…with my favourite song of all time, by a band that was criminally underrated and should have been massive.

And yes, that’s the leader of our country in blackface.

Two flawless studio albums, and they then threw in the towel because the world in the very early 90s was too fixated on hair metal (okay, no issues with that) and wealthy, depressed junkies from the Pacific Northwest (a trend that thankfully bit the dust by 1994). My favourite song changes all the time depending on my mood and what I’m focusing on, but that track has pretty much been a constant for thirty years. It’s simply perfect: subject matter, production, vocals, lyrics, harmonies, harpsichord, instrumentals, everything. Their myriad influences are all over the song, the album, and at the time, they were very overt about having a vision for their band and sound, one which clearly included sonic impacts and guidance from Queen, ELO, Beach Boys, Big Star, and countless other groups that you can smush together and shove through a production grinder, with the end result being inescapably catchy compositions that never become dated.

The whole Spilt Milk album is a masterpiece, but that track grew on me like a barnacle back in 1993, and is now as indelible as the dumb tattoo on my shoulder blade, the one with misspelled Cyrillic and indistinguishable female symbol.

After wallowing in the studio version, you then have to check out their live performance on Jools Holland, where they recreated the track flawlessly without any trickery, backup recordings, Autotune, or gadgetry; it’s a marvel to behold, and one of the greatest live performances of the last three decades, although not as stupendous as TV On The Radio doing “Wolf Like Me” on Letterman a while ago.

I have also never seen anyone play the drums and sing while standing up–I had never tried it myself during my brief stint as a smash-improv-prog-rock drummer–but to be able to do this while also singing on-key and with breath control makes Andy Sturmer a role model, demigod, and, quite arguably, a potential world leader.

I have tried throughout the years to contact the man (when it comes to my rock gods of choice, I’m an unabashed fangirl from the dankest, most unspeakable depths of your local sewer) but he’s reclusive, productive, private, and sane enough to not respond to the batty chick who keeps reminding him of his output from 1990 and 1993.

“O Canada” needs to really take a seat, listen to some Jellyfish, and rethink its approach to melody, structure, and overall appeal.

(Note: When I was in grade 10, a friend of mine who couldn’t understand my fixation on this unknown, sartortially-lost-in-the-60s band agreed to patiently listen to a few tracks from their sublime debut album, Bellybutton.

“The singer sounds like Richard Marx,” was her conclusion. I don’t like sharing that with you because you’ll never really un-hear it, but Andy deserved all of Dick Marx’s success and earnings, although maybe not his luscious ex, Cynthia Rhodes.)