A History of Bad Taste and Arena Rock

The Year in Shows: 2011

2011-12-31T12:03:00.000-08:00

It was an another up and down year for show attendance; Summer and Fall were decent, but the Winter was a complete bust, and I barely even remember the first few months of the year.

(Oh. Right. Wedding....That explains it).

I did actually get to enough shows to do a top ten list, but due to the fact that so many of them were disappointing (and my generally desperate need for editing), I'll keep it to top five this year.

5. Monotonix at Comet Ping Pong

I'd narrowly missed these guys twice before - once walking into a small club shortly after they'd played, only to discover that the place was fully empty and mostly trashed. So, regardless of what I thought of their music, I did want to finally check Monotonix out.

And generally speaking, they delivered: Lots of riffing. Lots of crusty facial hair. Lots of underwear. Lots of beer and trash strewn around the room. Lots of climbing on things and hanging from things and drum set relocation and semi-bombastic Israeli flag waving.

I can't really say that it was *good*, but it sure was fun, and everyone pretty much got what they came for.

4. The Jim Jones Review at the Black Cat

"Little Richard on crack" was how my friend, Chris, described this band to me. But they were so much better than that.

There's so little great rock out there right now. I'm talking about real rhythm section rock. The type with pianos and horns and tastelessly in-your-face vocals.

That's who these guys are. And God bless them, because despite an appearance on Letterman later that week, they played to a sparse crowd in D.C. that night.

I sure hope they hit Baltimore. Because for a UK band, that's exactly what they remind me of: those incredible 90s rock bands like Ironboss and the Reprobates and the Glenmont Popes and the Put-Outs, that just sort of organically grew out of Hampden for so many years in the 90's.

3. Fucked Up at the Black Cat

Fucked Up rarely puts on anything less than a stellar show, and this would be no exception. They opened with the excellent "Queen of Hearts" (my personal vote for song of the year, by the way), featuring surprise guest vocals from Madeline Folin from Cults, who was playing in town the following night.

This set up perhaps the single greatest dis I have heard in all of my concert-going years, courtesy of Damien Abraham:

"That was Madeline Folin from Cults, and she's playing tomorrow night with Foster the People. Take it from me: get there early, leave early."

Ouch.

2. The Body and the Assembly of Light Choir at St. Steven's Church

It's easy to get defense about how little respect metal gets as a music form, much less an art form. It is also totally cliche. The last thing I need is people thinking I'm that crybaby label apologist, Eddie Fucking Trunk.

Nonetheless, it was nice to witness the Body and the Assembly of Light Choir putting on the single most artistic performance I saw all year -- and perhaps in several years.

True, the AOLC doesn't exactly knock you over with the sophistication of their arrangements. (To be honest, they get repetitive quickly). But that's not really the point.

The point is that it takes both balls and vision to perform them in tandem with a two-piece doom metal band that is playing at full tilt.....not only staying toe to toe with them, but complimenting the band with a nearly Wagnerian power at the end of the set. (Special thanks to St. Stephen's acoustics and some outstanding sound work by local stalwart, Marcus Esposito),

A grudging nod to Lars Gotrich at NPR for tipping me off (via Twitter) to this show. I can't say that I have much use for that intellectual, hipster, metal-for-smart-kids music that he seems to love, but he sure knew what he was talking about with this one.

1. Pharaoh Sanders at Bohemian Caverns

Make no mistake: the last of the jazz greats are dying off. And since I routinely botch every single chance I have ever had to see Sonny Rollins, I wasn't going to screw this up.

Sanders is destined to always be compared to his "mentor", John Coltrane. But with his penchant for playing with feedback, experimenting with insane mouthpieces and generally doing things with the saxophone that it was never intended to do, it's just as apt to have him forever bonded to Jimi Hendrix.

And Goddamn it, he's one powerful, aggressive, fearless performer.

That said, I guess its fair to say that Sanders got off to a slow start. He's a little older, a little shorter and a little heavier than I realized. (And a whole lot blacker - like his skin had a nearly blue glow under the stage lights....not that this has anything to do with anything, but the visual was fucking cool).

Once Sanders hit his his stride, however, I completely regretted not buying tickets for the later set. Because if he picked up where he left off (a fun-as-hell romp on "Going Back to Africa"), the people waiting upstairs had an even better night than I did.

Really glad I caught this.

(And - seriously - I can't believe that Lars Gotrich tipped me off to this one, too. Good Lord. You should probably follow him on Twitter.)

Christmas Medley 2011

2011-12-18T07:42:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays, all!

Those bastards at work wouldn't allow me to cruise into the holidays with out one more effing business trip (...thanks for the salary and the benefits, but you sure do suck), so here's this year's medley before I hit the road again.

Enjoy, be safe, and Merry Christmas.

Colorado Christmas

Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas

Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight)

The First Noel

R.I.P. Black Cat Bill

2011-11-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: Washington City Paper Reports that William Turner (aka Black Cat Bill) is still with us. I'm glad to hear it, (and moderately embarrassed).

Then again, who the hell reads this blog anyway? I was a little skeptical, but I wrote what I felt.

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

Sad news, my friends.

DCist is reporting that Black Cat Bill has passed away. Details and official confirmations remain hard to come by, but from what I understand, employees at the Black Cat are the source.

Anyone who ever spent more than a few nights at D.C.'s greatest punk rock club knows Black Cat Bill.

Whether you every actually bothered to learn his name or not, Bill was a fixture on 14th Street for....Jesus, I've been running around down there for about 15 years now, and he was outside the door of the club the very first time I set foot in the place.

Warm, good-natured and friendly, Bill was a homeless man best known for greeting the club's patrons with his infamous baritone cheer, "BLACK CAT, BLACK CAT! A little spare chaaaaaaaange for the homeless?"

Half carnival barker, half goodwill ambassador to 14th street hispters, Bill was always pleasant and charming. And he was always grateful for whatever people were willing to share with him. In the heat of Washington's summers or the dead of its winters, I never knew him to be anything other than a gentleman, even when the elements were far less friendly.

Over the years, I'm happy that I had a number of encounters with Bill. A few stand out on this evening in particular.

One night I stopped on the way into the club to ask how he was doing, and he gave me his standard answer:

"I'm doing ok for an old guy...But as long as I keep watching you young folks, I get a little more energy."

And he smiled that infectious smile of his.

Another night I slipped him a buck and asked him how his night was.

He raised an eyebrow. "It would be a lot better," he shot, "if everyone was as generous as you are."

Quite the charmer, he was.

Once, in late August of 2005, I passed him at his regular spot.

"You doing ok these days?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm doing ok," he responded. "I know I'm doing a lot better than all those poor people down in New Orleans."

I fumbled for something to say, and failed. Here he was, homeless, unkempt, and most certainly struggling with addiction, and counting his blessings nonetheless.

But the one evening I will never forget, was the night he offered a kind word to a drunken, tearful young woman who had stomped out of the club in a huff.

For his efforts, she spat at him that she didn't need his advice, at that, "at least I'M not HOMELESS! I have a JOB!"

