Type O Negative

ton 930



A few months ago I wrote about how, during my first year out of college - lost in the new world where all my friends weren't within walking distance and unrequited love lingered at a distance of 150 miles -- I'd placed enormous emotional meaning to the words and music of Brooklyn grind-core metal "goths", Type O Negative.

Unfortunately, my infatuation with the band didn't quite end there. In fact, only about a year after my broken-hearted purchase of Type O Negative's opus "Bloody Kisses", the band would follow up with a staggeringly lush production entitled "October Rust." And it proved to be just what my tender vagina needed to get me through the watershed period to be known as my early 20's.

While "Bloody Kisses" was rooted in themes of despair, loss and death, "October Rust" provided the ultimate foil - an album loosely focused on one central theme of rebirth. And while no TON album would be complete without motifs of great sadness, this record also charged forward with a shockingly vulnerable celebration of the loves, lusts and desires that are so often just outside the grasp of all male beings. In fact, for this one moment, songwriter Peter Steele put aside the self-hate and self-effacement in lieu of self-doubt.

The results were rather spectacular.

If the rejected little drama queen in me had bought into the often ridiculous funeral stylings of "Bloody Kisses", the repressed romantic of my 22 year old self fully wished to embrace the honesty of "October Rust".

Could this possibly be the same band that once wrote songs entitled, "Too Late: Frozen", "Kill You Tonight" and the unforgettable "I Know You're Fucking Someone Else"??

It was, in fact, the same band, and I took no small amount of inspiration in their effort towards reinvention. And there was probably a good reason why:

At the time this album came out, I'd been out of school for over a year and I was still living at home with my folks. I was stuck in the mud, I was underemployed, and a rebirth was exactly what I was in need of.

I gave the disc its first listen as I was lying in the dark in my twin bed, with absolutely no idea what to expect. I say with no exaggeration whatsoever that I was floored by how beautiful and haunting the opening track, "Love You to Death" was. By the time the song had reached the coda, I was literally sitting bolt upright in bed reaching for the lamp and staring in disbelief at the stereo as Steele repeatedly sang the gorgeous extended "am I good enough" outro.

To this day, I'm not sure that I have ever been so overwhlemed by a single piece of music, or by a lyric so incredibly simple. For a kid who had never stopped struggling with his notion of self worth - probably from the time I was in first grade or so - I was just completely knocked out to have the entire question of my lifetime summed up and sang back to me in a six-word lyric, repeated for two full minutes:

"Am I good enough for you", indeed...

This is usually where I write some snarky and defensive couple of sentences about how oversensitive I used to be, but to be honest, it's pretty tough to conjure the self-deprecation right now. Every music lover has those moments when a song somehow takes on an immensely important and deeply personal resonance with him or her. I guess its too bad that the Beatles or the Clash couldn't have been that force for me. But the fact is that once again it was metal that spoke to me and spoke for me.

And that's ok.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In the face of such a personal confession, I would be remiss not to share the other defining story associated with this song.

I was desperate for an awful lot of things in my early 20's. And one of the items near the top of the list was for people to think that I knew what I was talking about when it came to music.

And so I tried to sell just about everyone I knew on what a tour de force "October Rust" was.

As always, no one listened. Except my friend, Joey - known in previous posts as Pornmaster-T (PMT).

I've gone into detail about PMT before, so it seems unfair to dive into all his shortcomings again. But bear with me here, because its relevant.

PMT was having an open mind one night, and he agreed to borrow my copy of October Rust and give it a spin.

He proceeded to keep it for several months.

I should also mention that PMT had moved out to West Virginia. He was living with his dad, and having a little trouble forming a social circle. This is all understandable; starting over in a small town is hard.

One of the places that PMT looked for comfort was in the many low-brown gentleman's clubs that dot the Martinsburg, WV metro area. And I can't judge him too severely, because it was not uncommmon for myself and another friend to trek out to West Virginia and sample said strip joints with PMT.

Over time, however, PMT increasingly became a regular at these establishments, and he presumably attended them by himself. With all of us well within our early 20's, this struck me and my friends as both troubling and depressing.

