The intro unfolds like a slow cascade, one gorgeous melody after another. Delicate piano keys tiptoe across the soundscape, gently plucked guitar strings shimmer beneath, and the strings sway and dance with full-bodied, expressive bowing, like a flower lilting in a breeze. The entire song lifts you up and carries you, sweeping you off your feet before setting you down gently with a sigh, leaving behind a sense of breathlessness and wonder.
And then there are the vocals. Two voices, contrasting and complementary. They weave in and out of each other like tide and shore. There’s just enough friction to keep things compelling, just enough harmony to leave you fulfilled. Their interplay adds another layer of richness, pulling you even deeper into the song’s dreamlike spell. They take turns singing, first one, then the other, then both together, each adding their own distinct colour to the evolving soundscape.
After the bridge, the cello steps in with a resonant depth, taking over the bassline beneath a lively, dancing piano. Then, with full force, we’re swept back into the chorus. It feels cinematic as the vocalists echo the line, “I’m changing the weather, my heart’s feeling better,” a mantra of transformation.
The arrangement is nothing short of masterful. Every section arrives at just the right moment, never lingering too long, always giving you exactly what you’re unknowingly craving. What begins as a delicate, careful piece grows into a soaring anthem of self-discovery and release. It’s bold without being brash. It’s a declaration of freedom that feels personal and profound. When it ends, you’re left with breathless awe, a deep sense of pride, and the undeniable feeling that you’ve just witnessed something vulnerable and liberating.
If you’ve spent any time in the Canadian music scene, chances are you’ve heard whispers (or shouts) about Mint Records. This beloved Vancouver-based indie label has been doing its own thing since 1991, and doing it very well.
It doesn’t matter if it’s fuzzy punk, dreamy art pop, or something you can’t even name yet, Mint has always had a sixth sense for spotting the good stuff before anyone else.
Mint Records was founded by two friends, Randy Iwata and Bill Baker, who met while working at UBC’s student radio station, CiTR. What started as a way to release local music turned into one of Canada’s most iconic independent labels.
In the early days, they helped put bands like “cub” and “The New Pornographers” on the map. They earned international attention for their offbeat, DIY approach and fiercely catchy sound.
Ask anyone who works with them, and they’ll tell you Mint Records is more than just a business. “There’s a family feeling to it,” says label manager Robert Catherall. “We’re all friends, and we hang out a lot outside of work.”
That sense of community translates into how they support their artists. No stuffy A&R meetings. No corporate algorithms. Just genuine love for music and the people who make it.
Over the years, Mint has been home to some serious talent. Past and present artists include:
Neko Case
The Pack A.D.
cub
The Evaporators
Faith Healer
Wares
Sook-Yin Lee
Future Star
From jangly indie rock to gritty punk to experimental pop, Mint doesn’t play favourites when it comes to genre. They just care that it’s good.
The music world has changed a lot since the ‘90s. CDs gave way to MP3s, which gave way to streaming, and whatever’s next. Through it all, Mint has stayed true to its ethos to support artists, keep it independent, and never lose the fun.
They’ve survived distribution collapses, industry curveballs, and the digital streaming grind. And they’ve done this without selling out. Instead, they did it by staying scrappy and creative.
Three decades in, Mint Records is still evolving. They’re still signing exciting new artists, still putting out vinyl, and still throwing shows that remind you why live music matters.
And while they’re definitely nostalgic for the golden age of zines and DIY tours, they’re not stuck in the past. Mint is always looking for fresh voices with something real to say.
If you’ve only heard of Grimes because of her relationship with Elon Musk, it’s time to look again. Claire Elise Boucher, better known as Grimes, is a genre-defying, boundary-pushing artist whose influence spans music, visual art, and technology.
Born in Vancouver, British Columbia, Grimes has built an entire creative universe that’s entirely her own. Her journey began in Montreal, where she dropped her first two albums, Geidi Primes and Halfaxa, back in 2010. These early projects were otherworldly, combining sci-fi inspirations and experimental sounds into something that didn’t quite fit anywhere.
