Pedals. Whether you’re taming a Les Paul, stretching a Telecaster, or trying to make sense of a Danelectro that refuses to behave, pedals are inevitable. They’re the tiny, volatile middlemen between your fingers and whatever emotional damage you’re trying to inflict on a room.

I came up on pedals the way most people do: blindly. Twisting knobs, chasing ghosts, convincing myself I understood signal chains when really I just liked when things got louder, dirtier, and slightly out of control. Not much has changed, but now I at least know which knob is ruining my tone on purpose.

At Spin Class Local, I’ve been wanting to dig deeper into gear, not as gear-head posturing, but as a way into the weird, obsessive, deeply human world of the people building these things. Because behind every good pedal is someone making very specific, very stubborn decisions about sound.

Enter Winnipeg Electrical Company.

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The Anti-Custom Shop Energy We Need

Spend five minutes on their site and you’ll clock it immediately: this is (almost certainly) a one-person operation, and they are not here to entertain your boutique fantasies.

The FAQ reads like a manifesto. Lines like “I don’t have time for that” and “you probably won’t want to pay what it costs” aren’t brush-offs, they’re boundary setting. It’s refreshing. In a market built on customization and customer worship, WEC is basically saying: this is the sound, take it or leave it.

And honestly? Respect.

Let’s Talk Pedals

Blues DLX
This is WEC’s take on the classic Blues Driver lineage, but don’t get it twisted. This isn’t polite breakup tone. This is breakup after the breakup.

More gain, more attitude, and an extra fuzz circuit that feels less like an add-on and more like a dare. It’s housed in that unmistakable “Homework Series” aesthetic, straight out of a Canadian school-era cahier d’exercices. If you know, you know: three-hole punches that never lined up, bent metal tabs, and pages filled with equal parts algebra and degeneracy.

The DLX feels like that energy translated into sound.

Homework Series Fuzz
This one is a problem, in a good way.

Velcro-tearing fuzz, splintering edges, unpredictable squeals. It’s aggressive, saturated, and completely uninterested in subtlety. There’s a moment where it almost collapses in on itself, and then somehow holds.

You can clean it up, sure. But that’s not really the point.

At its peak, it sounds like Jack White mid-spiral, loose, fried, and glorious. This is not a pedal for the faint of heart. It’s for people who want their tone to feel like it might actually fall apart.

Realistic Analog Echo (Upcoming)
No release yet. Just whispers, and that should really be enough…for now.

Based on an ‘80s-era Radio Shack Realistic Electronic Reverb unit (which wasn’t even a pedal to begin with), this thing leans into the accidental magic of outdated consumer tech. Think slap-back meets drive, but with expanded waveform options, randomization controls, and presets.

Translation: this isn’t just an echo, it’s a sound design tool disguised as a stomp-box.

If you’re building a wall of sound, this feels like the first brick.

Why This Maker Matters

Boutique pedals can drift into status-symbol territory fast, price tags, scarcity, the whole “look what I scored” culture.

But Winnipeg Electrical Company cuts against that.

This is small-scale, maker-driven, no-nonsense engineering. No pandering, no over-explaining, no lifestyle branding. Just someone who knows what they’re doing, builds it well, and refuses to dilute it for mass appeal.

That attitude shows up in the sound: bold, specific, and completely disinterested in being everything to everyone.

And in a scene that’s increasingly polished to death, that kind of stubbornness feels essential.

Spin Class Call-Out

Got a weird pedal? A boutique build? Something beat to hell that you refuse to take off your board?

Send it in.

I want to see the scratches, the bad paint jobs, the DIY mods, the “this shouldn’t work but does” setups. Spin Class Local is opening up the gear conversation because these little boxes are stories, not just tools.

Drop a pic, a clip, or a note. Let’s build something loud out of it.

Website: https://winnipegelectricalco.myshopify.com/

Socials: https://www.instagram.com/winnipegelectricalco/

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Rehearsal studios are a kind of shared backbone for live music. They hold everything: touring acts dialing in arena-sized sets, bar-band lifers tightening up their third set of covers, and local artists just trying to get loud without another all-caps note taped to the door.

In Toronto, those worlds tend to collide more than they separate, and Lynx sits right at that intersection.

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Where It Sits

Tucked beside a CP rail line, wedged next to a gas station that feels suspiciously underpriced, and slowly encircled by glassy condo builds, the Dupont location (technically 260 Emerson Ave) exists in that familiar tension: culture pressed up against development. This piece sticks to that location. The Islington space can wait.

Inside the Rooms

Inside, Lynx is clean, deliberate, and unmistakably considered. It is the kind of industrial space that has been softened without losing its edges. The rooms are well-insulated, thoughtfully laid out, and stocked with the gear you would expect, amps, drums, and the ever-reliable Ampeg 8x10 that quietly anchors more bass tones in this city than we probably realize.

There are vending machines for both snacks and last-minute necessities. I have bought more foam earplugs there than I would like to admit. It is functional in a way that feels honest, nothing flashy, just what you need to get through a session.

Access Matters

But what stands out most is not the gear, it is the access.

