{"id":431140,"date":"2026-01-24T22:54:08","date_gmt":"2026-01-24T22:54:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/431140\/"},"modified":"2026-01-24T22:54:08","modified_gmt":"2026-01-24T22:54:08","slug":"wolf-parade-apologies-to-the-queen-mary","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/431140\/","title":{"rendered":"Wolf Parade, ‘Apologies to the Queen Mary’"},"content":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s always weird when a song you love goes viral. When I think of Wolf Parade\u2019s anthemic \u201cI\u2019ll Believe in Anything,\u201d I think of being 19 and clutching at the cheap green comforter of my dorm room bed, choking down furious sobs so my next-door neighbors wouldn\u2019t hear me crying through the thin walls. I think of standing alone on Foss Hill at midnight, fingernails dug into the meat of my palms, my gaze cast up at the familiar sight of the Pleiades cluster and the line \u201cLook at a place far away from here\u201d ringing in my ears. I think of sitting at an old piano in an underground bunker-turned-practice-room, trying to suss out the song\u2019s chords by ear as a last-ditch means of distraction from an increasingly unbearable year, always hitting the keys with unnecessary force whenever the \u201cI\u2019d take you where nobody knows you \/ And nobody gives a damn\u201d refrain came back around. (Look, I know it\u2019s ostensibly a love song, but it\u2019s always been an outlet for sheer desperation for me\u2014a soundtrack for that visceral, painful yearning for a life that is anything other than the one you\u2019ve been living.) So it\u2019s weird to hear that song as the accompaniment to triumphant, love-is-love TikTok edits of fictional gay hockey players<\/a>, inexplicably reposted on the Instagram stories of the very people I\u2019ve always associated that song with crying over. Funny, how life works.<\/p>\n

I was three when Apologies to the Queen Mary came out, which means everyone else\u2019s history with it technically predates my ability to read (sorry). I know the point of retrospectives is to, you know, retrospect, but if I reminisced on the music that made me in 2005, this would be an essay about The Wiggles. So when I first heard \u201cI\u2019ll Believe in Anything\u201d in early college\u2014at my dad\u2019s recommendation, naturally\u2014it wasn\u2019t striking because I clocked it as a cornerstone of mid-2000s blog rock. It was striking because, when that scrambled little synth pattern came skittering in and Spencer Krug\u2019s voice started howling its way up from the bottom of his lungs, it felt as if the meat of my chest had been carved out and filled with hot air, some desolate kind of hope clogging up my throat and making it hard to speak. In other words, I didn\u2019t inherit Apologies as a reference point but as a working object, a tool that still functioned in 2020 just as well as it did 15 years prior. The trick of the album, I think, is that it\u2019s just about as pinned to 2005 as anything possibly could be (Stereogum\u2019s Ian Cohen called it \u201cabsolutely the most 2005 album\u201d conceivable), but somehow, it refuses to stay there.<\/p>\n

Over and over, these songs reflect and refract the same state of mind: restless, unsatisfied, slightly out of phase with your own life, pacing a room that doesn\u2019t feel like it was built for you\u2014but wanting it to be built for you so very badly. Wanting to make yourself someone it was built for, but not knowing how. When Krug yelps in that idiosyncratic voice of his about \u201csons and daughters of hungry ghosts,\u201d he\u2019s talking about his peers; I heard it and felt he was talking about mine. Sure, the scaffolding is different for my generation\u2014less \u201crefreshing music blogs between college classes,\u201d more \u201crefreshing five apps at once while the president legalizes hate crimes\u201d\u2014but the feeling at the album\u2019s core hasn\u2019t gone anywhere: You are here. You don\u2019t want to be here. You\u2019re not entirely sure where \u201cthere\u201d is, only that it\u2019s somewhere you might finally be able to breathe. And Christ, you\u2019d do anything\u2014believe in anything\u2014to find it.<\/p>\n

