There's something about those girls- those girls who play music, the ones bundled and wrapped- their once bronzed skin fades and fades into milky whites as the entire city of Toronto slips into it's needed hibernation. These girls, much like the deceptive biting winds of autumn, are complicated ones. Mothers of Brides, wrapped (quite literally) mummified, wielding knives in preparation for imaginary turkeys, or unlucky men caught in their crossfires- they were made for this kind of weather. Women, singing soft folk songs, strumming, and should you close your eyes, they'd be delicate, harmless. Ghosts of their hippie ancestry, playing songs in the park. But with eyes open- they're troublemakers, dressed in costumes of skeletons and ghosts, barefoot and free. Packaged and adorned in smudged lipstick they return to the kind of childhood play that really knew what fun was all about. Seeing music in everything- the outer edges of wine glasses, rustling leaves, whatever they could find to carrying their harmonies through that afternoon. The props for their play are no match for their own sincerity. They're not trying to be anyone else, in fact, they are as real as the skin on their own bones.