Toronto is not always kind to artists, and it is even less consistent when it comes to accessibility. Rehearsal spaces, in particular, can be an afterthought: narrow hallways, awkward stairs, heavy doors, tight corners. Lynx pushes against that.

The Dupont space is all on one level. There is a gradual, intentionally designed ramp leading inside, something that feels small until you have had to navigate without it. The washroom is large enough to accommodate mobility aids comfortably, and the layout avoids the usual chokepoints that make moving equipment, or bodies, more difficult than it needs to be.

And that matters. Because the people using these spaces are not hypothetical, they are carrying amps, rolling keyboards, navigating injuries, disabilities, and long days. Accessibility here is not a bonus feature, it is part of what makes the space usable, and by extension, part of what makes the scene possible.

Who Passes Through

Spend enough time in the lobby and you start to see the overlap. Album covers line the walls, Wi-Fi connects without much reason, and artists pass through in that in-between state, half-focused, half-social. I have seen acts like Kazdoura and Skye Wallace drift through, alongside rappers, producers, and singer-songwriters, people all working toward something just out of reach.

The Atmosphere

That is the other thing about rehearsal spaces: the atmosphere.

For all the frustration that comes with making music, missed cues, disagreements, the slow grind of getting something right, there is a baseline optimism that is hard to ignore. You are in a room, with instruments, building something from nothing. That is not nothing.

And just outside, in parking lots and smoke breaks, that energy carries. Conversations are easy. People share space, time, and small encouragements. It is not utopian, but it gets close enough in moments to feel like it.

Friction

Lynx, like much of the city, is changing. A gate now separates the lot, and parking comes at a cost. It is a small shift, but a noticeable one, another reminder that even the spaces built for making culture are not immune to the pressures around them. It is also not the most walkable pocket of the city, which adds another layer to who can easily access it and how.

Getting There

Transit gets you close, even if the last stretch asks a bit more of you. The Dupont location sits between the Bloor line and the UP Express corridor. From Toronto Subway Line 2 Bloor-Danforth, Lansdowne or Dundas West stations are the most practical starting points, followed by a bus connection or a longer walk north. Several surface routes run along Dupont and nearby east-west corridors, but depending on your gear, that final stretch can still feel like part of the rehearsal.

Why It Matters

Still, sitting at the edge of the Geary strip, Lynx remains what rehearsal spaces at their best tend to be: a resource, a meeting point, a place where the work actually happens.

And importantly, a place that more people can actually get into.

That alone makes it worth paying attention to.

If those four words don’t immediately lower your blood pressure, you probably haven’t spent enough time in the Hamilton area’s famous backyard shed. To the uninitiated, Ted Woodford is a luthier; a man who heals broken guitars. To the rest of us, he’s a suede-tinged voice of reason in a frantic world, a YouTube star who traded the “smash that like button” hustle for the steady, rhythmic hum of a hand plane.

Ted appeals to every mannerism I find myself aspiring to: patience, precision, and a brand of tongue-in-cheek guitar humor that makes every cheeky dig at a poorly made bridge feel like an inside joke shared over a lukewarm coffee.

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The Craft

Before he was documenting the internal bracing of Depression-era Gibsons for thousands of viewers, Ted was at Lee Valley Tools, instructing the next generation on the finer points of woodworking.

Living in a small Toronto apartment, I often find myself yearning for the days when I could wield chisels and a spokeshave, or feel the vibration of a tabletop lathe while turning out drumsticks for my friend Mike Sleath. Watching Ted is how I reconnect with that part of myself. Whether he’s using a custom-made jig or a standard-issue luthier tool, his acumen is a masterclass in what happens when you treat construction as an art form.

The History (Alan Cross in the Workshop)

Growing up, I used to hide under the covers, dodging my parents’ bedtime rules to listen to Alan Cross on my radio/CD Player on the lowest volume possible. Cross would expound on the glory days of alternative music with a narrator’s authority. Today, I get that same hit from Ted.

He doesn’t just fix guitars; he documents their ghosts. He traces the convoluted timelines of ownership and the corporate mutinies that defined the industry. From the inventive truss rod systems of Hagstrom to the delicate parlor guitars of Lyon & Healy, a Woodford video is a deep-dive into the DNA of the music we love.

The Material: Respecting the Wood

The man respects wood. This is a guy who would never—and I mean never—set a condensation-dripping drink down on an unprotected mahogany surface. Whether it’s spruce, maple, or rosewood, Ted treats fauna with the reverence of a curator. If you’re a wood aficionado, his channel is a geography lesson in species, rarity, and location.

He’s a traditionalist where it counts, using hide glue and Titebond to revive everything from hollow-bodied relics to banjos that have seen better decades.

Technical Prowess: The Tension and the Reset

There is a specific, high-stakes drama in a Ted Woodford neck reset. It makes me nervous and satisfied every single time.

First comes the diagnosis: the big straight edge comes out to find the relative position of the neck to the bridge. Then comes the “surgical” moment—plunging foam cutters (from hotwirefoamfactory.com, #notsponsored) into holes drilled behind the 15th fret. It’s a slow-motion rescue mission, using pallet knives to unlock the joint and prepare the wood for reattachment.