There was a silence on the sidewalk for half a beat. I remember being so goddamned angry.

But before I could say or do anything, Bill spoke up for himself, his tone even but most deliberately measured.

"I know you're not homeless," he said. "And I'm happy for you that you're not."

I was speechless. At a moment when the only thing I wanted to do was chase that little brat into the street for all of her ugliness, Bill chose dignity. But he made his point, nonetheless.

I guess I wanted to defend him, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. Bill had bigger problems to worry about than the new wave of spoiled little drunk girls that was soon to take over 14th Street.

The past few years, Bill would disappear for long periods of time. Every time it would happen, I'd get a little nervous....God knows what could happen to an aging homeless guy -- even one that everyone seems to like.

The last time I saw him it was New Years Eve nearly two years ago.

He looked bad. He must have lost 70 pounds....perhaps much more. He looked tired, and for the first time in all of those years of chatting with one another, he seemed sorry for himself.

Heart disease, high blood pressure and gangrene in one of his feet were among the ailments he ran past me. I just couldn't believe how low he sounded.

I squatted down next to him, and gave him a few bucks and some words of encouragement that felt insufficient in every way. He gave my hand a shake, looked me in the eye, then draped his other hand on top of mine. He held on tight.

"God comes first," he told me. "Your family comes second. You come third."

And then he started crying.

"God comes first," he repeated twice, as he gathered himself as best he could.

The moment seemed to last a long time. It was intimate, and it was painful, cruelly juxtaposed against the bars letting out on New Years.

It is not how I will choose to remember Bill.

+++++++

I suppose that it is entirely possible that the reports of Bill's death are false information. And I hope that they are. Perhaps the outpouring of mourning on Facebook and Twitter will serve as a needed reminder that homeless people are, in fact, human beings with names and lives.

But either way, take some time over the holiday season to follow Bill's example and try to be happy for all that you have and all that you've been given. Even when life just sucks.

And if you can, spare a little change for the homeless.

Happy Halloween!

2011-10-30T15:22:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween!

To commemorate my favorite non-religious/non-family/non-nationalistic flag-waving holiday, I'm raising this blog from the dead and taking a trip back in time to share some of my favorite Halloween costumes in years past.

Let's start with this year. This year, I was Lemmy. And I was awesome at it. See here:

Actual conversation overheard at the table next to us at Church Key (a totally awesome beer bar that is unfortunately overrun with semi-douchey hipsters who just might have gotten eaten alive at the corner of 14th and Rhode Island Ave less than ten years earlier):

Girl: "Sorry, I can't even concentrate enough to speak because of that guy's warts. That's disgusting."
Guy: "That's Lemmy"
Girl: "Who?"
Guy: "Lemmy from Motorhead"
Girl: "What? "
Guy: "He's a legend"
Girl: "Who is he?"
Guy: "He's in the band Motorhead"
Girl: "Who are they?"
Guy: *sigh* "They're like Brad Paisley, ok?"

This would not be my first rock star homage. In fact, the year I went to New Orleans for Halloween, I went as Alice Cooper.

I was mistaken for the fucking Crow all night long. Oh, well.

The photo above was taken at 6:00 AM after being out all night at the Howlin Wolf and Snake & Jake's. If I look a little dead, its because I am.

In fact, I *felt* a little more like the photo below:

Of course, I didn't always pick a specific rock star. In fact, this one year I totally phoned it in with this generic piece of crap "rocker" outfit that's about as authentic as Mark Whalberg starring an unwatchably terrible Ripper Owens biopic.

Here I am posing with a coworker.

Once again, proof that the Amish simply work harder than the rest of us...

Ooh, speaking of Mark Whalberg, one year I was totally obsessed with Boogie Nights, and I wanted to do some kind of send-up to 70's fashion. Check THIS out:

What I was going for: Disco king/70's porn star.
What I ended up with: Your dad.

Then maybe a year later I saw Basquiat, and became obsessed with Andy Warhol. So.....

Notice my exceptional attention to detail. Because this is pretty much 70 percent made from the shitty "rocker" costume from a few years earlier.
Also, because as we all know, Warhol never went anywhere without 40 oz'er of King Cobra in a brown paper bag.

Then, one year, just like every other five year old in the Maryland suburbs, I went as a cowboy.

What my coworker was going for: Beats me....
What I was going for: bad guy cowboy/man in black.
What I ended up with: If Joe Buck and Woody from Toy Story had BOTH been male prostitutes.

Speaking of prostitutes, I can't quite tell you what was going through my head this one year.

I can, however, tell you that our HR department was probably borderline incompetent to allow me to get away with this.

Jimmy Page & the Black Crowes: A Tale of Two Scotts

2011-08-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

Man, I haven't done one of these ticket things in a long time.....StubStory.com done stole my concept! (kidding, kidding...)

Ok, that having been said, welcome, boys and girls!

When I think back on all the dinosaur rock acts I've seen over the years, it seems a bit odd that I'd never seen any of the guys from Led Zeppelin live when I was a teenager.

Plant cranked out a bunch of decent-to-middling solo albums over the years. Must've toured behind all of them, but I don't think I even once considered seeing him in concert.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Page had a litany of collaborative efforts with likes of David Coverdale, Plant (...go figure), and perpetual also-ran, Paul Rogers. None of it held any interest for me.

John Paul Jones was probably always working, but I didn't yet know that he would be the only one making interesting rock into his 60's.

I'm sure if there had been a Led Zeppelin reunion in the 80's, that - just like with the Who and the Stones - I would have been totally into it. Hell, on a nearly weekly basis my friend, Scott, and I traded various reunion rumors we'd heard about (usually through the proverbial "friend of a friend", or on 98 Rock), frequently leading us to debate whether "Rock and Roll" or "Misty Mountain Hop" would make a better opener, and always agreeing that "Battle of Evermore" would have to be on the set list.

But for whatever reason - perhaps because of the uniquely mystical kind of legend that followed Zeppelin around after they broke up -- I always accepted that a Led Zep reunion would not be in the cards, and that seeing any of them solo would be a diminishment of that legend.

That, and I should probably say that I never "got" Jimmy Page the way that other kids did. Eddie Van Halen and Jimi Hendrix always sort of spoke for themselves by being so over the top. Keith Richards did it by totally nailing his way around the rhythm section. Slash did it with a tone that was just about perfect.

But Page is a guitar-player's musician, and I don't play guitar (not really, at least. Perhaps not at all). Alternate tunings were kind of lost on me for a long time. Ditto for insanely layered parts.

I totally accepted that he was the man, basically because the right people told me so. But frankly, he never quite turned me on the way that some of the other legendary axe men did.

This show did help convert me.

And it was through, coincidentally, a different friend named Scott.

A bit about Scott # 2:

Scott plays guitar, and he’s excellent company. In fact, this one time he hosted a Superbowl party where we decided that we’d jam on Freebird together as the halftime entertainment for his guests. The results were somewhat disappointing. (And by “somewhat disappointing” I mean that everyone got the hell out of the room before we even got the guitars plugged in).

