JUNE 2002. As much as I've enjoyed the last two years of Mutek, I'm not sure I can justify the time and expense spent by hauling ass to Montreal, that fabulous and eclectic city nonetheless, and continuing to frequent a festival whose direction seems to be diverging from my personal expectations for it. Well, that's unfair, Mutek is what it is, and nobody, least of all a complete bum like myself, should complain that it doesn't develop and evolve according to my pussy little whims. Mutek, you and I have had an entertaining relationship over the last two year, and not unlike interpersonal relationships, sometimes you just don't want to hang out as much as you used to. I still like you, I like you a lot, oh to hell with it, I probably even love you goshdarnit but I don't think I can go on with this for my priorities have changed and there's other places I want to go and other ways I think I'd rather spend my money, but it's not like the money I spent on you was misplaced, I just think I should stop with it for a while. We'll still be cordial, of course, we'll still be friends. Basically, and I mean this in the most sincere manner, it's not you, Mutek, it's me. I don't feel comfortable at your huge club nights. Yeah, I enjoy them, but not in a travel 550 km sort of way. Your artist are top notch at what they do, they're definitely swell and all that, but what they do isn't necessarily the stuff I want and need. You're a lot of fun, but there's nothing you've shown me that I would have been sorely disappointed about not getting to see before I die, nothing that would have haunted me had I missed, like that feeling of utter emptiness I had when I arrived at Lollapalooza and all the Nine Inch Nails shirts were gone or when the Stone Roses tickets sold out and I was second next line. That was some serious heartbreak. Anyway, I can't pretend to be dancing out there with club-going people and pretending that everything is happy smiley OK when in truth I need more experimental music and minimal techno. Maybe avant-garde festivals are the answers, maybe it's Toronto's Ambient Ping nights, I don't know I'm confused and you can't be easily replaced not by a long shot but I feel I need the change. You won't miss me, you have loads of people who care about you more and appreciate what you're doing a hell of a lot more than I do, it'll be better this way.

APRIL 2003. Holy fuck. OK, we're back on. We're back on, and I'm sorry. We're back on, and I'm sorry for what I said and I won't ever say it again. We're back on, and I'll do anything you want. At the end of May 2003, I am ALL YOURS.

This years Mutek lineup is easily, EASILY, the best in the festival's brief four-year history. The lineup goes beyond eclectic, way past jaw-dropping and all the way around to choking-on-your-own-tongue shocking. There's showcases for contemporary labels that I love (Mego, M-nus), legends (Coil, Hawtin), and stuff you'll never see elsewhere ever again (Senor Coconut). Experimental noise, techno, screwed up nasty shit with turntables -- it's all there, and it's all good. Or perhaps I should say, everything there will be stuff I like, and it's all good as far as I'm concerned. It's so nice when someone cares about you so much that they'll go to such extreme lengths to make you happy. To organize a festival with my best interests placed first and foremost. IT'S ALL MINE! Now all I have to do is forget about all my important responsibilities and have fun. TAKE ME, MUTEK, TAKE ME!

MAY 28, 2003. I am so excited to be in Montreal. I love this city. Every Torontonian loves Toronto but loves another Canadian city even more. But I've never met anyone from outside Toronto who said that Toronto was their favourite city.

At this year's festival I am debuting the Mutek clock. Don't worry, you will come to understand what it is, and you will crave it. We need a snappy name for the Mutek clock. I'm working on it.

With an afternoon to kill, my thoughts turn to the usual: shopping. As is customary for my visits to Montreal, the first stop is Cheap Thrills. It’s like the She Said Boom franchise in Toronto, with the combination of music/books thing going on, except with a far better CD selection. The used bin of electronic CDs contains literally thirty discs from my collection, which is both cool and disheartening at the same time. As diabolical as ever, the Rue Metcalfe shop sucks my money from my bank account with wicked aplomb and leaves me with four CDs as a parting gift. One of them is an Asmus Tiechens album. I have a strong feeling that he and Thomas Koner will be awesome tonight and I’ll end up wanting to buy some of his work.

I pick up a Mutek flyer at Cheap Thrills and pore over it. Every time I glance over the schedule I grow more and more amazed with its awesomeness. Does anyone know the identities of the Narod Niki collective? Is this going to be the Mystery Theatre portion of our festival program? Will it be kept a surprise until the very end?

Still killing time, I read over the Mutek_intersection topics. At first, I was mildly upset when I got word that an admission charge would apply to these panels. Then I came to my senses. As anyone who has attended an academic conference can tell you, published research may be public domain, but gathering together a large group of experts in the field is an incredibly powerful resource. So much music, so many people, so much opportunity for face-to-face interaction -- any serious scholar would, nay should pay good money and travel long distances to take part in this concentrated five day overload. This is exactly the reasoning behind the Mutek professional accreditation that was introduced this year. This academic element of the festival can be nothing but good for its image.