Then there are the headstocks. Gibsons are the poster children for unstable necks, and thanks to Ted, I’ve developed a “luthier’s eye.” I recently dodged a bullet on a vintage SG because I spotted a hairline fracture in the listing images, a detail I would have missed before Ted tuned my brain to look for the grain. His repairs don’t just fix the break; they make the joint stronger and, more often than not, virtually indistinguishable from the original.

Why It Matters

This isn’t an advertisement. I’ve never met the man, though I did once donate to a Palestinian charity he was supporting (and got a couple of stickers and a nice letter in return).

I’m writing this because Ted is a local maker who deserves the spotlight. In a digital landscape defined by frantic cut-scenes and screaming thumbnails, his channel is a sanctuary. It’s slow, it’s digestible, and it’s cleverly funny. It is an appreciation of the “slow-burn” work that goes into keeping the music playing.

Next time you’re about to raw-dog a three-hour doom scroll through trash content, do yourself a favor: sit down with a ‘twoodfrd’ video. Absorb the world of guitar repair. It’s the beating heart of the scene, one fret at a time.

Link to Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@twoodfrd/videos

Link to Website: https://www.woodfordinstruments.com/home

A friend of mine recently moved back to Ontario from Edmonton—don’t ask why she went out there, just be glad she’s home. As we spent the night trekking through the city, showing her the “New Toronto” (the sleek bars, the minimalist venues, the changing skyline), she looked around and asked the million-dollar question: “What’s actually left?”

The answer is at 542 Queen Street West.

The Bovine Sex Club is still here. It hasn’t changed. In a city obsessed with the “new,” that is its greatest superpower.

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The Bar: A Time Machine in Christmas Lights

The Bovine is the consummate dive. You pass the ticket box, which is classy for a place that feels like a beautiful mechanical junkyard, and enter a single-level sanctuary lit primarily by the glow of Christmas lights.

There are no “bespoke cocktails” or foam-topped infusions here. The vibe is single-minded: drink, be merry, and mosh (if your lower back still permits it). There is a magnetic pull to the place that makes a “one-and-done” drink impossible. I couldn’t tell you the original color of the walls under the decades of regalia, but there are plenty of places to lean, for which I am eternally grateful.

With the ‘90s back in fashion, it’s a trip to see Gen Z and Gen Alpha fans decked out in bucket hats and chain wallets cutting their teeth in what is essentially a functioning time machine. The Bovine doesn’t recreate an era; it never left one.

The Venue & The Sound: Raw Dogging the Decibels

The stage is well-positioned, though its proximity to the front door means if you’re heading out to hack a dart, you’d better have your earplugs in before you hit the threshold. It’s a generous space, comfortably housing 4-5 piece acts. Watching Baby’s First Pistol there is a masterclass in local chaos, between the keys, drums, and a singer moving like a Tasmanian Devil, the room feels electric.

Pro-tip: The merch table is usually tucked in the back opposite the washrooms. It’s a low-traffic pocket of the bar, making it the perfect spot to chat with the bands and buy a shirt without getting elbowed.

As for the sound? Bring earplugs. If you decide to “raw dog” the Bovine’s PA system, you’ll hear every crisp detail that night, but you won’t hear much of anything for the next forty-eight hours. The clarity is refreshing for a room this size; the Bovine proves that small doesn’t have to mean muddy.

The Legacy: 35 Years of Noise

Opened in 1991 by Darryl Fine, Wesley Thuro, and Chris Sheppard (IYKYK), the Bovine is 35 years old (shit). The legendary façade, a violent cornucopia of found-object art crafted by Dave Grieveson and Great Bob Scott, is a landmark.

This stage has seen impromptu sets from the Foo Fighters, Alexisonfire, and Eagles of Death Metal, and it’s the unofficial clubhouse for NOFX after-parties. But the real magic isn’t just the celebrity cameos; it’s the stickers on the bathroom walls for The Black Void, The Mendozas, and Pink Leather Jackets. Aside from the addition of the rooftop Tiki bar in 2013, the mission statement remains untouched: cold drinks, loud music, no apologies.

The Logistics

• Location: 542 Queen St. West (just East of Bathurst).

• Transit: Take the 501 Queen Streetcar, or the Bathurst bus from Line 2.

• Wheels: Plenty of ring-posts for bikes and a Green P at Augusta and Wolseley if you’re brave enough to drive.

• Accessibility: A rarity in Toronto, the entrance is barrier-free, the floor is relatively smooth, and the washrooms are on the ground floor. I cannot guarantee that the toilets are wheelchair friendly, but you can get to them. I’d say call ahead to confirm.

Why It Matters

The Bovine Sex Club matters because it has survived the “shit” that has claimed so many other rooms. For Gen X and Millennials, it’s a warm, beer-soaked blanket of nostalgia. For the younger crowd, it’s a glimpse into the relentless energy of a bygone era.

It is the beating heart of local culture, and it’s still beating at full volume. When you say, “I’m going to the Bovine,” everyone knows exactly what to expect: a killer band, rad people, and a night you’ll feel in your bones the next morning.