Scott is about 6’2”, and his physical build clearly indicates that he spent a whole lot of his younger years swimming and playing defensive end. And drinking beer – more beer, in fact, than you can drink. (This is a fact).

And despite having what one might describe as a foreboding physical presence, Scott is as good-natured as they come. Calm, friendly and accommodating, Scott isn't really one to seek out adventure; adventure just seems to follow him around.

In fact, the one thing I've learned over the years is that an evening with Scott is always a good time, and quite often a legendary time. Because literally anything could happen:

Someone just might throw a falafel at you.

You could end up in a fist fight with strangers in the middle of Connecticut Ave.

You may end up spending St. Patrick's Day in the the Arlington Courthouse, awaiting a friends release upon self recognizance.

Heck, you just might save a kid from alcohol poisoning. (Hey, Frenchie: if you're still out there somewhere, you totally need some new friends).

So, if Scott wanted to go see Jimmy Page and the Black Crowes, who was I to pass on it? (Plus, Scott had this cute new girlfriend that he was really excited about and he wanted me to meet her).

So off we went to the Nissan Pavillion. I had my hang-ups about whether or not this show would be any good, but there we went nonetheless. After all, I'd seen the Crowes at least twice before (maybe more), and despite what seemed to be a total disability to get their songs on the radio after about 1993, they had actually built an excellent reputation for themselves as a touring band.

And, plus, you know....Jimmy Page.

Honest to God, the night was fairly awesome. Despite an unfortunately sparse crowd (the promoter actually opened up the pavilion seats to us lawn stragglers because the sales were so poor), it was a really nicely-performed set made up nearly entirely of deeper Zeppelin cuts. And I have to give the Crowes credit: they rose to the occasion. Never once did they sound like a cover band, or like they were aping Bonzo or Plant. They sounded like the Black Crowes playing Led Zeppelin songs.

Two specific memories worth pointing out:

1. The Robinson brothers nailed the creepy into harmonies on "In The Light", in a way that I never would have thought would be possible live.

2. Page absolutely shredded two or three times during the show. And that's noteworthy primarily because my only gripe with the early Zeppelin albums is how *sloppy* some of the soloing sounds. (The easiest target for this would have to be "Heartbreaker", a fantastic track that I can't help but believe Page totally could have - and perhaps even did - cut cleaner at some point during those sessions).

It's kind of a petty quibble to unleash on a guitar god, but my point is that it was great to see the 50-or-60-something Page performing with a totally different type of precision, sacrificing no degree whatsoever of his trademark recklessness, blusiness or hardscrabble style, yet clearly in greater mastery over his parts.

So, all in all, it was a good night out with Scott. No flying ethnic food. No arrests. No fights or 911 calls.

But a total awakening for me, regarding what all the kids had been telling me about Page since I was in grade school.

(Oh, and I should probably mention: Scott totally married that girl a few year later.)

...Today, at the Reception

2011-07-21T04:39:00.000-07:00

I wanted to take a quick second to pour some on the curb for the Govinda Gallery, which I just learned had quietly closed its doors last month.

No parties, no grand farewell. Just a tasteful exit, stage right. Perhaps celebratory beers at the Tombs. Seems fitting.

It appears from the Washington Post article that gallery owner, Chris Murray, decided that it was time to move on, well, because it was time. And, honestly, is there ever a better reason?

“It just seemed like the perfect moment,” he told the Post. “This was the completion of a 35-year cycle.”

Its a refreshingly dignified way to bring things to a close.

The Govinda was a favorite of mine because it specialized in something that was right up my alley: music-themed photography.

And while a lot of the subjects could be grouped into that awfully-named catch-all genre called "classic rock", I think that totally undersells the breadth of work that Murray featured. Because the Govinda's exhibits included just about anything and everything: jazz, punk, glam, reggae, hip-hop, skater, you name it. Entire shows about one photographer, entire shows about on artist or band, entire shows themed around a genre, city or musical movement. If photographers documented it and if it was worth showing, Murray got it on the walls.

Situated just off of Prospect Street in Georgetown, the Govinda was just barely tucked away enough to be considered a hidden gem. The place was usually quiet, the staff was always friendly, and I was consistently happy with whatever I saw when I'd drop in.

I have to admit that I'll miss it.

If you live in a city long enough (especially a transient city like Washington, D.C.), you do learn to accept that your favorite haunts won't last forever. Each and every city, in fact, is host to a never ending parade of ghosts of the memories of good times, of safe times, of happy times that took place in long gone - and not so long gone - bars, clubs, shops, bookstores, and restaurants. (Ask three generations of Reilly boys about their favorite memories on the 3300 block of Connecticut Avenue, and it would be very possible that they'd all point you to the same building, with three different memories of three different establishments.)

People come and go, rents go up, and places turn over. You accept it, but sometimes it stings.

Because when I think back on the old Metro Cafe or Signal 66 or Visions Cinema and Cafe, I really do find myself missing those late, late nights at art parties and Britpop dance nights, spent nearly ten years ago with my new girlfriend at the time (now my new wife).

When I think back on the recently closed Commonwealth Gastropub, I remember a fantastic birthday spent in the company of close friends and many rounds of Belhaven Twisted Thistle Ale.

Springsteen and the Ramones might have played at the old Childe Harold in Dupont Circle back in the 70's, but for me, it will always be the scene of the crime for the single most disastrous date of my life.

The old Black Cat location? Where to even begin... It's quite possible that I had more fun in that one building than anywhere else on Earth.

When I think back on the Govinda Gallery, what will I remember?

I'll remember how they never seemed to mind when I'd browse through their library, often sitting cross legged on the floor of the gallery for the better part of an hour, poring over Dominique Tarle's Exile. Everyone who ever saw me do it knew full well that I couldn't afford to buy the book, but no one ever complained.

I'll remember seeing Bejing punks, PK-14 do one of their very first American shows in the Gallery, to an absolutely packed crowd. And I'll remember chatting with their drummer out on 34th street, telling him how much I wanted to visit China, and listening him to implore me to just skip Shanghai and go straight to Beijing. (I did both cities anyway).

And most of all, I'll remember a fantastic summer afternoon when my girlfriend (wife) and I popped in on a Saturday to check out a new Mick Rock exhibit. There were maybe four people in the gallery besides us, including a tallish, curly-haired and very enthusiastic Brit, who was fully holding court with some very tall tales I was only half listening to.

He caught my attention when he strode up to a gorgeous print of Syd Barrett, posing on the hood of a classic automobile.

"THIS," the Brit announced. "Is my favorite." He went on to describe losing the photo for years and years, and only discovering it relatively recently, under his nose in his flat all of these years.

"Holy shit," I muttered, grabbing my girlfriend's arm. "That's him. That's Mick Rock."

As I puttered around the gallery star-struck, Rock made his way to the door with a friend, announcing to the lovely young woman who always worked the desk that they'd be stepping out for a pint.