PMT, in fact, became such a common patron of one establishment that they allowed him to bring in his own music for the DJ to play.

Just take a moment and imagine that.

((Oh, God, I'm just remembering the one time he brought us to this joint and made the JD play Faster Pussycat's "House of Pain". In the history of modern music, I'm not sure there's anything less appropriate for a young woman to gyrate nude before strangers to, than an ode to absent fathers.

Good job, PMT.)).

Of course, you all know where this is going by now. Perhaps six months after I lent him my goddamn favorite CD, PMT finally decided to return it, and - while I'm trapped in a moving car with him - he tells me in detail all about what he's been doing with it for the past several weeks.

"You know that strip joint we always go to?"

"Well, I mean we went to it two or three times, I think. I wouldn't say we *always* go there"

"We always go there when you visit me! Anyway, yeah yeah, we always have such a great time there. We gotta go back soon."

"Uh. Well."

"So, remember how they let me bring in my own music?"

"Oh, yes, I remember."

"Well, 'Love You to Death' is the BEST. LAP DANCE. SONG. EVER!"

*silence*

"Cuz, you know it's a long song, man. And I'm paying my $20 so the way I see it, I'm getting top value."

*silence*

"But here's the best part...."

*resigned silence*

"At the end, you know that part at the end? The part where he says over and over "Am I good enough for you?"

*glowering silence*

"You know what I'm talking about??"

"yes."

"The girl stood up - and she was so hot, man - she stood up and turned around and bent down right in my face and whispered "yeeesssssss."

*disgusted silence*

"And I was all like "UUUUGHHGHGHGHHOAAAAAH," PMT said, as he rolled his eyes back in his head and made his grotesque orgasm face.

A few awkward hours later, he gave me the CD back. I promptly threw it out and bought a new copy.

PMT and I are still friends, sort of.....but I always hated him a little after that. Seriously.

Still, I choose to remember this song for the powerful moment when it first reached me, and not for the equally powerful image of my morbidly obese friend having a 32 year old mother of two gyrate on his little dogcock as she counted the $1 bills that would hopefully someday finance her way through beautician school.

Because I can't live with that.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As for the concert itself, who the hell knows? I'm too tired and I've written too much to do a review.

But in looking over the stub, it occurs to me that this wasn't even the tour behind "October Rust"; this was the tour behind the following album "World Coming Down" (which wasn't anywhere near as good of a record).

I lost the set list, but what I can tell you is that I went to this show immediately after my punk pop-noise band played the Metro Cafe on 14th Street (on a bill with no less than minor-punk-pop royalty, the Mr. T Experience....to a packed house, at that).

We finished our set, I broke down my kit, and I ran down U Street just in time.

The show was sort of disappointing, as I remember. But they did play "Love You to Death".



Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

Song of the Year 2009

So, before we get started, let's be clear about something that I realize you already know:

I ain't much of a music critic. In fact, I don't have a heck of a lot of use for most music critics because they seem to get a bigger charge out of panning records than praising them. I'm short on time these days; all I really want is for you to tell me what's good that I might have missed out on.

So, I'm a little apprehensive about doing my second "year end list" post. Shit, I'm not even that good at this, much less endowed with anything but that same snarky-ass music snob attitude that I completely abhor in others...

All of that having been said, I've been giving a little thought to what my personal song of the year is. And don't read anything else into that title; this basically is just a slightly less dorky way of saying "My Favorite Song This Year".

I didn't have any sort of methodology for determining this. I tired to make sure that all the songs were more or less from this calendar year (or close to it), but that was the only rule. Otherwise, this is just me subjectively trying to figure out which songs captivated me the most this year. Nothing else.

With that disclaimer out of the way, here goes.

Honorable Mention:
singles By The Kings of Leon

I know we all want to hate them, but you have to give it to Kings of Leon this year. Its easy to forget that they were a well-loved "indie" band for a good five years or so before they broke in 2009, and much as the radio saturation was a turn-off, the trio of "Notion", "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody" was one of those miracles of hit-writing that's on par with U2 or Morning Glory-era Oasis.

I'm not giving any of those three songs the nod, but you all should know that I gave it some thought. Because those are three absolutely excellent singles, and my head is not yet so far up my ass that I can't hear it in them.