Originally, each post featured three bands I discovered organically, at shows, through late-night DM rabbit holes, or from artists brave enough to send their work directly. And to keep it honest: not everything has been “my taste.” But that’s never been the point. The point is effort. The point is art. The point is that releasing an EP or album in this climate is an act of defiance.

So we’re expanding. One album at a time.

Let’s begin properly.

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The Cross Sea

Anna Mērnieks-Duffield has delivered an eight-song record under The Cross Sea that feels both hushed and tectonic. It’s ethereal, but not fragile; calm and jarring at once. Like a novel you promise yourself you’ll read slowly and end up devouring in one sitting.

There are hooks but they don’t announce themselves. They bloom. Effects ripple like intersecting currents. Synths shimmer under bowed strings. Banjo and violin weave through fuzz-toned guitars. Folk bones underpin the whole thing, even as tape loops and saturated textures push it into something more dream-rock, more cosmic.

Anna is no stranger to ambitious sound. With a pedigree that includes Beams and Ace of Wands, she’s long been part of Toronto’s more expansive musical conversations. But The Cross Sea feels like her most distilled statement: intimate and wide-screen.

Fittingly, the project’s origin story mirrors its name.

A cross sea occurs when opposing wave systems intersect, creating a natural seam across the water’s surface, chaos forming a pattern. Something beautiful emerging from collision.

Anna met producer Kevin S. McMahon on tour with Ace of Wands after an amplifier breakdown derailed a show. She later tracked a Beams record with him, and something clicked. Both were in transitional moments: Anna stepping into motherhood with partner Mike Mērnieks-Duffield; Kevin wrestling with what it means to continue making art in an industry that often feels like it’s devouring itself.

Home recordings were exchanged. Ideas deepened. And slowly, this layered, fuzz-tinged, synth-injected, folk-laced body of work came into being.

The album doesn’t rush you. It invites you.

It’s music about intersections; between noise and stillness, domestic life and creative urgency, disillusionment and devotion.

Live at The Baby G

On February 20th, I caught The Cross Sea’s release show at The Baby G.

Four guitars (including Kevin and collaborators who traveled in from New York), synth, banjo, violin, courtesy of the infinitely talented Lee Rose, and Mike on drums transformed the record into something enormous. Effect-laden dream rock stretched outward, filling the room without ever losing its intimacy.

What struck me most was how organic it felt. Nothing sterile. Nothing algorithm-shaped. Just musicians listening to one another in real time, letting songs breathe.

The record’s eight tracks feel expansive on their own, but performed live it felt tidal.

This is an album you sit with. One that unfolds differently at night. One that hums quietly in the background of your day until you realize it’s been there all along.

It will live rent free in your head.

Support The Cross Sea the right way. Buy the record. Sit with it. Let it intersect with your own currents.

The Cross Sea are:

Anna Mērnieks-Duffield – Vocals, Guitar, Banjo, Bass, Percussion, Noise
Kevin S. McMahon – Vocals, Guitar, Bass, Cello, Piano, Casio SK-1, Drums, Percussion, Tape Loops
Daniel Liss – Vocals, Piano, Synth, Guitar, Noise

Produced and Engineered by Kevin S. McMahon for Muff Langsley at Marcata Recording.

Bandcamp: Support The Cross Sea

Ten years on (omg) and the statement feels less like a line and more like scripture.

Local music scenes have long been a place where activism, rebellion, and revolution echo off basement walls and barroom stages. I’ve marched for Palestine through downtown Toronto, stood at the foot of Nathan Phillips Square and Queen’s Park calling for better labour standards, and had the honour of contributing to Heather Mazhar’s song “Not Normal” alongside members of Howlin’ Circus, Ace of Wands, cartoonist Aaron Long, and a cross-section of the city’s creative class.

That said, the news cycle is relentless: CP24 and its ilk are algorithmic, billionaire-owned, and omnipresent. It’s often violent, and exhausting. I doom-scroll the CBC, the BBC, Al Jazeera, AP, and Reddit, and I am dismayed. There is a sense that staying informed is mandatory, even as headlines chip away at your mental health. There’s a direct line from breaking news to quiet despair, and it feels shorter every day.

Which is why Rollins’ quote landed so hard for me this week, the first time I’d heard it in full.

The call to action feels sharper than ever. He continues:

“You’re a good person. That means more now than ever. ’Cause, as a voter, you throw your penny and you throw it in the sea, that’s all a vote is… But you can be thunderous in your own life.”

Goodness is viral. Friendship is a vector. And that, whether punk sits at the centre of your life or just in your peripheral vision, is punk rock. Whether you’re making dream pop, art-rock, psych, folk, or glossy hooks, punk remains the catalyst.

Be a punk.

Who’s Being a Punk in Toronto?

“Very soon, you won’t be able to listen to Howlin’ Circus on any of the major streaming platforms,” reads a recent post by front-man Jafar Sandouk of the Toronto psych-rock outfit.