"Was that Mick Rock," I asked the lovely attendant.

She smiled. "He pre-signed a bunch of his books over there if you're interested."

+++++++

That'll always be the Govinda to me: cool, connected, friendly, and understated.

And always in excellent taste.

After All, He's Just A Man

2011-07-07T20:34:00.000-07:00

I can't imagine its very easy for my wife to be married to a guy who loves metal.

There's no way that she enjoys hearing me deconstruct "Cowboys From Hell" for the eleventh time, or theorize how the Portuguese never would have made it across Copacabana Beach if only the locals had been marching to "Refuse/Resist" 500 years earlier.

She can't possibly like it when I play and replay the bridges from various songs off "Master of Puppets" to cement my argument that it is the greatest metal album of all time (and that nothing was ever the same after Cliff Burton died), or make her watch the crappy iPhone videos I made from last week's The Body/Assembly of Light choir show.

I sure don't think she anticipated my going ape shit and canceling any and all plans last week so that I could watch Lemmy when I randomly found it on TV.

But she's tolerant. I have to give her that. Now that I think about it, one of the first things we did as an engaged couple was to go see Lamb of God. Her first metal show, God bless her. With me.

In fact, there are these moments where I have to suspect that she may be more comfortable with my silly tastes than I am of my own. Witness this recent exchange:

WIFE: What shirt is that you're wearing?

ME: It's just an old concert tee.

WIFE: I've never seen if before. What concert?

ME: It's a Danzig tour shirt.

WIFE: I've never seen you wear it.

ME: That's because it's a Danzig tour shirt.

WIFE: The design is kind of cool.

ME: Yeah, but its a Danzig tour shirt.

Here I am in my Danzig tour shirt,
enjoying a delightful Spanish moscato.*

*Note: I don't believe that I've worn this shirt outside in the past ten years.

So, anyway, there you go. This one goes out to the people who accept us for who we are.

"For Thursday's Child Is Sunday's Clown"

2011-06-16T18:49:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I saw an item on Pitchfork, announcing that Metallica and Lou Reed were planning a full length album in collaboration.

Now, I've been planning a post for MONTHS about how I came to be a Metallica hater, and why I believe I'm still justified in hating on them.

But this won't be that post.

Because, the truth is that like nearly every other thirty- and forty-something metalhead out there, Metallica was once very special to me. Between the years of 1987 and 1991, they were one of my two favorite bands (the other being, ironically to some, the Rolling Stones).

Unlike the Stones, however, Metallica was in the now in the 80's. They were, in fact, way ahead of their time.

And despite being arguably the biggest metal band in the world in those years (yes, Mister Harris, your band was really great, too) , Metallica was also something of a cult band....a cult band that happened to make aggressive, literate and visionary music that was - to me - like some kind of a hidden treasure kept from other kids who were too hung up with their preconceptions about heavy metal to actually give it a chance.

Of course, right about the time I stepped foot onto a college campus in 1991, I began to slowly hit a punk phase. (This, of course, was something of an extension from Metallica, given the strong Misfits connection.) And that path always leads at some point to the Velvet Underground.

I won't pretend that the Velvets were even a fraction as important to me as Metallica was, but they absolutely do form the soundtrack to a lot of my college memories. I damn near wore out that cassette of "Live at Max's Kansas City" by the time I'd graduated, and I remember an awful lot of lonely nights trying to figure out the chords to "Lisa Says" on my roommate's guitar. (I never did get it right. Lou's a tricky fucker).

I loved the way Reed - in the Velvets and as a solo artist - could make his lyrics work on so many levels: the tender, the triumphant, the desperate, the devastated, the dark and the depraved.

I even had a ridiculously awesome over-sized poster of the "Rock and Roll Animal" album cover hanging above my dorm bed, complete with a verse from "Heroin" printed in the lower left corner. (Dad was just delighted to see that over parents weekend).

So, I hope we got all of that out in the clear: I still have an awful lot of love for the music of both Metallica and Lou Reed.

But, my God, I'm really not looking forward to this collaboration.

Because, unlike Death Magnetic ("return to classic form" my white, Polish ass), I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to resist checking this one out.

And, unfortunately, in the exact same way I have misgivings about tribute albums, I'm just not that comfortable with mega-artist collaborations.

Sure, I know that this is all the rage right now. Bon Iver working with Kanye. Robert Plant and Allison Krause. That Dangermouse guy and basically everyone.

But its just not for me. And I think I have a fairly logical explanation for that:

Making great music is a delicate process. It is a collaboration in and of itself, and the right mix of artists, personalities and perspectives is essential.

Furthermore, although there is some truth to the notion that most successful bands are led by a dictator personality within the unit, the fact is that the process always remains a collaboration: the dictator keeps every single member of the band because he knows that they make his vision for his music that much closer to reality. Along the way, new arrangements are suggested, new skills and talents are discovered and fostered, and -- perhaps most commonly -- beautiful mistakes are made, yielding new and often more exciting perspectives on a song.

It requires an immense amount of trust, and quite a bit of humility. (No one knows this better than the drummer).

It was true for the young Metallica. It was true for the young Velvets. It was even true for mid-career Lou Reed, when Bowie and Bob Ezrin produced albums with him.

But I question how much any successful and firmly established legacy artist can *truly* collaborate with another successful and firmly established legacy artist.

I question whether or not Reed has enough respect for Metallica to have them rearrange his songs without meddling.

I question whether or not Metallica has it in them to rise to someone else's standard.

I question whether or not this project should have been given to the guys in Mastadon, instead.

And, honestly, more than anything else, I question whether or not I can ever get over my nagging certainty that this entire idea would sound so much better if Cliff Burton was still alive.

Because when I look back at the young Metallica -- those long-haired, awkward, pimply kids -- I really do find myself thinking of them as artists.

But when I look at the clumsy arena rock juggernaut they've been for the past 20 years...with the law suits, and Saint Anger, and the Basquiat collection, and that fucking album with the philharmonic....

...Well, when I do that, I find myself sadly realizing that when that bus went off the road in Sweden, something truly did "flicker for a moment, and then it vanished and was gone."

Unholy Blashphemies?

2011-06-14T17:26:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, you come across someone that reminds you that your lousy opinions are all worthless and weak, and you should just stop offering them on your stupid blog until you can get your act together.

And goddamned if that guy doesn't produce Coverkiller Nation.

I just might be in love with The Coverkiller.

If Jim Cornett reviewed metal albums, he's do it just like the Coverkiller does.

If John McLaughlin hosted a Sunday morning roundtable analysis show about metal, the Coverkiller would smack that smirk off of Monica Crowley's face, give her still-warm seat cushion a slow sniff, and park his Doritos-fed ass in her chair.

The Coverkiller is Rush Limbaugh, Keith Olbermann and Eddie Trunk, morphed into one supremely opinionated voice.

The CoverKiller has a passion for metal that I can't muster for much of anything in my life, besides maybe drinking Bell's Two Hearted Ale, watching The Soup, and passing out on the couch with my wife on a Friday night.