Second Runner Up:
Zero - The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

I fully admit that I expected the Yeah Yeah Yeahs to blow their load after their ridiculously excellent debut album, but I've been proven wrong.

I wasn't entirely sure if I liked the whole idea of this track when I first heard it. I even admit that I kind of dismissed it as foolish dabbling outside of their area of specialty. (Dude, "Fever to Tell" is what Danzig would have sounded like if he was a half Korean girl and the rest of the band went to liberal arts colleges. To hear such a talented rock band make such an effort to go electronic sort of irked me.)

But this fucking song stayed with me for months, eventually resuting in a November iTunes purchase that totally skewed my value of this track just in time for the blog. And timing is everything. Congratulations, Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

(Dumb video, BTW....sorry).

Runner Up # 1:
1901 - Phoenix

Disco-pop, electro-clash, synth-rock.....I can't keep track of what you call this stuff anymore.

But I sure wish that it had been around when I was 24. Because this song reminds me of nothing quite so much as drunkenly dancing all night with some girl you just met two hours ago...condifent that you would go home with her, but knowing that you'd be greatful for nothing more than a kiss and a phone number and a chance to see her again.

Before I get carried away, let's back up....

There's plenty to hate about this kind of music. Sometimes the synths are overbearing. Often, the songs sound like they were written by the bass player. The drums frequently are not actually drums.

And we should also take a moment to remember that this genre is particularly beloved by coked-up jackass hipster kids.

But goddamned if this isn't one of the most infectious choruses I heard this year.

This song has been sitting on me all year long (not helped at all by the no-longer-controversial decision to feature it during a high-rotation automobile advertisement). And all year long it never really wore off. I'd be shocked if I wasn't still hearing that bouncy-jangly-yelpy thing in my head this time next year.

Song of the Year: 2009
Crooked Head - Fucked Up

Only a total asshole would choose a hardcore song as his song of the year. But Crooked Head put me on my ass this year.

I have always had an "emperor has no clothes" attitude towards hardcore - an unpopular opinion here in old D.C.

Regardless as to if it was the self-riteousness of Minor Threat or the homoerotic macho nonsense of the CroMags, I just never understood the big deal over a genre of music that is largely defined by shouting your balls off over thin arrangements and rudimentary songcraft.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I came across Fucked Up.

Perhaps not a hardcore band in the truest sense (whatever the hell that means), Fucked Up immediately impressed me not only with the majesty of their arrangements on "The Chemistry of Common Life", but also their good humor and their abundant intelligence - all done without sacrificing the power of loud drums, overdriven guitars, insane tempos, or German Shepherd-styled vocals.

Of course, because I'm a giant drama queen, there is naturally a deeper reason that this was my song this year.

This was a year what I found out what it's like to be on the outs in the corporate machine. And the truth is that it doesn't matter how much you tell yourself that you won't be defined by your job; when you get yourself in a situation where no one at work wants to put up with you anymore, its a lonely place to be.

And its a very worthless feeling to have.

And sometimes you have to take a nice long look at yourself and figure out who you are and what you're doing with yourself.

This song was a great comfort to me during those weeks in October and Novemeber, when I was trying to transform into the comeback kid. When I was trying to correct course. When I was working to earn back my spot as a part of the team.

But it also was a time when I looked around the office and made a few decisions about who I am as an individual, and what I did not want to become, and how I was going to try harder to strike that balance.

I pulled it out with something of a grand slam in late November, by the way. Something of a redemption, I don't mind telling you. And as good as that felt, I never forgot that they're all just dogs fighting over a bone.

And I'm going to live, and I'm going to leave it alone.

A Christmas Medley

No time to write, but here's my abridged Christmas video playlist for this year. Give them all a chance if you can....Merry Christmas to all.


Low - Little Drummer Boy



Frightened Rabbit - Its Christmas So We'll Stop



Robert Earl Keene - Merry Christmas From the Family



Darlene Love - Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)

The Year in Concerts

This wasn't a big year for me and live music. In fact, you could probably define this year more on the shows I missed (the Cult, In Flames, Edwin Sharpe, Motorhead, Cthonic, Ted Leo), than the ones I attended.