IN 2005, THOUGH, NOBODY KNEW this record as a retroactive lifeline for kids born after 9\/11, let alone a TikTok sound. They knew it as the debut from a weird new band out of Montreal, that city every music writer suddenly decided was the center of the universe for about 18 months. Wolf Parade had technically only been a band for a couple of years by then\u2014Spencer Krug and Dan Boeckner writing songs together in Krug\u2019s apartment over a grimy bar called Barfly, enlisting drummer Arlen Thompson eight days before the band was set to play an opening gig for Arcade Fire, eventually adding electronics guy Hadji Bakara once things got serious enough to require someone whose job was \u201cmake it sound stranger.\u201d It didn\u2019t take long\u2014at all, really\u2014for the band to start making waves in the indie scene. (Oh, the things an Arcade Fire tie-in could do for you in the mid-2000s. Damn you, Win Butler, for being terrible<\/a>.) The legendary label Sub Pop rapidly signed them; TIME\u2019s Canadian edition called their debut one of the country\u2019s \u201cmost anticipated indie albums\u201d; Modest Mouse\u2019s own Isaac Brock offered to produce and hauled them to Portland to record at Audible Alchemy. On paper, it\u2019s the kind of origin story that makes publicists salivate: two gifted songwriters, one buzzy city, one famous adjacent act, one famous patron saint, one very hungry label.\u200b Then they finally released their debut\u2014largely cobbled together from various re-recorded songs off their four already-released EPs\u2014and the rest, of course, was history. Well, maybe not history; maybe just some good reviews (including a remarkable 9.2 from Pitchfork), modest sales, year\u2011end\u2011list appearances, and a long, quiet residency in the heads of people susceptible to its particular strain of beautiful agitation.<\/p>\n

Apologies didn\u2019t exactly blow up the culture on impact, in part because it didn\u2019t launch a movement so much as arrive in the middle of one. In a moment when other Canadian bands like Broken Social Scene and Arcade Fire were making orchestral indie that sounded like it was meant for stadiums but was still technically being played in churches and bars and VFW halls, Wolf Parade showed up with something scrappier, more jagged, more likely to blow a gasket. Even then, people struggled to describe it without resorting to comparisons: \u201clike a Ritalin\u2011deprived power\u2011Bowie,\u201d \u201cSpringsteen filtered through a busted PA,\u201d \u201cPixies rhythms and Frog Eyes vocals in a Canadian contraption,\u201d and, inevitably, Modest Mouse (\u201cGrounds for Divorce\u201d always reminds me, for some reason, of \u201cGravity Rides Everything\u201d). None of that really captures how the record feels when you\u2019re alone with it, but it does get at the central fact that from the beginning, this was a band slightly outside whatever neat box you tried to put them in.\u00a0<\/p>\n

So maybe it\u2019s fitting that when it came time to name their debut, they reached back not to some grand metaphor or announcement of their identity, but to the night they got thrown off a potentially haunted ship: the \u201cQueen Mary\u201d in the title is not Queen Mary I of England, but the the RMS Queen Mary, a retired British ocean liner that, in the mid\u20112000s, doubled as a hotel, tourist attraction, and venue for the All Tomorrow\u2019s Parties festival. Wolf Parade got invited to play, did the sensible thing\u2014drank a heroic amount of free booze\u2014and at some point in the night the group kicked down the locked door to the Winston Churchill Ballroom. Inside, they found an opulent, empty room just begging to be desecrated. Because the ship already had a reputation for being haunted, Bakara decided they should hold a s\u00e9ance to \u201cmanifest this era of Winston Churchill,\u201d which somehow escalated into turning an oak table into a Ouija board with the help of a buck knife and some stolen d\u00e9cor. The conjured \u201cspirits,\u201d as he tells it<\/a>, quickly became \u201cpretty immature,\u201d started \u201cbreaking stuff\u201d and \u201cthrowing things overboard.\u201d When the ship\u2019s management finally intervened, the spectral perpetrators were nowhere to be seen, so despite the band\u2019s protests that \u201cit was just the spirits\u201d (likely story), they were kicked off the boat. But whether or not the band actually summoned anything in that ballroom almost doesn\u2019t matter\u2014the album they named after the ship came back full of ghosts anyway.<\/p>\n