And, so, I now present to you, the Coverkiller's EPIC 9:00 rant review of Morbid Angels' long-awaited Illud Divinum Insanus.

Quick primer for the three of you who don't listen to metal: Morbid Angel are one of the definitive death metal bands of all time. They make scary music. And they're good at it.

Last month they released an album that made metal fans very angry. That anger was a very specific type of anger. It was nerd rage.

Nerd rage is that irrational anger that one can only experience when one has obsessively sacrificed significant portions of time, energy and dignity to wholeheartedly waving the flag for some under-appreciated passion, only to be horribly betrayed by the object of their obsession (see also: Van Halen hiring Gary Cherone; Olivia Munn leaving "Attack of the Show"; Lucas dreaming up Jar-Jar-fucking-Binks during a Dr.-Pepper-and-quaaludes-bender, then refusing to edit him out after he sobered up; and every goddamned move that Daniel Snyder has made during his humiliating ownership of the Washington Redskins.)

This, my friends, is a splendid example of nerd rage, and I am very pleased to share it with you.

Do not go to war with the Coverkiller Nation.

Enjoy.

Reviews In Bad Taste: "All For None, None For All: A Tribute to Peter Steele"

2011-06-07T19:35:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, the good people at MetalUnderground.com stumbled upon my sad little blog, and asked me if I'd be interested in writing a review of the new Peter Steele tribute they'd just released. I told them I'd be happy to, and, lo and behold, within a day's time, they'd e-mailed me my very own copy of "All For None, None For All: A Tribute to Peter Steele".

So first things first: thanks to MetalUnderground for making this album happen; and for believing (1) that my opinion matters, and (2) that anyone reads this blog. (Ha. Suckers).

(Seriously, though, in just a smidgen more than the year after Steele died, MU's crew managed to get a tribute album off the ground, completed and out the door. That grants them my eternal respect for being a top-notch professional outfit. And for releasing it at only $3.00 a copy, they're also just plain good folks.)

Now comes the hard part: the actual review.

Let's be clear about this: I was totally upfront with Ty that I'm a pretty crap writer, and haven't done very many *reviews* per se. But, well, hell. They found me and offered me this opportunity, so here's my best effort not to screw this up.

++++++++

It's fitting that in the wake of vocalist/bassist/figurehead/co-songwriter Peter Steele's death, MetalUnderground.com has spearheaded a tribute to Type O Negative.

After all, cover songs were always a prominent part of Type O's repertoire, both in the studio and on stage. And although results of Type O's cover choices varied widely (it's hard to believe that the same band that did that jaw-droppingly creepy version of Seals & Croft's "Summer Breeze" also was responsible for the goddawfully terrible take on "Angry Inch"), the more important thing to keep in mind is that the band's choices reflected a dynamic appreciation for some of the best music of the 60's, 70's and even the 80's, including covers of the Beatles, Neil Young, Black Sabbath, Hendrix, the Doors, Status Quo, the Knack, Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, CCR, Santana, and the Banana Splits. I'm pretty sure they even goofed on some Nirvana at one show I attended.

All of that is a long way of saying that the Type O Negative catalog should be totally fair game for the next generation to take a crack at, and that (once again) I am glad that MetalUnderground made it happen.

My take? My take is that tribute albums are always a tough prospect. Because out of some perverse form of logic, if you love a band enough to buy a tribute album for them, then you probably also love them enough to feel defensive and territorial about anyone doing them wrong. Its a bit of a paradox, and it explains why I own a library of tribute albums that I don't especially like.

But, still, best case, you walk out with three or four tracks that are enjoyable, and perhaps an artist or two that catches your interest. And, oddly enough, that sort of makes the entire project worthwhile, in spite of however disappointing the rest of the content might be.

And, true to form, that's exactly how this tribute turns out for me.

Before we get started, a few broad trends I spotted:

1. The bands that chose my least favorite songs walked into this review with an immediate advantage. I totally admit that the lack of an emotional connection to certain songs made it possible for me to be a little more open minded.
2. The most common pitfall for most of these bands were the vocals. In so many ways, its a lose-lose: Peter's ultra-baritone was central to so many of the band's arrangements, so if you try to mimic it, you might sound like a poseur. Swing and miss, however, and you'll lose the whole track.
3. Nothing off of "Slow Deep and Hard"?? Damn.

Anyway, without further ado, here's my take.

The Winners: Auvernia, Enthrope, Revilement, Autumn's Eyes.
The Losers: Fairytale Abuse, Emancer, Blind Greed.
Somewhere in the middle: Everyone else.

Track by track:

"I Don't Want to Be Me" -- Auvernia (Argentina): I don't believe that a single band on this comp had as much fun with their track than Auvernia did. Despite the band's ultra-earnest power metal foundations, there's an almost giddy energy behind this interpretation, and I suspect that Peter would have had a chuckle at it. (Seriously tight band, too. I'm still trying to figure out if those are live drums or not.)

"Black # 1" -- Fairytale Abuse (Denmark): As I mentioned, the vocals was a gamble for most of these bands. Unfortunately, Fairytale Abuse rolled a two by swapping out the baritone for a gritty and thin growl, backed on the choruses by a deeper, more traditional bark. And that just won't work for a song that is so dependent on a rich vocal. (Especially during the harpsichord bridge, which the band just fucking skipped altogether - major points off guys.). This track might have been saved if the guy doing the background vocals (Molle?) had taken the lead this time around.

"Halloween In Heaven" -- Stabbingback (Seattle, U.S.A.): Massive improvement of a totally awful song. Excellent effort, guys. Not your fault the song itself sucks.

"My Girlfriend's Girlfriend" -- Emancer (Norway): Such an excellent start to this track. A lot less groove, a lot more drive.

And then... we hit the 1:00 mark.

Is this a fucking joke? Ugh.

"Dead Again" -- Dead Shape Figure (Finland): For fairly obvious reasons, this is one of the more thought-provoking tracks on the tribute. Its a solid effort, and band does the song justice by stripping out the majority of the keyboards and upping the tempo slightly, a technique that works most effectively on the machine gun fills before each verse. A few points off for over-flourishing the vocals.

"Wolf Moon" -- Enthrope (Finland): Enthrope did the best job of anyone working around the obstacle of Steele's vocals. And I have to admit that I initially bristled at the corpsing technique. But here's the thing: after a few listens I began to theorize that the band was using a straight vocal and a corpse-grunt to differentiate between the split characters of man and werewolf within the song. To that end, it's a brilliant technique, brought fully to life as the two sing the coda in duet ("beware/the woods at night/beware/the lunar light"), at once a warning and a threat.

Even better, Enthrope employs the subtle but decided tempo change going into the coda that was a standard of Type O Negative's live show. Gold star to these guys.

"Life Is Killing Me" -- Dark Hound (Nashville, U.S.A.): As with "Dead Again", this one is an obvious choice to include on a tribute album. I can't say that Dark Hound brings much new to the table with this version, but at the minimum the lyrics are higher in the mix and easier to distinguish, which is important for this post-mortem document. Kind of makes me wish I'd listened a more closely when the original disc came out.