In short, the band didn’t arrive at streaming for money. Like most independent artists, they were doing what everyone else was doing, trying to tread water in a rising tide. However, with the enshittification of social media, hungry algorithms, and an addiction to convenience, major streaming services are eroding the fabric of art.

The post continues “Making music has always been about the human connection, understanding the wonders and horrors of this world together, and knowing that we’re not alone in it,” .

It’s hard to argue. The idea of large-scale musical communities, scenes that move in unison, artists discovering each other organically, can feel like a bygone era. I don’t know who most of my friends are listening to anymore. Spotify and pals have caused a fragmentation and disconnection that I am trying to glue back together with Spin Class Local. I watched the Grammys and recognized almost no one. And since when is Turnstile a metal band?

Ultimately, Howlin’ Circus isn’t disappearing. They’re just choosing to play the game the way it was meant to be played: making art the hard way.

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I recently spoke with Olivia from Waxlimbs, who told me the band had run the numbers and discovered their streaming earnings were…nowt.

Waxlimbs has been trying for months to have their catalogue removed from Spotify, first submitting a request roughly four months ago. The platform has cited a “backlog,” a phrase that feels like an admission in itself, but the situation remains unresolved. I can say this because I know Olivia personally: Waxlimbs are not passive observers. Despite repeated attempts to disengage, Spotify’s inaction continues to keep their music on the platform.

They remain, instead, an experimental force, one that stands for multiple intersectionalities across scenes and communities and are actively against the grain, even as the system they’re pushing against refuses to let go.

While writing this I was reminded of a clip that’s been circulating recently of David Bowie talking about the commercialization of graffiti in the early 1980s. About Basquiat and others being plucked from train cars and street corners and ushered into galleries, it felt eerily familiar. He wasn’t mourning success; he was circling what gets lost when systems arrive with lighting rigs and velvet ropes. When movements become markets and scenes cater to the bourgeoisie.

Streaming feels like the modern iteration of that process. Not because artists shouldn’t reach people (of course they should) but because scale changes texture. Algorithms reward smooth edges. Playlists flatten context. Convenience replaces discovery. Somewhere in the shuffle, community risks being traded for reach.

And suddenly, choosing to step away doesn’t read as nostalgia. It reads as agency.

These local bands are making bold moves in an era where artists talk a lot about values but rarely act on them. Committing to an uncertain course, and I hope others follow. There are few gestures more radical than leaving a system because it clashes with your ethics.

The Virality of Goodness

Rollins says it plainly: “…and being cool to the eight people around you? It rubs off. Goodness is viral.”

Of course, cruelty spreads too. Scenes fracture. Cliques form. Lineups calcify. Bands freeze each other out, festivals become gated communities, and ladders get kicked down the moment someone climbs them.

Spin Class Local was built to repair those rungs.

We’re better together, sharing music, swapping gear tips, arguing about records (check out Decide on the B-Side, Mondays at the Communist’s Daughter for lively debate), dreaming out loud about revolution between sets. That’s the community we’re trying to make contagious. Spread the art. Be inclusive. I firmly believe more people will walk beside you in moments of crisis if you’ve learned how to be thunderous in everyday life.

Next Steps

Go to marches. Join group bike rides. Show up at Queen’s Park. Write your local Councillor, MPP, and MP.

But above all, make something.

Whatever your tool is, turn it into a machine for collectivity. I want to hear music forged in unstable times. Historically, that’s when the best records are born, the ones that don’t just soundtrack a moment but survive it.

“It has always been punk rock time.” - Henry Rollins

I plugged it into a Peavey Minx 110 and promptly fell in love with the idea that small, metal boxes could completely rearrange reality.

Nearly twenty years later, I’ve continued that journey with only marginally more technical knowledge, but the same mix of wonder and confusion.

Which is where Supercool Pedals comes in.

I started following Supercool mid-pandemic, when I, like so many of us, decided acquiring a new hobby might save my sanity. I was researching DIY kits from StewMac when the algorithm began pelting me with boutique builders. I scrolled until Jaime’s profile stopped me cold. I can’t remember if it was the Caffeine Boost or the ’77 Fuzz Blender that hit first, but the design alone did the job.

What really got me, though, was the realization that this wizardry was happening here, a local builder, hand-making pedals in Ontario.

The aesthetic is pure time travel. The Spritz Compressor took me back to my backpacking days and the Zig-Zag Analog Chorus/Vibrato asked if I had a joint, and told me it’d be a lot cooler if I did. Dr. Seuss paperbacks, neon geometry, soft-focus VHS, analog cigarettes curling in the background haze. If you were born in the ’80s, these pedals are basically pre-loaded nostalgia for your board.

From Broken Organs to Boutique Alchemy

Supercool’s origin story reads less like a business plan and more like a survival instinct.

Jaime is a musician first (@colour_tv_in_every_room) chronically broke, constantly repairing his own gear because paying someone else wasn’t an option. He played an organ that refused to stay functional, so he learned to fix it. During the pandemic he started restoring tape machines, hunting for broken Tascams and Fostex decks and dragging them back to life.

Formerly glued to screens for recording work, he wanted something tactile, something mechanical. That’s when the lightbulb went off.