GHOSTS ARE EVERYWHERE on Apologies to the Queen Mary, both explicitly and implicitly. \u201cDear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts\u201d sees Krug name his whole generation<\/a> after a Buddhist legend that posits that the \u201chypocrites and liars go\u201d to a level of hell that turns them \u201cinto hungry ghosts\u2026like Tantalus in Greek mythology: he can\u2019t eat or drink, but he\u2019s always hungry or thirsty.\u201d That, Krug insists, is us\u2014always starving and never satisfied\u2014atop la\u2011la\u2011las and handclaps trying to pass that spiritual malnourishment off as something you can dance through. \u201cSame Ghost Every Night,\u201d with its \u201cstrange, constant blue\u201d and walks taken just to hear your own breath, is Boeckner writing about a rural outpost that felt like it wanted to swallow him whole\u2014family tragedy humming in the background, the woods pressing in on all sides, the sense that you are a tiny, doomed colony of humanity surrounded by something vast and indifferent. \u201cShine a Light\u201d turns a hellish routine\u2014insomnia, night shifts, \u201cboring hours in the office tower,\u201d that bus back home when you\u2019re \u201cbarely alive\u201d\u2014into a hymn for people who keep going anyway, hearts \u201cwaiting for something that\u2019ll never arrive.\u201d \u201cThere is an awful sound, this haunted town \/ Some ghosts sink, some will get called to the light.\u201d Right on the heels of \u201cShine a Light,\u201d \u201cDear Sons and Daughters\u201d follows with its pub\u2011chant stomp and talk of hungry ghosts, and then, without so much as a pause, \u201cI\u2019ll Believe in Anything\u201d detonates the whole thing into a love song about wanting to be carried somewhere\u2014anywhere\u2014else. Sheer exhaustion, spiritual or otherwise, can turn into a kind of wild, reckless grace if you push it hard enough. That three\u2011song run is the record\u2019s spine: work, hunger, escape, in quick succession. (It is also, not unrelatedly, one of the greatest three-song runs of the century.)<\/p>\n

Even the relationship songs feel haunted by absence more than presence. \u201cGrounds for Divorce,\u201d which Krug insists<\/a> is \u201cjust about breaking up,\u201d hangs everything on trivial preferences\u2014bus brakes versus imaginary whales, cloud\u2011watching versus radio static\u2014and then keeps returning to that dead darling, that wedding cake of a relationship that crumbled upon contact. \u201cWe Built Another World\u201d is ostensibly about getting drunk at a party and thrown out for breakdancing and fighting, but by the time Boeckner\u2019s singing about lights pinning \u201cthe ghost to the street\u201d and a world built by \u201changing ghosts from the trees,\u201d it feels like a vision of all the possible lives that might have been built out of nights like that and weren\u2019t; a dream of escape from our \u201cModern World\u201d that we struggle daily to actualize. \u201cDinner Bells\u201d stretches that feeling out until it starts to blur, seven\u2011plus minutes of fall\u2011afternoon corniness and end\u2011times imagery that Krug kept precisely because it felt a little embarrassing instead of safely cool. Closer \u201cThis Heart\u2019s on Fire,\u201d which Boeckner calls completely autobiographical, can\u2019t quite decide if it\u2019s a love song or a grief song: \u201cI am my mother\u2019s hen \/ And left the body in the bed all day\u201d sits right next to \u201cyou\u2019re my favorite thing, tell it everywhere I go,\u201d all of it attached to a hopelessly hopeful refrain of \u201cIt\u2019s getting better all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

There\u2019s an interesting divide between body and soul throughout the record\u2014\u201ctheir hearts are dead but the body don\u2019t mind\u201d\u2014yet, curiously, there\u2019s less of one between body and body. \u201cWe Built Another World\u201d begins with two people literally chained at the wrist; \u201cI\u2019ll Believe in Anything\u201d is a love song of frenzied unification: give me your eyes, your blood, your bones, your voice, your ghost. \u201cFancy Claps\u201d promises \u201cWhen I die, I\u2019m leaving you my feet \/ When you die, you can stand up for me.\u201d Two spirits, one mouth\u2014and wouldn\u2019t you know it, Apologies itself functions the exact same way: two songwriters with different obsessions trying to cram their mid\u2011twenties crises into a single 47\u2011minute body.<\/p>\n

