CMW Live: The Cancer Bats THE REVERB - MAR. 10 Surrounding me are bottles of cough syrup, aspirin and crumpled Kleenex. I have a fever complete with glistening forehead and entirely unsexy sweat-stains on my back and under the arms of my much-abused and ancient Misfits T-shirt from years past. It is under these flu-ish circumstances that I write, dear reader, about my recent experience during Canadian Music Week at the Reverb (a k a The Big Bop — I can never bring myself to call it this) where by total chance I happened to catch a band that is the real deal. Dangerous, aggressive, creative, they took this punk-rock geezer back to his youth, to various dive hotels and community halls listening to what was then called Thrash. Upon entering the room, I felt immediately at home. While the average person in the room was younger than yours truly by at least 10 [if not more! — ed.] years, all the usual signs were there — sweatshirts, ball caps, chain wallets, low hanging (but not in a hip-hop way) jeans, and a certain aggression that only late-teen or early 20s males can pull off with any authority. As the band took the stage, I recognized the familiar start of a mosh. Not a planned, corporate affair, but the real homegrown variety of my youth. "I'm gonna grab another beer," I told my compatriot — there was no need to explain that I am far too old and flabby to successfully navigate a mosh pit at my advanced age (certainly not after nine beers and shots of Jagermeister courtesy of local legend Rawkin' Ray Ivey of the Cameron House), and like the stories of the wise Native Elders who stoically climb aboard the ice-floe, I took my place at the surrounding circle where the old people and girlfriends stand. The singer made some sort of victory lap across the stage. A guitar player looking like an extra from a prison-movie made some threatening sounds from his amplifier. The drummer looked pensive. The singer spat into the air. And so it began. They were loud, they were aggressive, they were creative — this I have already mentioned, but so is Good Charlotte, for Christ's sake. What this band had was different — I believed them. They fucking meant it, bitch. They were for real. I bellowed into the ear of a 4' female hooligan — the type I spent my youth crying over in alleyways, stumbling drunk, after shows just like this, "What are they called?" I was given a look of derision. It was an effort for her to even speak to an old slug like me, even disguised by my youthful (I thought) baseball cap. "WHAT?" Her gum had a minty-freshness to it, mixed heavily with what I guessed to be Jack Daniels and DuMaurier Lights. "WHAT ARE THEY CALLED?" I repeated. "Cancer Bats," she said, implied "Duh" at the end. It is a rare thing, after many hundreds of shows that I find myself yelling, "Fuckin' eh," but yell I did. For those who enjoy heavy, thrashy, sincere music, I would highly recommend checking out this band — the kids are alright.