When I stumble out onto the ice-covered sidewalk of Queen Street East from the warmth of the packed streetcar, I have only two things on my mind: Josh Jenkinson and a ride back to Union Station.
Around me, a line of wildly ill-clad, underdressed young people has begun to form, quickly wrapping around the façade of Drake’s new music venue, History. Glowing light emanates from a long screen displaying ticker-tape-esque text that reads “INHALER.” The sign would have been helpful confirmation that I was in the right place had the wall of leather jackets and Doc Marten boots not already tipped me off.
For March 1, it’s desperately cold. Bundled in a long coat and a huge scarf I’ve wrapped tightly around my face, I quietly curse the stupid groundhog who saw his shadow and triggered six more weeks of winter. The weather wouldn’t be so hard to bear had it not been 10 degrees earlier in the week, giving us all a false sense of hope and melting the snow so it could freeze and turn into hazardous amounts of ice.
When the doors open, we scuffle forward in an attempt not to slip and fall headfirst into a frozen snowbank, I make eye contact with a girl wearing jean shorts and a black t-shirt. She doesn’t look all that bothered by the cold, and considering I’ve just spent the last 15 minutes wondering whether they would accept snow pants at coat check, I figure I’ve probably reached the stage of hypothermia where you start to hallucinate.
I don’t have much time to think about it though, because I am suddenly confronted by a remarkably industrious assembly line of security procedures. After having my driver’s license scrutinized for much longer than necessary at an all-ages venue, my bag checked thrice and my body scanned with not one but two metal-detecting devices, I’m finally inside and wishing I didn’t have to shrug off my coat.
After languidly checking in my outerwear, I wander down into the pit and find myself in the second row, people slowly filling the space around me with overpriced drinks in hand and merch draped over their shoulders.
I watch as the opener, an American indie rock band from New York called Been Stellar, disassembles their instruments and clears the stage after their set. The liminal period that exists between the opener and the main act always passes languidly, and by the time I glance down at my phone for what feels like the 800th time, I’m starting to get antsy.
As sweaty bodies brush against sweaty bodies, the clock ticks down to 9 p.m. and suddenly, the lights go dark and smoke billows onto the stage, sending the restless crowd into a frenzy.
The four boys that make up Inhaler enter stage left and take their places, adjusting guitar straps and fiddling with drumsticks. While they’re desperately trying to play it cool (an act they are only partially getting away with), I’ve always secretly thought that off stage, they all must be just as awkward as every other boy in his early twenties. Although with every show of theirs I see they get better at hiding it, they feel just as human to me today as they did when I saw them play their first solo show in Toronto in 2022. At least this time they didn’t have to kick their opener off the stage for sounding like a flaming, screeching car wreck.
A driving drum beat and an electric, synth guitar line sends the crowd into a wild fit of cheering as Josh Jenkinson, the band’s guitarist, wastes no time getting the show started. For years, the band finished their sets with “My Honest Face,” a raucous rock anthem that put Inhaler on the map back in 2019, yet today they have chosen to start the show with it. It’s an interesting switch, one that briefly catches me off guard, but the reaction from the crowd tells me it was the right choice.
Blue strobe lights illuminate the mob of people who have congregated in the pit, all of whom are proudly screaming the song lyrics. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell whose limbs are who’s as bodies melt into one another on the dance floor. Rob Keating’s thrumming bass line blares out of the speakers positioned right above my head, keeping the track, which is quickly dissolving into perfect musical chaos, from running completely off the rails.
As I throw my head back, I get lost in the sound of Eli Hewson’s voice. Every fibre of my being desperately wants to completely disappear into the sound enveloping me, yet just as I am about to let my eyes flutter shut and surrender, the song ends and the crowd erupts into clamorous cheers.
I’m not safe for long though. I spend the rest of the show fighting the wash of equanimity that has flooded over me, lulling me into a state of rhythmic hypnosis. The comforting familiarity of Ryan McMahon’s crashing drumbeats vibrate through me as I fade into the musicality of tracks I’ve heard a million times. While I rarely know the words to many of their newest songs, I never lose touch with the feeling of euphoria slowly taking over my body inch by inch.
When I wake up from my trance that had expropriated me, I’m running to catch a streetcar that will take me back to Union Station. While everything around me has snapped into sharp focus, a glance back at the venue provides me with one last glimpse of the misty world of contentment I left behind through an open door.
When I stumble out onto the ice-covered sidewalk of Wellington Street West from the warmth of the deserted streetcar, I have only two things on my mind: Josh Jenkinson and when I’m going to see Inhaler again.