"Green Man" -- Band of Orcs (Santa Cruz, U.S.A.): Say what you will about these weirdos, but they happen to be the only band on this comp that took any significant liberties with a Type O Negative arrangement. And although Gogog's vocals are more humorous than threatening, they do effectively create a mood wherein the Green Man character -- something of a pagan resurrection hero in the original -- becomes a very sinister figure.

Do I like the track? Not really; I accept that the whole thing smells like a sophomoric gag, in fact. But I have to offer them my respect for retooling the song into something absolutely opposite in tone from the original. I was hoping for more of this, honestly.

Well, not this. But this kind of effort.

Everything Dies -- In.Verno (Spain): While certainly not the worst track on the album, I'd be lying if I said that this one doesn't strike me as a lost opportunity for In.Verno (or almost any other band with a female vocalist): Pete did his share of macho posturing, but a lot of his lyrics were nearly feminine in their fragility. Laura Comesaña has a beautifully mournful voice, and I would have liked to have heard her take a crack at something more romantically vulnerable, like "Can't Lose You" or "Haunted".

"Christian Woman" -- Blind Greed (Tucson, U.S.A.): No two ways about it: there's something wrong here. While there are some nuggets to be found (in particular, the excellent vocals), but I have a sneaking suspicion that Blind Greed attempted to record all eight minutes of the three movements of this song in one take. And that seems to have created some problems.

Most notably, the track just seems thin, due in large part to a snare drum that's way too tinny to stand up to the primary bass and guitar riffs of movements one and three. Moreover, the are sections in both of the last two movements when the band just seems out of synch -- most notably in the climax of the second movement and the transition into the third.

(Sorry guys. It goes against everything I stand for to single out the drummer, so I'm going to suggest you beat up your engineer instead)

Sex and Violence -- Revilement (Taiwan): Holy fuck. Look out, Chthonic. These guys will fuck you up where you stand.

"Love You to Death" -- Autumns Eyes (Connecticut, U.S.A.): I guess I had a lot of problems with this track at first.

Foremost, I thought that Dan Mitchell might have been playing it too close to the original, which I was afraid would bore me. And then there were the high strings in the intro (violas and low strings only, dude....).

But I have to hand it to him: Dan/Autumns Eyes did really well by this track, and that's one hell of a feat, considering that Love You to Death is one of the most lush arrangements the band ever put together.

And, to my surprise, there actually are a handful of tweaks that I'm really happy with: in particular, the slightly off-key children's piano effect on the second verse is creepily playful, providing a very cool variation on Josh Silver's original part.

Moreover, Autumns Eyes incorporates two aspects of Type O's live version of this track that I'd nearly forgotten about: (1) the pensive keyboard into that they always used live; and (2) the fantastic drop-crescendo the band would include in the middle of the coda. (This one small technique was always one of my favorite moments of Type O's live show, and I have to admit that incorporating it here went a very long way in winning me over). So, yeah - big ups to Autumns Eyes.

And there you have it. If you love this band, you absolutely should give "All For None, None For All" a try, even if just to form your own opinion. And if you're getting older (like me), and you're having trouble keeping up with new music (like me), this is one hell of an economical way to get with it.

Many, many thanks to all of the bands who participated in this tribute, even the ones I was unfavorable to. The fact is that their contribution keeps Peter's music alive longer and to a more broad audience, and that's important. And thanks to MetalUnderground -- not only for making this happen, but for recognizing that a whole lot of us saw the greatness of Pete Steele's talents.

Reviews In Bad Taste: Black Label Society - The Song Remains Not the Same

2011-05-22T16:46:00.001-07:00

Over the years I haven't always done right by Zakk Wylde. Despite the fact that he may be THE guy who has done the most to carry the flag for hard rock since its near-death experience ever since the grunge era, I actually don't own a single Black Label Society album.

I've wanted to make this right for a long time, and last week I finally did.

After catching a TV promo for Zakk's new acoustic album, "The Song Remains Not the Same"during a recent airing of "That Metal Show", I decided to give it a try. This decision was made despite the album's borderline terrible name and an acoustic concept that - in my experience - generally disappoints.

With all of that said, the music featured in the ad showcased a teary-eyed Allmans-esque side of Wilde's music that I'd always felt was just barely beneath the surface of BLS, but was repressed nonetheless. And that excited me.

And then, there's the x-factor of someone so unabashedly ROCK doing an "unplugged" album. Because, let's face it: after the initial success of MTV Unplugged (ahem, 20 years ago), acoustic performances got pretty played out; they turned into a gimmick, often performed with minimal effort and to poor outcome. All of this made me a little uneasy, and very curious. (Say what you want about Zakk, but the dude's a workhorse, and I had a feeling he wouldn't half-ass this).

And, so, I broke down and gave the thing a try.

The song list for the disc can generally be divided into two categories: acoustic renditions of BLS tunes, and covers of tender-hearted classic rock songs from the 60s and 70s. I'm going to address each category separately.

The Black Label Society Songs:

A bit of a mixed bag here. In fact, thirty seconds into the first track, things were not looking good. Album-opener "Overlord' loses all of the funky muscle that makes the original a great rock song, and transforms it into something more akin to a Days of the New outtake. And that's not really a good thing.

Things do pick up from there, however: "Parade of the Dead" provides a downright mournful counterpart to the "stomping off to war" theme of the original, and features an arrangement that I have to admit much better suits the vocal melody; and "Riders of the Damned" is nearly unrecognizable from its source.

But the highlight has to be "Darkest Days". The new version didn't actually require a lot of tinkering (the original being a tear-jerker in its own right), but the more sparse arrangement is still effective; the extra space gives Wylde the freedom to explore his vocals and land on a weary style that owes itself a great deal to the aforementioned Gregg Allman.

(For some reason, there's an unnecessary second version of this tune later in the album, featuring country music star, John Rich, on vocals. I don't really question the decision to have Rich on the disc so much as the decision to include two takes of the song. I hate it when musicians do that).

The Cover Songs:

The second section of the album features a surprisingly diverse group of songs by Black Sabbath, Neil Young, Blind Faith, and (*gasp*) Simon & Garfunkel. And this is noteworthy, because hard rock and heavy metal musicians (and fans) are all too often typecast as completely one-dimensional listeners; to have a band as iconic as Black Label paying homage to roots that might not seem altogether obvious is something that I'm very grateful for.

"Junior's Eyes" kicks things off. Not one of my favorite Sabbath tracks to begin with (how on earth did this one not end up on "Blizzard of Oz"? It certainly never sounded like Sabbath to me...), I'm willing to tell you that its an improvement. But that's not much of an accomplishment in my book, and I can't say I'll be hitting "repeat" on this on anytime soon.

Their take on Young's "Helpless", meanwhile, is a big winner. Perhaps in the same way that I might never be totally pleased with any version of "Junior's Eyes", I suspect that I'd be pleased with almost any artist's take on Mr. Young's bleak and beautiful epic...I'm a sucker at the very first line, and BLS does exceptionally well by the song, patiently negotiating the circular nature of the arrangement.