THE SPLIT IS SIMPLE ON PAPER. Half the songs belong to Spencer Krug, the guy who writes about singing to cracks in crossbeams, dinner bells for the end-times, cupping water in hands with holes in them, people building houses inside each other. The other half all belong to Dan Boeckner, whose songs are full of highways, office towers, \u201cmodern world\u201d motorways, the grieving aftermath of mortality, small towns that want to spit you out, cities that don\u2019t care if you live or die. Critics love to frame it as Bowie vs. Springsteen: Krug as the glammy, metaphor\u2011addicted dramatist; Boeckner as the ragged working\u2011class romantic with an ear for a three\u2011chord stomp. And sure, you can hear that when \u201cYou Are a Runner and I Am My Father\u2019s Son\u201d barrels straight into \u201cModern World,\u201d one voice wailing about becoming his father over an off\u2011kilter piano pattern, the other immediately snapping back, \u201cI\u2019m not in love with the modern world,\u201d in a more grounded drawl.<\/p>\n

Krug, for his part, feels less like he\u2019s performing than sprinting alongside some feeling that keeps threatening to outrun him. His voice lurches and cracks and claws its way up a melody, vowels stretching out until they\u2019re half-feral or cut short so the staccato hits like a truck. He\u2019s like a rubber chicken strangled at the neck, and I mean that entirely as a compliment\u2014his skittery songs are some of the most immediate and memorable on the record, in part because of the sheer viscerality of his voice. Boeckner, by contrast, is a more recognizable rock voice: a little ragged, a little scorched around the edges, a jaded weariness bleeding through even his sharper barks. His songs are the come-downs after Krug\u2019s anxious, nervy brain-scratchers, grounding you just enough for Krug\u2019s follow-up track to catch you off-guard once more.<\/p>\n

But even then, that division never stays clean for long, which is part of what makes the record feel so alive. The tracklist alternates their songs almost one\u2011for\u2011one, and there are moments where they literally share a mic\u2014\u201cWe Built Another World\u201d in particular, with Boeckner narrating the Halloween party and the first Montreal snow while Krug cuts in on the chorus with \u201cI had a bad bad time tonight\u2026 \u2019cause bad things happen in the night,\u201d turning a single evening into a miniature argument about whether the world they built together is salvation or trap. Even when a song is clearly one guy\u2019s on the lyric sheet\u2014\u201cSame Ghost Every Night\u201d tracing Boeckner\u2019s \u201cLovecraftian\u201d small\u2011town dread; \u201cDear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts\u201d naming Krug\u2019s generation after beings who are always starving and never satisfied\u2014they slot together so tightly that you end up hearing them as two angles on the same problem. One writes about forests that don\u2019t care if you live or die; the other writes about hands and fists and what to do when God\u2019s plans have clearly gone off the rails. Both are trying to figure out how to keep moving when you\u2019re not sure you believe in anything that was handed to you.<\/p>\n

You can hear that question in the way the album is bookended. It kicks off immediately with the stark drum crashes and lurching piano of \u201cYou Are a Runner and I Am My Father\u2019s Son,\u201d a number dedicated to the sick certainty that you are on track to become someone you never wanted to be, someone you\u2019re all too familiar with. It ends with \u201cThis Heart\u2019s on Fire,\u201d Boeckner insisting \u201cSometimes we rock and roll \/ Sometimes we stay at home and build a life\u201d then repeating that \u201cIt\u2019s getting better all the time\u201d mantra until it sounds less like optimism than self\u2011hypnosis. Between those poles\u2014inheritance and invention\u2014the rest of the record thrashes around trying to decide who to believe, or whether to believe at all.\u200b<\/p>\n