Tape delays.

Could he turn a Marantz reel-to-reel into an effects unit? Could that circuit live inside a pedal enclosure?

Suddenly he was printing boards, etching copper, dissolving things with acid, attacking enclosures with Dremels, learning electronics through stubbornness and Reddit threads. Somewhere along the way he transformed into what I can only describe as the Gandalf of Canadian tape delay.

And through it all, a walking ball of optimism. Deeply nerdy. Relentlessly positive.

Building Supercool

The philosophy behind Supercool is utilitarian and minimal: use what you’ve got, build what you need.

For years Jaime owned a single Boss multi-effects unit. When a day job finally allowed him to buy a RAT and a small board, he decided the next logical step was to… replace it with his own inventions.

Early builds were rough-and-ready experiments. Then came the ’77 Fuzz Blender—the first fully branded Supercool Pedals release. After that, the 800 preamp/distortion.

That 800 graphic—one of the brand’s most recognizable visuals—is based on the old Marshall “E” lettering, but everything in Supercool’s artwork pulls from lived experience rather than mood-board aesthetics. The designs feel personal, but communal, shared by players who start rearranging their boards around these boxes.

Jaime obsesses over the mosaics of colour, the layout, the way pedals talk to each other visually once they’re side-by-side. It’s gear as collage.

From Peterborough to the World

Supercool remains a largely one-person operation in Peterborough, scaling up with help from Jaime’s wife Carissa and a friend when demand spikes. Retail partnerships are growing—Paul’s Boutique in Toronto and Maar’s Music in Peterborough among them—and the brand is beginning to crack the bigger-picture world of trade shows and NAMM floors.

But at its core, this doesn’t feel like hustle culture. It feels like someone conquering sound.

There’s something refreshing about a company built from curiosity rather than spreadsheets, someone who just wanted their broken machines to work again and accidentally wound up making pedals people across the world are stomping on.

In an era where so much creative labour is flattened into content pipelines and monetization strategies, Supercool Pedals reads like a different path: local, tactile, stubbornly analog, and wildly optimistic.

Which, frankly, is the best kind of distortion.

The studio is owned and operated by Ben Raeburn, a veteran of the local scene whose résumé spans owning/operating Vapor Social Lounge in Toronto to working sound at Salt Lounge in London, Ontario, and performing with the band Pioneer Anomaly. He launched Primal Note in 2023, bringing with him years of frontline experience in bars, concert halls, and DIY rooms across the province. Alongside studio rentals, Ben offers audio engineering, video production, event coordination, and videography, skills that make the space more of a creative hub than a simple lockout facility.

And the scale is impressive. Nearly twenty rooms are available at both hourly and monthly rates, plus a full stage setup, a relaxed lounge area, and even a tuck shop for those long rehearsal nights. It’s the kind of place where bands can lose entire evenings in productive chaos, the good way.

Primal Note has also been a crucial supporter of Spin Class Local, sponsoring our May 2025 benefit show for The Swan Dive and supplying the gear that transformed a beloved dive bar into a full-tilt live venue for the day. Six artists ranging from acoustic and alternative to neo-country and full-blown psychedelic fuzz cycled through the lineup, and Ben handled everything from backline to technical advice, ensuring the day was not only special, but properly loud.

On the production side, the studio offers recording services, live-take music video shoots, overdubbing, mixing, and mastering making it easy for artists to move from rehearsal to release without leaving the building.

Accessibility is refreshingly straightforward. Wheelchair users can enter via the ground-floor loading bay. The front doors do have a few steps, but once inside everything—from rehearsal rooms to bathrooms—is located on a single level, with a dedicated accessible washroom available. The ground-level garage and loading bay also make moving heavy gear easier and provide smoother access for those using mobility aids. Primal Note offers a wheelchair-accessible parking lot with free on-site parking for visitors.

The Rooms are where Primal Note really shines. Each space comes fully outfitted with drums, amps, PA systems, and mic stands, with additional gear available for hire if you need it. I’ve rented rooms here myself more than once, and the experience has always been seamless; minimal setup, maximum playing time. It’s plug-and-play at its finest.

The Vibe leans proudly DIY. Transforming a North York warehouse into a collection of distinct creative spaces is no small task, but Ben has built custom soundproofing, painted accent walls, and plastered artwork throughout, creating rooms that feel thoughtful rather than utilitarian, conducive to both good sound and good taste.

Rates are in line with other Toronto rehearsal spaces, and the option for both hourly, monthly and annual bookings makes it workable for weekend warriors and full-time bands alike.

Most importantly, Primal Note remains locally owned and operated—a fact that carries real weight in a city where independent music infrastructure is increasingly hard to come by.

🎸Rent/Rehearse/Record/Repeat: https://primalnote.com/

🏠 Address: 1141 Roselawn Ave, Toronto, ON M6B 1C5

Toronto’s music scene has always thrived on community. Artists find collaborators, bands find each other, and scenes grow sideways instead of up. One of the most punk-rock things an artist can do in that ecosystem is start their own label, not as a brand exercise, but as an extension of care, trust, and shared survival.