Finally, I go to Ex-Centris for the first set of shows. In the festival booklet/programme, the word "minimal" or "minimalism" seems to appear a thousand times. There hasn’t been a written document that had this kind of a hard-on for a particular word since Mr. Garrisson's Great American Romance Novel on "South Park". And the beans have been spilled over the identities of Narod Niki. It's right there in black and white, their first names anyway. I guess I won’t be sleeping on Sunday night. And what's with the festival "overture" at five this afternoon? So I've missed something already? And where's the bar this year? I'm not sure which of these upsets me more. Only minutes later, it's all forgotten because they've laid down padded mats, which makes all the comfort difference in the world while sitting for two hours on Ex-Centris' immaculate hardwood.

And the Mutek clock starts at 8:57. 0:00.

The many fantastic visual displays were big highlights of last year’s festival. And this time, we start with another real goody. Christof Migone's music is nothing too remarkable. It's one long piece which resembles Monolake's "Gobi" e.p., but clangier. But the visuals -- all are films done in one take -- make the performance. One is a view out the window of (what appears to be) the Victoria and Champlain bridges, while a man with headphones sits near the sill facing outside. It really doesn't matter the exact location of the shot, what's important is that the sun is going down, which serves as the tacit reminder of the amount of time that is passing during the uncomfortable moments during this half-hour. Another shot is a close-up of a wide-open mouth. A recent trip to the dentist serves as the tacit reminder of the difficulty of maintaining such a pose as time passes during the uncomfortable moments during this half-hour. The strangest shot of all is another mouth close-up, this one of a man (also the one with the open mouth) biting into a tomato that is partially encased in ice. The ice is slowly melting, which serves as a tacit reminder of the amount of time that is passing during the uncomfortable moments during this half hour. For the first five minutes, I'm not paying close attention to the screens, only to the music. Then I notice subtle changes -- the drying of the lips, quivering of the mouth, the loss of texture on the surface of the melting ice. Ten minutes in and I'm feeling sorry for these guys and their unenviable situations. I’m starting to empathize. It's starting to get painful for me. Fifteen minutes in and the mouth is struggling to stay open. The bite on the tomato needs to be adjusted with greater frequency. Twenty minutes in and it’s getting very hard to keep watching. The mouth is twitching nervously. Froth is forming around the tomato and red-coloured spittle dribbles from the edges of the fruit and onto the ice. Twenty-five minutes in. A pool of saliva lies in the lower jaw. He's having trouble holding on to the tomato. It's falling apart and he's frothing more. Please let it end. End this pain. I'm serious. The sound around me is crackling and thumping, yet these guys suffer in silence. Thirty minutes. It's felt like a week. Mouth is shaking. Tongue is dried up and white. Remaining ice melts and falls away, leaving only the mushy tomato.

The mouth closes, finally. He finally spits out the tomato and red goo covers his mouth and chin. It's done. And that, my friends, is how you combine music and visuals to create an unbearable tension that is far greater than the sum of the two component parts.

Clinker has a tough act to follow, and thus he's good but unspectacular. The bright colours and simple patterns in the video and the drifting drones and hums of the audio recall Stephan Mathieu's set from last year, although Mathieu's more methodical pace is far more my preference with this type of music.

Asmus Tiechens indeed looks like a mentor. He looks very professorly with his glasses and scruffy suit. Kontakt der Junglinge begins as a quiet roar, much like the sound of the wind swirling outside in the alley mere moments before the onset of a major storm. It gently pulsates, rendering most in the room transfixed, even comatose. There's a blank screen behind them. Blank stares and persons lying down on their mats are common. There's nothing to watch except two men sitting intently before a table. There's nothing to watch except them. Nobody moves. I don't detect any real pattern to this, it can end at any time, which seems appropriate because this isn't really a gig. It's become a state of being. When it does finish it immediately receives a rapturous reception. While walking to Station, I stop at Tim Hortons for a donut to replace the blood sugar that Koner and Tiechens have withdrawn from me.

I find no need to halt the M-clock for the one block walk. Besides, the state of being that was Kontakt der Junglinge effectively continued until I consumed the donut. I have my doubts about Station. It feels like a dimly lit nightclub despite the bold red brick and has a strong, booming sound system. The layout in SAT -- enclosing the stage in the center of the venue -- was so atypical that I rarely felt that I was attending "just another gig". The crowd here seems like a complete turnover from the bunch from Ex-Centris. There are clubbers and crusties (what do you expect, it's dub night) and they all seem to be moving in fast-forward. It must be a residual effect from the static stuff I just heard at Ex-Centris.

Why do so many acts sound like Boards of Canada these days? I’ve heard many good things about Telefon Tel Aviv but I'll have forgotten about a beefier BoC in a couple weeks time. Speaking of acts that have been copied by a billion others, Pole's new material has been described as a departure from the sound that spawned dozens of imitators. On the basis of tonight's showing, it's brighter and far less claustrophobic, but it's unmistakably him. The addition of rapper Fat Jon is a great touch, which adds to, the more organic feel of the tunes. Pole's no longer trapped himself in his damp basement, he's dubbing out on the front porch instead. What a lead-in for Deadbeat, whose latest work is very classic dub, but has maintained barely enough crackle and hum in the mix to ensure a connection with his early work. Otherwise, this is no-nonsense dub bliss, kicking it old school. 5:12.

I walk by SAT on my way home, just for old time's sake. The inside is in ruins. Junk is scattered all over. Graffiti is all over the outside.