What can I say? I'm getting old, my energy is getting low, and things seem to sell out a lot more often these days than they used to.

Still, I managed to squeeze in a few notable shows this year, so in the spirit of year-end retrospectives, here's my top ten list for 2009:

10. Gogol Bordello at the 9:30 Club - The conceited and insecure part of me (that writes a snarky blog that no one reads) sort of hates to admit that I enjoy gypsy music. But these guys are total professionals, and I had an outstanding time watching them do their thing. And the vision of that band....the vision. At a time when any jackass with a creepy mustache can move to Williamsburg and suddenly be in the next big thing, it's nice to occasionally see a spectacle like Gogol and think.....only in NYfuckinC.

9. Sigur Ros @ MOMA - Ok, so this concert didn't actually happen this year. And I didn't actually attend it. But this WAS the year that I got the Current Channel and it was the year that I found myself watching this concert film over and over and over again. And almost every time I ended the night welling up with tears because the whole thing is so beautiful and joyful and pure and wonderful and now I'm crying again....

8. The Flaming Lips on the National Mall - A Flaming Lips show is like some sort of rite of passage, and I'd missed out on it up until this year. I'd say I'm half a fan of the Lips (at best), but I respect them immensely, and a free outdoor show is still a thing of beauty. Aside from the uninspiring weather and maybe one clunker in the middle of the set, it was basically everything I'd been led to expect. Well played, Mr. Coyne.

7. The Run for Cover Party at the Black Cat - It's not like D.C. invented the concept of the Run for Cover party, but having attended every single one of them since they were hosted in a basement in Northern Virginia, I can't imagine that any other city does it with a better, more community-oriented vibe. And while this year's line-up didn't necessarily impress the way that previous years had, the Bon Jovi and Bee Gees bands were particularly fun. God, I love this tradition.

6. The Legendary Shack Shakers at the Rock and Roll Hotel - Another band I'd been waiting to see for years and had never gotten around to. And as a double bonus, I'd invited my difficult-to-impress friend, Dan, to this show, and for once I didn't disappoint him. Score. Then I had to ruin it by getting drunk and accidentally smashing a bottle on the floor. Fail.

5. Fucked Up at the Talking Head - Hardcore ain't my thing. But Fucked Up does it right, with actual arrangements and a subtle sense of humor. Drove an hour to this show by myself only to run into acquaintances from D.C. while I was up in Baltimore (on a school night). That sort of thing rarely happens anymore....

4. Fucked Up at Subterranean - Playing an exclusive-feeling pre-show set before the Pitchfork Music Festival, this show was noteworthy not only because I saw the same band twice in six months, but also because my good friend Phil was kind enough to meet us out on our first night in Chicago, despite his being on business travel for the previous 14 hours.

3. The Pixies at Constitution Hall - Read my review here.

2. Lamb of God at the 9:30 Club - I promised myself I'd write a review of this as part of the "A Day Late" series, but that's looking less likely each week. This was my first metal concert in a LONG time, and I distinctly got the impression that I might have been seeing this band at their absolute peak. The band was absolutely furious, the crowd was decidedly more energetic than D.C. crowds ever are, and the entire affairs was very much more executed than performed. I honestly feel a little sorry for those motherfuckers in Metallica for putting Lamb of God on as their opening act this past year. No way I'd want to be that far past my prime and getting on stage after those guys. No fucking way at all.

1. The Living Things at the Rock and Roll Hotel - Listen to me right now: This is the best fucking rock and roll band in existence at this moment. And they blew Patrick Wolf and his silly ass fashion show about three blocks off the stage and into Trinadad. I love, love, love, love, love this band.

A Day Late - Volume III - Review of Last Week's Pixies "Doolittle" Show

There is a certain type of music fan for whom the Pixies are a heroic band.

After all, the Pixies were, by all accounts, outsiders. None of them are particularly good looking. None of them ever went out of their way to display a decent fashion sense. None of them have great hair. And their music was....a little weird.

Not totally weird, mind you. But weird enough to defy convention and make them inaccessible to those of us who like our hooks served up fresh and simple. And, thus, this made them perfect for the oddball kids who were perfectly comfortable to live at the fringe of college and high school norms.

