the ordinary, we must dissect it, compare it, analyze and predict it. This gives us comfort, a sense of control of the uncontrollable.

I wonder why normal weather isn't ever a headline: Perhaps the news anchor could give advice about a perfectly sunny day, with a gentle breeze, high of 22 degrees. They could have an expert on the screen saying: "today will be beautiful, but ordinary. On days like this, leave work early, walk a little slower, meet a friend for a pint of beer on the patio. It will reduce stress, give you exercise," they would say. "Maybe it will even work out some of those symptoms like asthma, dehydration caused by that heat wave a few weeks back..."

(The title of this post is inspired by a brillant book with similar name)

4.5 Pounds

Mike A.

Every second, the sun provides the earth with 150 quadrillion watts of light (150,000,000,000,000). By comparison, your home light bulb provides about 120 Watts.

To create that light, the sun burns hydrogen under tremendous pressure and creates helium as a by-product. This burning is beyond hellish, creating a fire millions of degrees Celsius. The heat and light speeds towards earth and land on its surface, giving us daylight.

I was walking today through the park near my house. It was hot; the wind was blowing big clouds in the distance. That wind is the result of the uneven heating of the ground: the hot air rises and the cold air rushes in to fill its place.

The trees were feeding off of light, creating sugar to grow. The flowers and plants growing nearby take in rain water -- rain that evaporated into the air because of heat. We eat those plants. Insects too.

The sun is responsible for all of this.

This is not a new concept, but certainly an awe-inspiring one. Sometimes I forget that this earth is powered by a single source.

I am reading about the history of Einstein’s theory of relativity. Using the simple E=MC2 formula, we can calculate that it only takes a mere 4.5 pounds of the sun's hydrogen fuel to provide the earth with a second of light every second. That’s it.

And those trees swaying in the park? The sprouts pushing up out of the field? These gentle movements arethe by-product of a few micro-grams of hydrogen burning ferociously at millions of degrees, millions of miles away. Everything around us, literally everything, not just based on the sun's activity. It is the sun.

Even you.

White Noise

The following passage comes from White Noise by Don DeLillo. The main character, Jack Gladney, is in a grocery store buying food. He is in the middle of a conversation with a friend when he makes this observation:

"I was suddenly aware of the dense environmental texture. The automatic doors opened and closed, breathing abruptly. Colors Mid odors seemed sharper. The sound of gliding feet emerged from a dozen other noises, from the sub littoral drone of maintenance systems, from the rustle of newsprint as shoppers scanned their horoscopes in the tabloids up front, from the whispers of elderly women with talcumed faces, from the steady rattle of cars going over a loose manhole just outside the entrance. Gliding feet. I heard them clearly, a sad numb shuffle in every aisle." p168-169

Sometimes, I have these moments too.