The cover of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" is a truly noble effort, and a ballsy one at that: There's nothing particularly rock or metal about this classic, and other than a fairly awesomely schmaltzy cover by Vegas-era Elvis, I've never actually heard anyone else attempt the song.

That said, it's a damned high bar for just about anyone, and Zakk doesn't even attempt Art Garfunkel's death-defying vocal crescendo at the end (which I kind of thought was the point of the whole song). As such, I can't say this one isn't a slight disappointment, but I totally respect the attempt nonetheless.

Similarly, Black Label Society doesn't really improve on Blind Faith's "Can't Find My Way Home" (primarily because that's basically impossible). But they don't make it *worse* either, which is far too common on these types of projects . So bully for them, I guess.

The disc wraps with an instrumental take of "The First Noel", which will undoubtedly remind listeners of Randy Rhoads' solo classical/baroque track, "Dee", on the "Tribute" album. Its a pretty listen, and like the rest of the album, serves as a reminder that there's more to BLS than rude guitars and awesome facial hair.

And that comment kind of wraps the disc up for me. It's a good effort, and I'm sure it was a difficult one on several levels. Most importantly, its a bit of a gamble, pushing the comfort level of certain types of consumers. Had it been pitched to a major label, I can't imagine Zakk & Co. would have gotten the green light for it.

Do I love it? Not really.

But I sure like Black Label Society an awful lot more for it.

Bid Laden is Dead

2011-05-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I'm totally just posting this for Web stats.

Soul On Fire

2011-05-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

Three things you should know if you've stopped by here before:

1. I believe that Glenn Danzig is a terribly under-appreciated talent.

2. I believe that hipster douchebag music snobs ruin everything fun about enjoying music.

3. I believe that I'm kind of a hypocrite, because I know what a detestable snob I can be about music, and how much fun I've had at Mr. Danzig's expense over the years -- despite my personal crusade on and off of this blog to have the guy properly recognized for his skills.

All of that said, I'm happy to point your attention to a recent post on hipster douchebag music snob emporium, Pitchfork.com, which previews droner-rock princess, EMA's, cover of "Soul on Fire". This track from the first Danzig album has always been one of my favorites: his vocals were uncommonly subtle, the arrangements are fairly dynamic, and the production is a real prizewinner (name me one other hard rock/metal song featuring a baritone sax).

EMA's take on the track is excellent. It sounds fairly mechanical in contrast to the very patiently live feel of that entire first Danzig album (thank you, Mr. Chuck Biscuits), but vocalist Erika M. Anderson makes it work with the same kind of brooding tension - albeit from a feminine voice that makes it seem less threatening and far more sexual (um....to me, at least). Sorta like that awesome Melissa Auf Der Maur cover of Devil's Plaything, except more so......way more so.

Pitchfork's interview with Anderson, on the other hand, is unsurprisingly disappointing. While there are a few good insights about EMA's musical influences, the questions about Danzig tend to rotate around his height, his fashion sense, and the ass whooping he received a few years ago at the hands of Northside Kings vocalist Danny Marianinho. (Believe it or not, this seven year old story actually generated yet another headline this weekend. And, no I'm not defending Glenn on this one. Dude really needs to move past it if he ever wants the skinny pants kids to stop dissing him). Anderson actually pays him a really nice compliment in the interview on his ability to write vocals, and also indicates she's listened to some even deeper cuts by the band, but it's generally buried in the piece, and that's too bad.

It's just kind of a bummer. Glenn's been covered by everyone from Metallica to Guns N'Roses to My Morning Jacket. Even Johnny Fucking Cash recorded one of his songs. And yet, its easier for the smart kids to keep him as a punchline.

Dude makes it easy for him, though doesn't he?

Anyway, check out the tune if you can. In the face of some of the general mean-spiritedness of the piece, its hard not to see it as a validation.

You Pull The Trigger of My....

2011-04-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

Been having a little trouble carving out the time to do any actual writing these days, but I've stumbled over some pretty awesome gems the past few weeks. This one comes to you courtesy of The Metal Inquisition - a blog that is vastly superior to mine, even if it does happened to be more starved of content of late. Enjoy.

You can file this under "Thanks For Making My Weekend Totally Fucking Awesome":

You're Invitied But Your Friend Can't Come

2011-04-09T12:18:00.001-07:00

Good God, Vince Neil, you're a fucking jackass.

Still Looking for Someone Who Was Around

2011-04-05T17:08:00.000-07:00

As we approach the one year anniversary of his death, MetalUnderground reports that it will be releasing a Peter Steele tribute album. According to the site:

"To honor Peter’s memory on the anniversary of his passing, and lead a new generation of metalheads to his music, heavy metal news site Metalunderground.com has teamed up with a dozen underground bands from across the globe to release an exclusive tribute album. The tribute, entitled “All For None, None For All: A Tribute to Peter Steele," was done in collaboration with Dan Mitchell of Beneath The Woods Studio and features twelve stellar cover songs from many stages of Peter’s career in both Type O Negative and Carnivore."

I've posted quite a bit here about my admiration for Steele's music. If you could get past all of the dumb-guy-from-Brooklyn humor, the sex god nonsense and the very pre-Twilight-era vampire fetishism, I was always convinced that there was a ridiculously talented songwriter within the guy.

And, as I have written elsewhere on this blog, tracks like "Love You To Death" and "Haunted" have always seemed so beautiful to me that they almost didn't count as metal (a feeling I first experienced the first time I ever heard the middle section of "Orion" -- or, much more to the point now that I think of it, the intro to "Damage, Inc." -- as a young teenager....and that's some excellent songwriting company).

But all of that said, I'm always a little wary of tribute albums. I own a lot of them, and they're often just shy of worthless. The exceptions tend to be when the interpretations show some real ambition. And in order to inspire that, it generally helps if the source materials has a depth of arrangement to it.

So, that's why I'm relatively eager to give this one a try. If Steele and Josh Silver could do one thing, it was typically to put a worthwhile arrangement on a song. Plus, the one cover I've ever heard of them (via Boston shoegazers, The Constants) was generally very satisfying.

So, check it out. I have to admit that I don't know a single band on this list, and that's a good thing. I'm kind of looking forward to this.

What we need is awareness, we can't get careless

2011-03-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

No time for a real post tonight, so I'm just going to point you to an exceptional article from the New York Times this week, about the legendary Clyde Stubblefield's crusade for royalties for the countless hits on which he's been sampled over the years.

(try and diagram that sentence for me, will you?)

Now, if you're looking for me to write a post that attempts to invalidate hip-hop as an art form for its frequent reliance on sampling, you've come to the wrong place. I think sampling can be pretty fucking artistic, in fact. And, no, I'm not talking about that garbage Puff Daddy was doing ten years ago.