Especially if you’re an ex-merch girl who growls to the tune of her own voice.

Enter Merch Girl Records, a new Toronto-based label founded by Brooklyn Doran, saxophonist, vocalist, road-tested lifer, and someone who has learned the industry from the floor up, not the boardroom down.

Brooklyn’s resume reads like someone who has already lived three music careers: a fixture in Toronto’s session scene, selling out rooms for EP releases, self-managing tours, and sharing stages and stomping through sweat-soaked hardcore rooms with acts like Cancer Bats. She’s not new here, she’s seasoned, and she’s been paying attention.

Born on the Road, Not a Pitch Deck

Merch Girl Records wasn’t dreamed up in a strategy meeting. It was forged hauling bins across cities & stages. Sticky floors. Bad lighting. Long nights. Watching what works and what doesn’t in DIY spaces.

The label is shaped by experience, learning the dos and don’ts the hard way, by seeing how artists are treated when money enters the conversation, and by choosing to do things differently.

No boardrooms. No boredom.

Why This Matters (And Why Now)

Let’s not dance around it: the music industry has long been a schlong-dominated space. Sex, stereotypes, and gatekeeping have historically taken precedence over creativity, ownership, and care.

Merch Girl Records is woman-owned and woman-run, from the ground up. That alone matters. Not as a branding checkbox, but as a structural shift, ownership changes everything.

Merch Girl doesn’t ask for permission. It’s building something that already works for the people inside it.

Loud, Proud, and Very Gay (As It Should Be)

Merch Girl Records also centers 2SLGBTQIA+ artists, bringing a necessary and unapologetic rainbow tinge to the DIY scene. It’s not reinventing the wheel — but it is sharpening it.

Representation alone isn’t enough. Support from roots to rise is what creates equity. By prioritizing artists from historically marginalized communities and giving them real backing, Merch Girl Records helps build pathways instead of platforms.

More visibility. More ownership. More sustainability.

The Bigger Picture

Independent labels don’t just release records, they shape scenes. They model what’s possible when artists look out for each other, when experience is valued over hype, and when care is treated as infrastructure, not an afterthought.

Merch Girl Records feels less like a “new label” and more like a continuation of something that’s always existed quietly in Toronto: artists building the world they want to survive in.

Where to Find Merch Girl Records

🌐 Website: https://brooklyndoran.com/pages/merch-girl-records
📲 Social: https://www.instagram.com/merchgirlrecords/

Follow along, pay attention, and support labels that put people before pipelines.

The Bar

Cool, hip, and dimly lit, the bar immediately pulls you in off Bloor. There’s an airy calm to the room that makes you want to sit down right away, order something cold, and eventually something warm. In the warmer months, a broad, wood-clad patio offers a shaded place to hang out and watch the sky turn pink without baking in the sun (speaking as a committed shade-chaser).

Inside, there are tables suited to different group sizes and a menu of Canadian-leaning gastro-pub staples that set you up well for a night of music. It’s a brew pub, so make sure you sample the incredible bevvies on offer, both alcoholic and non. It’s comfortable without being precious, and social without being loud;

a rare balance.

The Venue

From the bar, you head midway into a dark, vibey performance room, with a bar on the left and the stage to the right. It’s intimate but not cramped, and the sightlines are good from most angles.

For bands, there’s an upstairs green room with an actual couch, still something of a unicorn in Toronto. The staff are friendly, calm, and accommodating, and in my experience genuinely care about both the artists and the audience. That alone goes a long way.

The Sound

I was recently talking with Alex and Kristian from ‘Giant Tiger’ about small rooms in Toronto, and we landed on the same idea: somewhere along the way, smaller venues stopped being tin buckets of noise and started becoming places where you can actually hear and support local music.

The Burdock is very much on the right side of that shift. It’s a long, lean room that fills up quickly, which is a gift for local and smaller touring acts. When it’s busy, it feels alive rather than overwhelmed.

‘Angel Apricot’ packed the room. ‘Drones Over Dufferin’ and ‘Kilometer Club’ turned the space into something communal, with people gathered around a liquid projector while ambient, low-key music carried the night. It’s a room that supports atmosphere as much as volume.

Getting There

Transit:
The Burdock is a short walk from Dufferin Station on Line 2 (Bloor–Danforth). Exit the station and head west along Bloor St. West.

Cycling:
Bloor Street is a major east–west cycling route, and the venue is easy to access by bike. Bike parking is available nearby.

Accessibility

The venue and bar are accessible at ground level. The side entrance on Pauline Ave. is level and is used to accommodate wheelchair users. The front entrance on Bloor St. West has a step.

Please note that the washrooms are located downstairs, and the green room is up a flight of stairs. As a result, some areas may not be accessible for all patrons or performers.

Why It Matters

The Burdock works because it understands what small rooms are supposed to do: make people feel welcome, make artists feel heard, and make shows feel like something you’re part of, not just passing through. For fans, it’s a dependable place to see good local music. For bands, it’s absolutely a room worth playing.

This isn’t about elitism or deleting apps overnight. It’s about remembering that listening is a choice, and that there are platforms built around sound quality, ownership, and intentional discovery rather than scale.