So, yeah, I wasn't a huge Pixies fan back in the day, which shouldn't surprise anyone. I had no opinion of them, in fact, because they weren't really relevant to my existence.

It's not like I wasn't an outsider. I just wasn't a *cool* or *smart* or *quirky* outsider. I was just a kind of lame, middle-of-the-road outsider.

(Maybe that makes me a legitimate outsider-outsider. Hm....score one against the cool kids AND the smart kids!)

((I guess...))

I did catch onto the Pixies at some point, but it was really late. I mean... embarrassingly late.

I know this much -- My old band did cover "Gigantic" at a party some time in the late 1990's (hosted at the Ruppert's art gallery on 7th street - adjacent to the spot where the Warehouse Theatre would one day be, and across the street from a hole in the ground this is now the D.C. Convention Center). And I'm sure that I knew the melodies to "Debaser" and "Here Comes Your Man" for years before I knew the titles or the artists for either song.

But simply put, the Pixies were never on my radar until maybe six or seven years ago.

So, given those facts...and my general disdain for the "classic album as setlist" tour concept...it may seem surprising that I attended this show.

However, the Pixies are the favorite band of my girlfriend. And despite her best attempts to covert me, "Doolittle" really is the only album that ever stuck. Having struck out on tickets the last few times the Pixies reunion came to town, this seemed like a good choice for both of us.

And despite some reviews that seemed somewhat crotchety (as though the reviewers were bitter that people like me - the fans who were not TRUE fans back when it mattered - were getting this opportunity) I had a goddamned blast.

The seats were excellent - a box directly above the light booth - positioning us for excellent sound. (Yes, yes, I know that boxseats are not very punk rock).

With the band unexpectedly starting with a collection of b-sides, the crowd was understandably timid. But by the middle of the second tune, a lot of folks started losing their inhibitions, and I have to admit that it was a glorious thing to see. Folks were absolutely geeking OUT, and it was beautiful.

And after four tracks I'd never heard, Kim Deal finally began the opening to "Debaser". While I fully expected the place to go crazy, the mood was almost one of relief - as though the plane taking you to vacation had finally taken off after an unexpected delay. (Don't get me wrong, nobody thought that the b-sides were bad. But it was sort of like having a girl take you back to her place at the end of the night, only to suggest that you play with her cats for 20 minutes....its fun, but its a lot less fun than what you were expecting).

This entire mood changed with the emergence of track # 2 - the mighty "Tame", performed at an absolutely breakneck pace that highlighted the fact that David Lovering is one of the most underrated drummers out there. People were really coming to life, and that's the way it would stay for the remainder of the night.

Other highlights included "Here Comes Your Man" (a track I'd momentarily forgotten was on this album....i know i know, fuck you), "Hey" and "La La Love You". But really, it was more or less a buffet of whatever you liked best from the record, which I guess is the beauty of these album tours.

The other highlight was the sparse stage banter from Kim Deal, who may or may not have tumbled off the wagon. (She was drinking quite a bit from green glass bottles, and grinning madly throughout the show. I hope that she is in a happy place).

After a short encore that included an alternate take on "Wave of Mutilation" and "Into the White" the band left the stage only to reemerge to do a quick second set of material that I think was largely from "Surfer Rosa".

I must admit that I didn't know much of it, but it didn't really matter. Closing out the second set with "Where is My Mind" and "Giagantic" made up for it all.

(I should point out that the opening to "Where is My Mind" was a complete high point of the show - and arguably a high point of any live performance I've ever seen. All the house lights were up, and just about the whole damn place was singing along to Kim's ethereal "oooooh-ohhh" vocal. For a few days, just the memory gave me goosebumps. In fact, it still does. Sounds corny, but it was one of those live concert experiences that doesn't really translate on paper).

On the way back to the car, there was a lot of talk about people's memories of listening to old Pixies records back in the day. And it got me thinking:

It is an indisputable fact that I will never be able to go back in time and be the cool kid in high school with ridiculously awesome taste in music. I'll never be the smart, hip, geek-chic 19-year old, either. It just wasn't in the cards for me.

