With members scattered long-distance style across Canada – one in Edmonton and the other in Montreal – it’s a wholly romantic notion that The Famines even exist. But that’s the funny, albeit fucked, thing about love: Love happens when two people make something amazing work under the most ridiculous circumstances.
The last time I saw The Famines I had woken up in a hide-a-bed next to lead-howl Raymond Biesinger. Things had gotten appropriately silly and boozy the night before, and I giggled as I tried to find my socks. Garrett stumbled into the room with a glow of hair swarming his face, barely mumbling in a weirdly apologetic manner about owing us breakfast or something. One of my favourite mornings notwithstanding, the second-to-last time I saw The Famines was the night before, when they slayed their hometown crowd in Edmonton at Wyrd Fest. Barely practiced, rough hewn and enameled in sweat, The Famines made something amazing work under the most ridiculous circumstances.