You might’ve first heard her name after Visions exploded onto the indie scene in 2012. That album won the Juno Award for Electronic Album of the Year and cemented Grimes as a force to be reckoned with. By 2015, she shifted her sound again with Art Angels, a dazzling, high-energy pop record. And in 2020, she delivered Miss Anthropocene, a concept album diving deep into dystopian and futuristic themes, showing us once again that Grimes doesn’t follow trends. She sets them.
But Grimes doesn’t stop at music. She’s also a prolific visual artist. From designing her own album covers to creating original artworks influenced by anime, manga, and alternative comics, her artistic vision is just as sharp as her sonic one. In 2021, she made headlines by selling digital artwork as NFTs, making $5.8 million in just 20 minutes. If you’re looking for someone who bridges the gap between traditional art and the digital future, she’s it.
And speaking of the future, Grimes is obsessed with it in the best way. She’s all in on tech. In 2021, she launched a podcast called Homo Techno and opened a Discord server to connect directly with fans. Then, in 2023, she publicly announced that she’ll allow anyone to use her AI-generated voice to create music. While other artists were wary of AI, Grimes ran toward it and invited her audience to come with her.
Yes, she shares children with Elon Musk. And yes, their relationship captured headlines. But what often gets missed is how she’s balanced motherhood with an unapologetically ambitious career and continues to use her platform to speak up on issues like climate change, creative freedom, and women in tech and art.
Right now, Grimes is working on new music, experimental projects, and collaborations that continue to defy labels. If you’re into pop music that doesn’t play by the rules, or art that embraces chaos and futurism, Grimes is someone to watch.
Grimes shouldn’t just be remembered for who she dated.
Leila Naderi, better known by her evocative stage name Leila Neverland, has been crafting lush, cinematic soundscapes and bending genre lines since 2009.
Leila’s work is as much a journey as it is a performance. Her music fuses classical training with raw emotionality, shaped by life’s twists, losses, and revelations. “I started writing music because I was angry,” she recalls. “I was an angry teenager. My dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s when I was 12. We moved from Toronto to Texas, and I hated it. Writing became a way to journal, to process.”
That emotional authenticity still echoes in her music. “If someone were to listen to my songs from beginning to now,” she says, “they’d get a pretty real, poetic interpretation of my journey.”
In 2012, Leila mounted a major interdisciplinary project, writing music for an original play built with her community. It was her first big launch, blending theatre, music, and collaboration. These values have continued to define her creative process.
“I do all the writing and arranging, but I love showing up in communities and hiring local artists,” she says. “It brings the economy to that space. I travel with Neil, he drums, and then add others: cello, strings, horns. Whatever the vibe calls for.”
(Leila Neverland)
The pandemic catalyzed another evolution. With live gigs on hold, Leila taught herself how to notate music. “I was classically trained, but I’d never taken the exact notes I was hearing and put them on paper.” After 18 months of workshopping, she emerged with a nine-song live album arranged for an eight-piece band. “It was liberating,” she says. “To take the sounds in my head, write them down, and hear them come alive through other people. That’s wild.”
Releasing that album in 2023 marked a turning point. “I finally had the charts to bring in musicians anywhere. I played Kaslo Jazz Festival. That was an eight-year dream.”
But the road hasn’t been smooth. Injuries, rebranding, and financial hardship have tested her resilience. “During the pandemic, I lost $37,000 in eight days. I was a single mom with two kids, sitting in the backyard with my ukulele wondering, ‘What the f— am I doing?’” Then came a devastating elbow injury on a farm job that left her with nerve damage in her piano hand. “I cried a lot. I thought I’d never play again.”
And just this year, Spotify falsely accused her of streaming fraud and took down her EP, including her song Edge of the World. Two months later, they sent her a plaque celebrating 20,000 streams. “It was ridiculous,” she says, “but it reminded me: I’m not here for hustle culture or algorithms. I’m here for a real connection. I’m here for live music.”
This ethos pulses through her newest endeavour: a forthcoming album recorded at Lightmachine Records in Vancouver, mastered by Grammy-winning legend Harry Weinberg. It’s her first major studio release, due in 2026. In the meantime, Leila’s exploring a hybrid of music, theatre, and visual art through her Dreamscape Cabaret, a monthly experimental performance space for women and avant-garde creators. “I do a ten-minute piece every show, exploring what this album’s live experience will become. It scares the shit out of me, and I love it.”