Part of why all of this lands as hard as it does is the way the band chose to frame and soundtrack their own hauntings. They recorded most of the album in Portland with Modest Mouse\u2019s Brock, but when some of the mixes came back too clean, they hated them enough to haul the tapes back to Montreal and start over on a home computer. \u201cShine a Light\u201d even had to be completely re-tracked after the original multitracks went missing; the version on the album is a Frankenstein built on a Mac G3 in their jam space, with Tim Kingsbury on bass and whatever mics they could scrounge up. Krug has talked about running his keyboards and vocals through \u201cweird processing\u201d until they sounded warped, hissy, and slightly wrong, closer to how the band actually heard itself. Isaac reportedly told them the new mixes \u201csounded like shit.\u201d They apologized to him, the way they\u2019d already apologized to the Queen Mary, and kept the mixes anyway, which, fortunately, is why the album still sounds as raw and jagged and off-kilter as it does. (Krug has said he still prefers some of the original EP renditions of Apologies to the Queen Mary tracks anyway\u2014\u201cDear Sons and Daughters\u201d in particular\u2014which only deepens the sense that this record is a compromise between how it sounded in their heads and how it ended up on tape.)<\/p>\n

IT\u2019S ONE THING TO WRITE about \u201can awful sound, this haunted town\u201d that refuses to be quiet; it\u2019s another to make the record itself feel like it\u2019s bleeding at the edges. Arlen\u2019s drums on \u201cYou Are a Runner and I Am My Father\u2019s Son\u201d don\u2019t line up politely under the piano, they jab at it; Krug remembers deciding not to \u201cfix\u201d the awkward rhythm because he liked the friction. Bakara\u2019s theremin and the delay\u2011drenched guitars on \u201cSame Ghost Every Night\u201d make it feel like the song is being played down the hall from you in an empty house you\u2019re not supposed to be in. The video\u2011game synths and randomized arpeggiator at the beginning of \u201cI\u2019ll Believe in Anything\u201d are literally a Roland Jupiter\u20114 set to a C\u2011chord pattern and cranked until it sounds like the machine is jittering itself apart. It\u2019s not just that the lyrics are about spiritually starving ghosts and\u00a0 spiritually devoid landscapes; the recordings themselves feel unsettled, like they could come unglued at any point.<\/p>\n

Which brings us back to \u201cDear Sons and Daughters,\u201d which Krug wrote on a piano he was borrowing from Arcade Fire\u2019s practice space, in a room he and his band were only temporarily allowed to inhabit. He remembers the moment a descending right\u2011hand melody suddenly glued the song\u2019s parts together, turning it from a jam into something worth keeping. The lyrics came later, in that tiny apartment above Barfly. He starts with a hand, turns it into a fist, turns that into a plan, shrugs and says, \u201cIt\u2019s the best that I can do.\u201d Then he flips the old coping mechanism\u2014\u201cit\u2019s in God\u2019s hands\u201d\u2014on its head by spitting out \u201cGod doesn\u2019t always have the best goddamn plans, does he?\u201d and spends the rest of the track trying to invent plans of his own: new bells, new songs, new ways to trick \u201cthe people\u201d into thinking anything. It\u2019s a song about needing to believe in something but distrusting every available authority, including yourself.\u00a0<\/p>\n

When Boeckner writes \u201cModern World\u201d about walking around a metropolis he can\u2019t quite afford, hating its motorways and automation and \u201clies to fill up your eyes,\u201d he isn\u2019t thinking about my 20-something peers doomscrolling through climate reports and anti\u2011trans legislation between Zoom classes in the 2020s. But the albums\u2019 pervasive sense that you are living in a system that will keep humming along whether or not you manage to get out of bed, that no one in charge particularly cares if you disintegrate, remains wholly intact. Writers have been bemoaning modernity, with its technology and bureaucracy and apathy, for centuries. If Wordsworth\u2019s gripe was that \u201cthe world is too much with us; late and soon,\u201d Boeckner\u2019s is the same plus fluorescent lighting and public transit, and mine is that it\u2019s doing all that while rotting our brains with mindless 10\u2011second clips and turning every panic into a product. It\u2019s the same human impulse, but as the years accumulate, so does the detritus of living in their wake. That\u2019s the real magic of Apologies: it captured a very specific 2005 malaise on tape without ever fully tethering itself to that year. After all, if Krug\u2019s generation was made up of hungry ghosts, it\u2019s mine who are their sons and daughters.\u00a0<\/p>\n

