If you don't live in Toronto, the city that Matt Blackett calls home, don't worry. You'll still be able to relate to his clean, sparse, one-two-three panels of the urbane. If you've ever taken public transit in any major city in North America, or skated the sidewalk in the bohemian corner of town, then you've inhaled the same air as Matt. His observations feel familiar -- the eccentricities of street people, the curious rudeness of city citizens or the upstairs neighbours having loud sex (repeatedly). Matt chronicles minor sitcom sequences you wish you could have witnessed firsthand. m@b is filled with found sound; accidental conversations and spontaneous confrontations captured upon paper with ink and a few choice words. Eavesdropped insight from cab drivers ("There's no use in exercising. God will kill you when he bloody well wants to"), teenaged couples ("Don't touch my ass in public"), and his Portuguese neighbour ("You no friend of Manuel"). It's what Jane Jacobs describes as the "intricate sidewalk ballet" of urban existence. Matt acts as court room artist, recording the pirouettes of city life. Setup. Setup. Punchline. That's the tired domain of the daily newspaper strip. Matt keeps you guessing, inks a curve, makes you chuckle at what you didn't expect with an anti-punchline. He doesn't ply us with cheap laughs to make sure we keep reading. He builds characters instead. When they do something silly, we giggle. When they hurt, we ache alongside them. Matt captures moments without rubbing them red and raw. m@b is, as you have by now deduced, all about Matt Blackett. And yet, it isn't. Unlike most personal zines, m@b manages to be confessional without feeling claustrophobic. Matt often appears in his panels, but is conscious of overexposure. He gets out of the way whenever possible. It's about his environment, not his ego. Don't believe me? Read this book and watch how often he gives chums and passersby the best lines. Still don't believe me? Observe how often he includes his embarrassments and frustrations. Matt's friends (and occasionally ex-girlfriends) appear in m@b, but this immortalization is rarely cause for embarrassment. One of my favourite strips, which appears in the issue The Wind Doesn't Pay Attention to Midgets, begins with Matt asleep in his bed. The text reads: "Last night I went on a date with a girl I recently met." The second panel is identical to the first, with Matt resting peacefully, sans text. In the final panel, he says "It lasted a lot longer than I had planned," and we see a woman in his bed, who was hidden for the first two panels, sitting up and stretching awake. The final panel avoids an easy fratboy high-five. If I were the woman in question, I wouldn't be ashamed to appear in that final panel. I might even be touched. Beyond the thick black borders of m@b's squared-off world is a community of indie-rock bands, activists and persnickety record store clerks. Matt is a member of that community, but he also helps shape and direct said tribe. Instead of talking steam about the bands he likes, he gets them to play at his release parties. In doing so, he promotes not only his zine, but the bands that provide the soundtrack to his life. More could be said, but too much analysis will kill the pleasure of discovery, a vital element of the m@b experience. Matt likes to observe but doesn't always try to explain. His sensibility allows for ambiguity. Like your favourite album, you keep discovering more hidden moments and melodic nuances with each listen. I urge you to give Wide Collar Crimes a spin. Ryan Bigge · February 2003