Purveyors of: 2006!
File next to: The Bicycles, Laura Barrett, Woodhands, The Rural Alberta Advantage
Plays #WL13 Sunday, February 17 @ The Garrison

Henri Fabergé, the alpha Adorable, is not a megalomaniacal hothead like his answers might suggest. In fact he is very consciously turning down the heat, going easy
on me because he can sense my softball questions mask a deeper understanding of the art behind the Adorable. I first met pretty much the whole original Adorables lineup at a drippy night at the Boat (the ceilings dripped, not the bands) when Paul Banwatt (Rural Alberta Advantage, Woodhands) asked me to emcee his birthday. All of his friends performed in various capacities. The Adorables didn't actually play – I had to wait until a Wavelength to see the full glory - but the component parts have all spun off into the world and have fertilized it with pop sensibilities and rock opera panache. This special reunion of the Adorables will be a sight to see, even before they play a song, just to see the whole who’s who of who’s who are in this band. Not all of the members will be able to attend (Maylee Todd, for one, will be out of the country), but watching the cavalcade swirl around Henri will be something to witness. Doc Pickles questions, Faberge replies.

I need to know more about your acting background. Is it acting? Is it art?

The world is a stage, as they say, and we all merely cling desperately to that stage as it barrels recklessly towards the inevitable engulfment of an angry sun. Am I putting on airs? Do I yearn to change your mind or win your accolades? I act out, certainly, and up, but never on. I perform to accompany my drink, to attract paramours, because it is a sickness. You speak of “art” as if my intentions were noble, but art is merely masturbation for fools and politicians.

It is 2004, anything is possible, everything is happening all the time, people are calling it Torontopia, everybody is going to be famous forever…. What happened?

I was never a part of your so-called utopia, and I wish you would stop calling my collection of retrobates an “indie collective.” Such nonsense. Never has there been such a petulant dictatorship, and we were only ever passing through. This glad-handing arrangement of reciprocated accolades you speak of, what truthful outcome could there be? This country of yours is a scattered shard of dishonourable colonialists, yet it purports a cult of celebrity? If you doubt that you are a passionate and clever soul with something beautiful to say, you are probably right. Abandon the pen and make my collar stays.

It is 2013, promises unfulfilled, the lingering sense that humanity's best days are behind us… what gives us hope?

A hot-blooded companion and a bottle of single malt.

If you are the universe trying to express itself through matter, what has been left unexpressed that needs expression?

I am the universe, have you not been paying attention? Mankind refuses to engage in meaningful discussion about how meaningless we are, so I'd just as well watch from afar as we fuck and fight our way out of the confused haze of this singular reality. The most I can hope for is a selfish transference of self into dark matter, preferably reborn as a small but attractive planet. I've almost had it with being a star.

Where would you rather live? Heligoland or Tomorrowland?

Heligoland... a low point in my misadventures. One does not expect a holiday resort to offer religious fanaticism and a deadly plague as recreation. Tomorrow holds nothing for me, as I refuse to adhere to the absurd notion of linear time. I shall live inwards, and sometimes outwards.

Take a moment to tell us all in an over-the-top manner how fantastic Maylee Todd is as an artist and a human being.

This is preposterous. Dress up a raving lunatic in lipstick and the whole world falls for the charade?! When I won Maynardo the Beast in a game of dice with a drug-addled poacher, I thought perhaps she might be a novel addition to my traveling sideshow. The public was unprepared for her debut “performance” — she spits, she shits, she shrieks gobbledygook and then she devours your unattended child. You want to bask in the majestic beauty of this refurbished “Maylee Todd?” Spend a month — nay, an hour — in the same carriage and see if you don't get a gouged eye as recompense for your idiotic affections.

Photo:"The Prince" shot by Carl W. Heindl