She’s also directing a 150-person rock choir in Kelowna, thanks to Nick La Riviere of The Paperboys. “I get to arrange one of my own songs for four-part harmony. That’s a dream come true.”
Ultimately, Leila’s ambition is clear: “I want to create live cinema. Big tours with choirs, orchestras, projection art, and soundscapes. All of it. Beautiful, giant pieces of art.”
When asked what music is, Leila reflects: “Music is the translation of the intangible. It starts with silence, and it invites co-creation. It’s how artists pull tendrils from that silent space and bring them into the world.”
In the documentary “STOKED: The Dreadnoughts Return”, there’s a moment that perfectly captures the beautiful chaos that is The Dreadnoughts. It’s a story so on-brand it could be their band bio. The time they played a pirate bar in Poland and, unsurprisingly, left it in absolute ruins.
Now, if you’ve never been to a Dreadnoughts show, imagine a sea shanty concert colliding headfirst with a punk riot. There are mosh pits. There are flying instruments. There are beer showers and, once, I swear I saw a band member set their pant leg on fire mid-song. It’s wild, it’s sweaty, it’s nautical anarchy, and everyone’s having the time of their life.
So, picture this. A pirate-themed bar in Poland. The inside looked like the set of Pirates of the Caribbean if it were sponsored by cheap vodka and good intentions. Wooden ship walls, rope netting, rigging, the whole vibe. The Dreadnaughts took the stage, and, as expected, things got delightfully out of hand.
According to the band, someone (band member? innocent bystander? ancient sea ghost?) may or may not have yelled at the crowd to “climb something.” That’s all the encouragement the local Polish punk kids needed. Fueled by cheap booze and pure chaos, they started scaling the rigging, the walls, even each other. One enterprising climber yanked a giant net loose, which promptly collapsed onto the band and part of the crowd.
The show came to a screeching halt as everyone tried to untangle themselves from the ropey mess. The bar owners, now witnessing their ship-shaped dream turning into a literal liability nightmare, were not, as they say, stoked. They tried to shut the show down.
But the Dreadnaughts, true to form, kept playing. Even when the owners cut power to the amps, they didn’t stop. The crowd didn’t stop. The moshing just… got quieter. Acoustic mosh energy.
Eventually, for reasons including but not limited to “this is a fire hazard,” the show was forcibly shut down.
But the legend? That stayed afloat. Pirate punk legends. Mayhem on the high seas… of Eastern Europe.
Ah, Vancouver. Home of ocean-kissed breezes, sushi for days, and more yoga pants per capita than seems statistically possible. It’s also a city that’s pretty into street performers, provided you follow the rules. Yes, rules. This isn’t the Wild West. This is Vancouver, where busking comes with bylaws, permits, and the occasional stern glare from a seagull.
So if you’re a fire-juggler, saxophonist, sword-swallower, or kazoo enthusiast, read on. Here’s everything you need to know before you pull out your stuff and start dazzling passersby.
Get Yourself Legit
First things first. In most areas of Vancouver, you need a Street Entertainment Permit to busk legally.
Apply through the City of Vancouver’s official website and be prepared to:
Choose your preferred location category
Follow all city bylaws (more on that in a hot second)
Do not yell at pigeons. They live here too.
Downtown Vancouver
Downtown Vancouver has some extra spice. There are specific zones where you can strum your guitar or balance unicycles without facing the wrath of the city.
Downtown rules include:
No voice amplification. Your pipes must remain unplugged.
Only battery-powered amplification is allowed, and only for instruments that need it to be heard.
70 decibels max. That’s about the volume of a vacuum cleaner. If your performance could rattle a seagull off its perch, it’s too loud.
Sound should only be audible within 30 feet. If someone across the street is dancing, you’ve gone too far (literally and metaphorically).
Two noise complaints = permit revoked. This is not a “three strikes” situation, folks.
Don’t block doorways, keep walkways clear, and be nice to the locals.
Granville Island
Granville Island is the crown jewel of Vancouver busking. It’s also its own little kingdom, with rules, permits, and a possibly sentient flock of geese.