But when your girlfriend is so goddamned cute that the lighting guy has no problem handing over his copy of the setlist at the end of the night, I guess that means that life turned out ok anyway.

A Day Late - Volume II - Thoughts on the Aerosmith Rumors and Why I'm Such a Hater

As you probably know by now, there are quite a few rumors floating around the Internets about the uncertain future of rock legends, Aerosmith.

I have no idea what exactly the truth is....maybe Steven Tyler is going to part ways with the band, and maybe they're going to try and go the Van Halen route. Maybe they'll decide it's best to stay together as is. And maybe it's all a publicity stunt. I've no idea.

But I do know that I don't care. Because Aerosmith sucks, and they have sucked since about 1993.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't give this much thought, but I made the mistake of posting on Facebook that I thought that losing Tyler just might be the only thing that could heal Aerosmith's chronic case of suck. And this annoyed an old friend of mine, who indicated that I just might be a hater.

Am I a hater?

Well, kind of. The fact is that I am NOT a loyal-at-all-costs music fan (which is something I'll blog about in more depth in the future).

The crux is this: when I've seen how good a band CAN be, I hold them to that standard as much as I possibly can. And when it becomes clear that they can't get it up any more - or that they can't be bothered to - I stop loving them and start resenting them.

Is it fair? Maybe and maybe not.

Do I make exceptions? I sure do.

But Aerosmith doesn't get a pass. Because Aerosmith sucks.

And before I lay out all of the evidence behind my hypothesis, allow me to be perfectly clear about something:

I fucking love Areosmith.

I fucking love "Toys in the Attic". I fucking love "Rocks". And I fucking love "Get Your Wings" more than anyone knows.

While the smart kids in high school were toasting their broken hearts to the Smiths, I was locked in my room alone listening to the likes of "Home Tonight" and "What it Takes". And to this day I still listen to "You See Me Crying" or "Seasons of Wither" when I'm in the mood to get my vag on.

You want more loud guitar and great hooks than those pretty boys in Cheap Trick can handle? Go download "Lick and a Promise" or "Sick as a Dog".

You want to hear the sound of freaking out on angel dust? I recommend "Nobody's Fault".

Ever wondered what it would sound like if Jeff Beck was American and completely slammed by vodka and barbiturates? "Round and Round" is the song for you.

When the Pump tour came to the Capital Centre, I spent weeks and weeks waiting for the night to come, and that stupid tee shirt I bought at the show became the go-to item in my wardrobe over the course of my senior year of high school.

I loved Aerosmith because they were legendary.

I loved them because they had a catalog that would take me years to acquire.

I loved them because years before Tommy Lee smoked his first joint, Aerosmith had already done every bad thing in the world.

I loved them because they were newly sober - something that was inspiring to a sheltered, suburban kid like me, who was dying for someone to show me that it was ok not to get drunk or high. (Even though I really was just waiting for an invitation).

So, yeah: I don't want any thin-skinned radio rock nerds telling me that I don't appreciete Aerosmith, when I bought that ridiculous "Rock in a Hard Place" album.

TWICE!!

But, you know, once the decent started, it never really stopped.

*sigh*

I distinctly remember my first listen to "Get A Grip". "Living on the Edge" might have been a bold single and "Cryin" was pretty solid, but after just one listen it was clear that damn near everything else on the record was sub-par.

I also remember seeing the name "Desmond Child" appear as a co-writing credit on one too many tracks, only to find upon further research that names like Desmond Child, Jim Vallance, Glenn Ballard, someone named "Frederiksen", and some other guy named "D Solomon" were ALL OVER Aerosmith's songwriting credits.

(Mind you, this was BEFORE they paid Diane Warren for the biggest hit of their career).

((And, yes, I fully know who Desmond Child is, and yes I know he's a goddamned genius. My point is that he's NOT a member of Aerosmith, though he appears to have done an awful lot of their heavy lifting over the years)).

Anyway, after realizing they didn't write their own shit (and hearing them be a little dishonest about it in a shitty music documentary), it was just a question of realizing all of the other things I hated about Aerosmith.