Below are a few alternatives worth spending time with.

What Makes an Alternative Worth Considering?

Before naming platforms, it helps to be clear about what “better” actually means. For me, that comes down to a few questions:

· Can I buy and own the music?

· Does this platform prioritize sound quality?

· Does it support intentional discovery over algorithmic feeding?

· Does it feel aligned with artists and listeners, not just advertisers?

With that in mind:

Qobuz

For listeners who care about sound and ownership

Qobuz is a French company built around sound quality first. It offers CD-quality streaming (16-bit - 44.1kHz) and a large catalogue of high-res files, including 24-bit releases from both major and independent labels.

One of Qobuz’s biggest strengths is that you don’t need a subscription to buy music. Purchased downloads are DRM-free, meaning you fully own the files and can copy, store, and transfer them across devices however you like.

Qobuz doesn’t rely heavily on social features or aggressive recommendation engines. It feels closer to liner notes and record shelves than endless autoplay. For people who want to listen actively and build a personal library, it’s one of the strongest options available.

Best for: audiophiles, collectors, intentional listeners
Ownership: yes
Discovery: editorial and catalogue-driven

Check it out - Qobuz

Bandcamp

For indie music, local scenes, and direct support

Most people who care about independent music have crossed paths with Bandcamp at some point. It remains one of the best places to discover artists by city, scene, or sound, and to support them directly.

Bandcamp allows you to buy digital downloads and physical media, often with multiple format options. Many listeners wait for Bandcamp Friday, when the platform waives its revenue share, so more money goes directly to artists.

The interface is simple, and the mobile app now allows playlists made up of music you own and support. Discovery feels closer to digging through bins or nostalgically sampling records at a listening station than scrolling through a feed.

Bandcamp has gone through ownership changes in recent years, including layoffs under new management. That’s worth paying attention to. Still, for discovery and ownership, especially for local and independent artists, it remains a powerful tool provided artists continue to feel supported there.

Best for: indie discovery, local music, ownership
Ownership: yes
Discovery: human-led, scene-based

Check it out - Bandcamp

TIDAL

For high-quality streaming with better artist framing

TIDAL was built with audio quality in mind, offering CD-quality streaming and higher-resolution options for compatible systems. As better headphones and audio gear become more affordable, the difference is increasingly noticeable.

Unlike Bandcamp or Qobuz, TIDAL is primarily a streaming platform. You don’t truly own files in the same way, but artist compensation per stream is generally higher than Spotify’s, and the platform leans more heavily on editorial framing rather than constant autoplay.

TIDAL makes sense for listeners who want high-quality streaming and a more artist-forward presentation without fully abandoning subscription listening.

Best for: high-quality streaming
Ownership: no (streaming-focused)
Discovery: editorial-heavy

Check it out - Tidal

Make the Hard Part Cool

None of these platforms work like the big tech giants, and that’s a good thing.

Discovery doesn’t have to be instant or effortless to be rewarding. Being told what you’ll like by an algorithm isn’t punk, curious, or particularly memorable. Music has always been something you search for, stumble across, earn, and return to.

Digging through catalogues, searching by city, following a label, or hearing about a band through friends or shows creates connection. It makes music feel lived-in rather than disposable.

Listening is a practice. Ownership creates memory. Discovery works best when it’s active.

You don’t need to abandon everything at once. Start by choosing one alternative. Buy one record. Build a library. Let listening slow down again.

That’s where local scenes survive.

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Welcome to the Party

If you’re here, thank you for being curious about local music and the people who make it.

This project started in 2025 as a monthly listening party in Toronto, where people gathered to sit with music together. No algorithms, no background noise. Just locally made records played with intention, context, and shared in a room. What became clear very quickly was that people wanted more than just recommendations. They wanted stories, paths to support artists directly, and a better understanding of the infrastructure that holds local music up.

This Substack exists to meet that moment.

When Everything is Available, Attention Matters

Spin Class Local exists because listening has changed. Music is everywhere, but context is thin. Songs are added to playlists, skipped, forgotten, and rarely returned to. Artists release work into a system that rewards volume over care, and local scenes often struggle to document themselves while they’re happening.

Here you’ll find writing, interviews, and resources that focus on local music as something worth paying attention to and caring for. Some posts will spotlight artists and records. Others will look at venues, tools, and the often-invisible labour behind the scenes. There will also be practical pieces about how to own music, organize it, and support artists in ways that last beyond a stream.

This isn’t about nostalgia or resisting technology. It’s about balance. About choosing to be an active listener in a system that encourages passivity.

Not an Audience, a Community

If you’re a musician, this space is here to reflect your work back with care and context. If you’re a listener, you don’t need special knowledge to belong here, just curiosity and attention.

How We Show Up for Local Music

Spin Class Local is meant to function as a living archive, a literacy project, and a community resource. It will grow slowly, shaped by the people who read it, share it, and contribute to it. If you’re in Toronto, please stop by a Spin Class Local event, it’s always free, fun and accessible.

I’m glad you’re here.

Alex