IN THE YEARS AFTER Apologies to the Queen Mary, Wolf Parade did the sensible thing and refused to make it again. At Mount Zoomer and Expo 86 get weirder, more inward, harder to use as mixtape fodder; the band goes on hiatus, pursues side projects, then comes back, gets the deluxe reissue treatment, does the full\u2011album tours, enters the phase of a life cycle where your debut gets called \u201ccanonical\u201d in thinkpieces written by people who were in kindergarten when it came out (read: yours truly; sorry about that). Krug and Boeckner both go on to make great, stranger records elsewhere, but none of them quite hit this particular balance of grit and immediacy again, which in hindsight makes Apologies feel even more like a one\u2011time alignment of planets. The record itself doesn\u2019t seem especially bothered, though. It just keeps doing what it\u2019s always done: sitting there waiting for whoever needs it next, ready to be reinterpreted as an eclectic mid-aughts touchstone, as Canadian\u2011indie time capsule, as coming\u2011of\u2011age manual, as hockey\u2011slash TikTok soundtrack.\u200b Hell, thanks to Heated Rivalry, it\u2019s even being reissued now<\/a> (Wolf Parade, if you see this, feel free to send one my way).<\/p>\n

This is maybe why the song\u2019s current burst into virality doesn\u2019t bother me as much as I thought it would. Like, you know what? Why not set a clip of a fictional hockey star making out with his boyfriend on ice to \u201cI\u2019ll Believe in Anything\u201d?\u00a0 My personal reading be damned, Krug did say he wrote it as an \u201capologetic love song\u201d in the midst of trying to make amends after hurting someone, lyrics and music arriving at the same time on a stranger\u2019s abandoned piano. Then Wolf Parade turned it into this howling, rickety juggernaut built on random arpeggios and desperate promises: I\u2019ll give you my life. I\u2019ll take you where nobody knows you. I\u2019ll hand over all the olive trees. I\u2019ll believe in anything, if you\u2019ll just come with me. I will believe in something better than this, even if I\u2019m not sure I should.<\/p>\n

When I put it on now\u2014at 24, no longer crying into a dorm comforter but still, embarrassingly often, pacing rooms that don\u2019t feel like they were built for me\u2014it doesn\u2019t feel like I\u2019m borrowing someone else\u2019s nostalgia so much as checking in with an older ghost who happens to speak my language. That\u2019s what a good haunting does, I suppose: it keeps showing up in new houses, rearranging the furniture. The scenery has changed; the algorithms have gotten worse; the modern world has found no shortage of new ways to be unbearable. Still, every time that chorus crests, I feel the same old floor drop out beneath me, the same old air rushing in, the same old half\u2011terrifying sense that there might, against all evidence, be a way to live that doesn\u2019t hurt this much. I don\u2019t believe in much these days, but I\u2019m trying very hard to believe in that. And if it takes sexy TikTok fancams to make the rest of my generation feel the same, then so be it. Apologies to the Queen Mary is worth it.<\/p>\n

Casey Epstein-Gross is Associate Editor at\u00a0Paste\u00a0and is based in New York City. Follow her on X (@epsteingross<\/a>) or email her at\u00a0[email\u00a0protected]<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"It\u2019s always weird when a song you love goes viral. When I think of Wolf Parade\u2019s anthemic \u201cI\u2019ll…\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":431141,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[28],"tags":[49,48,75,341],"class_list":["post-431140","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","category-music","tag-ca","tag-canada","tag-entertainment","tag-music"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/431140","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=431140"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/431140\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/431141"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=431140"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=431140"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/ca\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=431140"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}