To busk here, you must register through the Granville Island Buskers Program, which offers different license types:
All Access – Amplified outdoor and acoustic indoor.
Acoustic – Quiet crooners only.
Group – For crews of four or more. Yes, your ukulele septet qualifies.
Granville Island’s vibe is curated like a hit list. Amplified performances must stay below 80 decibels at 5 meters, and specific zones are assigned to performers by time slots. You can’t just wander around playing your saw.
Also, no pre-recorded music. The soundtrack to your interpretive roller skating routine must come from a live source.
When and Where You Can Perform
Vancouver’s general street performance hours:
Between 10:00 a.m. and 10:00 p.m
Keep your sets snappy. Many zones have a one-hour rotation policy so everyone gets a turn.
Even the most soulful harmonica solo won’t save you if you’re performing outside permitted hours or hogging the corner.
Pro Tips from the Sidewalk Sorcerers
Look sharp. Nobody tips someone who looks like they just rolled out of a laundry basket.
Smile. The audience might not, but you should.
Respect the locals. They see 800 versions of your act a month. Be their favourite.
Busking in Vancouver is a celebrated addition to our city. The city recognizes that its streets are a little more magical when they’re filled with jazzy juggling, marionette monologues, or bubble-blowing buskers.
So get your permit, keep your decibels in check, and go turn a sidewalk into a stage.
We fade in on a surreal scene. A clown, stark white from head to toe, sits stiffly at a purple piano. His painted face is unreadable, somewhere between whimsical and unsettling, and his gloved hands mimic playing the keys, though no sound escapes. It’s completely silent, unnervingly so. Personally, I can’t stand clowns. Something about the forced cheer and the exaggerated smiles makes my skin crawl. And this one? He’s not helping the case. I hate it.
Before the silence can get any weirder, a woman’s voice suddenly cuts through the stillness, sharp and commanding. She yells at him in rapid-fire Italian. Something about getting into position. The clown jolts upright and stumbles away, deflated, like a balloon animal kicked out of a birthday party. He scurries out of frame, metaphorical tail tucked firmly between his legs.
Watching this unfold is a woman dressed in a tight, black turtleneck. Her eyes say it all. Unimpressed, detached, maybe even a little bored. It’s as if she’s seen a thousand clowns fake-playing purple pianos and she’s over it.
The scene shifts, and suddenly we’re in the middle of a high-fashion photo shoot. The spotlight is now on a stunning drag queen. She’s powerful, poised, and effortlessly cool, posing like she owns the room.
And who’s flanking her? More clowns. Of course. Because this fever dream isn’t done with us yet, they hover around her like confused backup dancers, all painted faces and floppy limbs. And yes, I still hate it.
It’s chaotic, it’s campy, and it’s drenched in a strange mix of discomfort and style. Like someone mashed together 1970s corporate culture, a fashion editorial, and a recurring childhood nightmare. And yet, I can’t look away.
The rest of the video follows the drag queen’s escapades as she poses in various outfits and prepares to go out on a Saturday night. The clowns are there too. I think they commit a crime. I can’t be sure. You’ll just have to watch the video and tell me, because I’m not about to watch it again. Good luck.
Tucked beneath a restaurant in the heart of historic Gastown, Guilt and Co. is a secret whispered between the cobblestones and the evening mist. To find it, you must follow the curve of the building to a staircase that descends steeply toward something special. As you make your way down, each step draws you closer to a world hidden from the rush of the city above.
At the bottom, the entrance reveals itself with quiet elegance. A door of wood and glass opens into an underground space that feels like a dream carved into stone. The air is warm with candlelight and the soft hum of music. The room opens up slowly to reveal a setting both intimate and striking, where every detail has been chosen with care and intention.
Step inside, and you’re instantly enveloped in an atmosphere both romantic and otherworldly. Dim lighting caresses the room like a secret, casting golden shadows on cave-like walls and drawing your eye toward the bar. A gleaming stretch of spirits and curiosities that promises liquid alchemy for every desire. Bottles of every shape and hue are arranged in a display that catches the low light and turns it to amber and gold. It is a story waiting to unfold on the tongue.