...Like the terrible fucking double entendres that have become a prerequisite to every goddamn Aerosmith song.

...Like the performance with Britney Spears.

...Like the videos that suggested that perhaps Mr. Tyler might have wanted to go down on his own daughter.

...Like the fact like Tyler and Perry look more and more like somebody's embarrassing drunken cougar grandmas with every passing day.

Now, if I wanted to take the high road, I'd admit that "Jaded" is a very fine song, and that "Falling In Love (Is So Hard on the Knees)", despite being an abortion of pun-smithing, had a really tight chorus.

But guess what? Hired help on both songwriting credits.

So anyway, Aersomith, I give up. Do whatever you want to do. You've lost me.

But if there's one thing I want them to know, it's this:

I'm not a hater, I'm just jaded.

And you're the one that jaded me.

A Day Late - Volume I - Thoughts on the Chuck Biscuits Hoax

So, the computer shit the bed a few weeks ago and it took a while for me to replace the power source and get some new RAM installed. Now she's purring along like the community-wrecking porn peddler that she is, god lover her.

And that means I'm back to my half-assed, last-to-market, never-been-proofed blog.

Yay.

Speaking of last-to-market, how about that Chuck Biscuits story??

I first read about it from my muse, the lovely Carrie Brownstein (on her blog - via Twitter.....how cliche!), and I'm not going to lie: it DID stop me in my tracks.

Chuck Biscuits is one of those musicians that for some reason I just imagined that no one else really gave any thought to. Maybe because I'm a drummer, maybe because so few people took Danzig seriously, and maybe because the punk bands he was in were so.....(forgive me) fringe and dated to my ears by the time I had developed any sort of musical consciousness, but I just figured he was among the obscure artists that I would always consider to be mine and mine alone for adulation.

So when word reached me that he'd died, I was sad in a way that I couldn't even bother to try and explain to anyone.

You know, it's funny the thoughts that come to you when you get that sort of news....

I remember how he'd quit/been fired from Danzig right before I finally got around to seeing them in college, and how I was totally unsatisfied with Joey Castillo as his replacement that night at the Tower Theatre...Not so much because there was anything wrong with Joey, but because he wasn't Chuck, with his quarter-note, clang-thud combo which was basically the heartbeat of that awesome, awesome, awesome first Danzig record.

I sat there at my desk, taking an inventory of my favorite work of his. How the opening tracks of Danzig III and Danzig IV showcased some of his most powerful drumming. How his stint in Social Distortion gave the rhythm section a great big load of muscle, while still -- somehow or another -- making things swing.

But there I was at my stupid job, reading that Chuck Biscuits - drumming idol and unsung hero - was dead. And feeling a little bit alone in my sadness over it.

Imagine my surprise when the exceptionally elaborate hoax was exposed, and blogger/Danzig authority James Greene, Jr. received a virtual burning in effigy in the blogosphere for reporting on it! (Never you mind that everyone from Monitor Mix to too-cool-for-you Brooklyn Vegan jumped on the false story and pushed it out as fast as they possible could have).

Seriously, the hatred towards Greene was pretty astounding. And while, yes, I admit to being saddened at the news of Chuck's apparent death, and, yes, I was relieved to learn that he was still alive, I couldn't quite fathom how ANGRY some of the commentators on Greene's blog were.

What does this all prove?

1. The Internet is a weird place. Its a platform for screwed up people to say crazy shit. And that's mostly ok.....until you start messing with people's lives.

2. The Internet is a beautiful place. Who on Earth knew that a guy like Chuck Biscuits had so many fans, or that they felt so strongly about his legacy? The outpouring of fond memories for Chuck was something I found wonderful (and on a selfish level, rather validating of my questionable tastes).

3. The Internet is a great place for making yourself look like a doofus. I'm talking specifically about that person who was crying about being stuck in a state of false grief over Greene's mis-reporting. I hope that person goes to bed every night thanking his or her lucky stars that they haven't yet learned what real grief fells like.

4. Blogging about stuff that perhaps only you care about might not be worth it. Because believe it or not, someone else out there shares your fascinations. And they're just dying to piss all over you the minute you mis-step.

And that's in bad taste.