In the far corner, the stage rises gently from the stone floor. It is framed by the most cave-like walls of the entire space, a natural theatre kissed by light and shadow. Monitors and microphone stands wait patiently for voices and melodies to bring them to life. Performances here feel like rituals, shared between artist and audience in a space that seems to breathe with every note.
Clustered in the middle of the room are round tables surrounded by no-nonsense chairs and stools. Each table holds a single glowing candle and a tastefully arranged cocktail menu. Conversations unfold in hushed tones, and laughter dances through the air like sparks from a fire. The ambiance is rich with charm and possibility.
There is something spellbinding about Guilt and Co. It does not shout for your attention. Instead, it invites you in with a knowing smile and a sense that you have stumbled upon something rare. It is a place for the curious, the romantic, the seekers of music and magic. Here, the night stretches on, and the ordinary feels far away.
The Vancouver Symphony Orchestra (VSO) is cool for a bunch of reasons, and not just in the “fancy people in suits playing violins” kind of way.
They’re Musically Legit
The VSO is one of Canada’s leading orchestras, and has been for over 100 years. They’re tight, talented, and can shift from Beethoven to Bowie without breaking a sweat. Under Music Director Otto Tausk, they’ve pushed boundaries with bold programming and collaborations that go beyond the usual classical crowd.
They Don’t Just Play the Classics
Yeah, they do Brahms and Mahler, but they also score live films, do video game symphonies, and partner with indie bands, jazz artists, and even comedians. The VSO knows how to keep things exciting.
They Make Classical Music Accessible
Through events like Symphony at Sunset (a massive free concert on the beach), education outreach, and family-friendly shows, the VSO breaks down the “elitist” wall around orchestral music and invites everyone in. Kids, newcomers, and even your dog is welcome (if you count outdoor concerts).
Their Venue Is Gorgeous
The Orpheum Theatre, their main home, is one of the most stunning historic venues in Canada. It’s all gold leaf, velvet seats, and dramatic chandeliers. Basically, the kind of place where even just sitting down feels glamorous.
They’re Experimenting with Tech
The VSO embraced streaming and digital concerts with their VSO Online platform, making orchestral music more accessible to people who might not want to (or can’t) attend live shows.
They Collaborate with Cool People
The VSO has performed with people like K.D. Lang, Tanya Tagaq, Chris Hadfield, and musicians from all kinds of genres. While they are preserving tradition, they’re also evolving with the times.
In short, the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra is cool because it makes big, emotional, brilliant music feel relevant, exciting, and alive, and it does so without taking itself too seriously.
From the alleyways of East Vancouver, I bring you a band that doesn’t just march to the beat of its own drum, it explodes it. Meet Die Job, the melodic punk powerhouse that’s rewriting the rules of protest music with a sharp tongue, a sharper bow, and enough fire to burn down apathy itself.
At first glance, a punk band with a viola as the lead instrument might seem like a typo. It’s not. It’s a warning. When Die Job storms the stage, their electric viola doesn’t politely blend in; it screams. It dances, howls, and slices through the noise like a hot blade through mediocrity. This isn’t classical, it’s class war, baby.
With a sound that fuses raw punk energy with infectious ska rhythms and fierce, poetic lyrics, Die Job is like if Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong time-travelled from the ’90s, got lost in a protest march, and picked up a viola along the way. Their songs are battle cries, love letters, and rallying calls, often all at once.
But make no mistake. Beneath the rowdy, raucous exterior is musicianship so tight it snaps. Their three-part harmonies could make a choir blush. Their basslines groove with personality. The drums don’t just keep time. They punch it in the face. And let’s talk about the lyrics. Biting social commentary that could make a politician sweat, delivered with just the right amount of snarl and smirk.
They’re not trying to be the biggest band on stage. They already sound like they are. Whether they’re in a packed venue or a grimy basement, Die Job brings the kind of energy that makes you want to dance, yell, cry, and throw your fist in the air, all within the same chorus.
This is punk for the modern age. Anthemic, infectious, raw, real, fierce… and fun as hell.
So if you hear strings screaming over a wall of distortion and someone yelling truth into the void, don’t be alarmed. That’s just Die Job. And they’ve got something to say.