I'm talking about my roommate and I -- both suburban white kids -- staring at each other in the living room of our college apartment upon our first listen to "The Chronic" and "The Predator", wondering where the hell Dre and Ice Cube had dug up those ridiculously obscure (...to us) hooks and horn lines.

I'm talking about realizing for the first time that the fanfare introducing "Jump Around" was lifted off of "Harlem Shuffle".

I'm talking about the fact that I intimately know every single funky-ass drum fill to "Bust A Move", but don't actually know the first line to the song.

At root, I'm talking about the exuberance of being turned on to totally new music when a familiar artist delivers it to you in a new package. Ultimately, that is the beauty of sampling.

Some are apt to discredit Stubblefield because, well......because he's a drummer. And drummers rarely get songwriting credits. Hell, you ask even the mighty Hal Blaine how much he got paid for doing the tracks for "I've Got You Babe" or "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" or "Help Me, Rhonda" or "Age of Aquarius", and I'm willing to bet you the bottle of Guinness in front of me that he received not much more than his day rate.

But things should be different for rap and hip hop. Because unlike rock and roll with all its pretty guitar players, hip-hop has few - if any at all - of the distractions that prevent the listener from recognizing the core essence of this music is about the beat and how the MC's meter works around it.

Anyway, by now you know where I stand: when one artist has constructed such an overwhelming number of those beats, it's just plain wrong for him not to receive a writing credit or royalty or some sort of formal recognition for being the source artist (...and heaven forbid that the estate of James Brown lays some claim to any available cash, because God knows that bastard loved nothing more than docking his musician's pay).

Ok.....I think I was going to try and keep it short tonight, and now that I've brought up my feelings about James Brown, this post is absolutely on the verge of unraveling. Next thing you know I'll be on that asshole, Ray Charles.

Give the article a read and weigh in.

So Please Don't Ask Me Why I Love You.....

2011-03-07T18:03:00.000-08:00

So.... Blabbermouth is reporting that Poison and Motley Crue are touring together. And this has the seventy or so remaining fans of 80's hair bands in a gigantic uproar, presumably because Poison are "poseurs" and the Crue are "rock".

Or something like that.

I couldn't really care less. I've seen the Crue twice, and I admit it was an awful lot of fun both times. But those guys are charades of the hedonists who wrote "Looks that Kill" and "Live Wire" thirty fucking years ago, and the more they try to flex their muscles and reclaim any credibility associated with that era, the sadder it makes me.

I'm relieved to say that I never saw Poison live, but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like the majority of their singles. (What can you say? Most of their catalog is straight off the pages of the Cheap Trick songbook, and that formula happens to work.).

I am bummed, however, to learn that the New York Dolls are touring with them. I shouldn't be, but I am.

The Dolls are something special for me. My introduction to the band by way of a roommate happened to coincide with the era at which I began to play in a band of my own, and when I finally was beginning to embrace punk rock. I was already a devotee of the Rolling Stones and I had gone though a hair metal phase, so they were, in so many respects, a missing link for my musical tastes.

There were nights and nights and nights my musician friends and I lost in the living room of our dilapidated old Maryland farmhouse, jamming to "Trash" and "Personality Crisis" and "Give Him a Great Big Kiss" (the last of which I danced to with my godmother at my wedding this past weekend). These are some of my happiest memories.

During that same era, I picked up a copy of Johnny Thunders' stunningly tender "Hurt Me" album, a CD that provided much of the soundtrack to a terribly sad period of time that I was entering into just about ten years ago. As much of a gem as I find that disc to be, I can't say that I listen to it very often anymore. I guess that it just dregs up too many sad memories - particularly the title track, which just breaks my heart to this day.

So, yes, the Dolls are special to me.

I admit that I was cynical to their decision to re-form so many years after Jerry Nolan and Mr. Thunders had passed away - although less so after viewing the marvelous "New York Doll" documentary, which chronicles this reunion through the delicate eyes of Arthur Kane.

I also admit that I had a doubly-sour taste in my mouth when I learned that the band would continue the touring even after Mr. Kane himself passed away shortly after the reunion. (Yet, this somehow did not dissuade me from seeing the band with this new line-up not once, but twice. I guess I'm selfish like that.)

But touring with the Crue and Poison is just the goofiest goddamned thing I can think of. As bad-ass as Motley Crue may have seemed to me when I was all of 11 years old, I'm not sure they were ever as threatening as the transvestites adorning the Doll's first album - appearing so deviant, and bored and truly subversive. The Crue looked like characters from a movie; the Dolls looked like real, live sex workers. Touring with those guys, at any age, would seem to be a diminishment of that highly-effective image.

Poison, meanwhile, launched their entire careers off of a debut single which was, for all intents and purposes, "Personality Crisis", and (to the best of my knowledge) they never bothered to give the Dolls props for it. For that reason alone, I completely shun Poison and this tour.

But what this really proves is that at the end of the day, none of them are any better than the others. Punk is no more noble than metal. Metal is no more noble than hard rock. Hard rock is no more noble than glam.

They're all pretty much the same. In the words of fellow New York punks, the Dictators:

"What's it all about? Pussy and money.
I'm not trying to be cute, I'm not trying to be funny
Everybody lies about pussy and money
It's always going to be that way."

Once Upon A Time I Thought That I Was Cool (But I Don't Want to Brag)

2011-01-25T17:54:00.000-08:00

Nearly fifteen years ago, I was routinely doing some dumb ass things. Things that I may not be technically "ashamed of", but I'm sure not proud of them, either. I guess that the most appropriate term would be "embarrassed". I am embarrassed my actions at that time.

And there is probably nothing that I am more embarrassed by than my former drug use.

Now, I'm not talking about the good stuff. Not the illicit substances smuggled across borders and sold on street corners.

I'm talking about the sad ass trucker speed cocktails I typically would procure at convenience stores. Boxes of asthma medication, stay-awake stimulants and various weight loss supplements that I'd heard would get me buzzing through my weekends.....never you mind that I was already naturally thin as a reed, and generally wound up tighter than your cousin's skinny jeans. Speed was not at all what I needed in my life.

It was a short period.....six months, max. I received no real benefit from the experience, and I have to admit that I course-corrected fairly promptly (though - in the spirit of full transparency - not until after I mixed Pimatine and Miller Lite one evening, only to lose control of my car on a back country road and drive myself into a speed limit sign that was well clear of where any car should have been).

It's all so embarrassing in retrospect. I had all of these aspirations of being a rock star or a scenester or a local celebrity of some sort....which is so painful to admit now that I'm in my late-30's and too tired for angst. But its the incorporation of fake drugs that really takes the cake.

How foolish. How unnecessary. How insecure. How much more desperate for an image could I have been?

I am still so embarrassed about it all.

************

And this leads me to Steven Tyler.

Now, this isn't about Tyler's decision to be a judge on American Idol. Because, frankly, by this point in time I don't really know how anyone on earth could feign shock or disappointment at Steven Tyler compromising his rock and roll cred. ("Rocks" was awesome and all.....)

I'm talking about an appearance Mr. Tyler made on Letterman last week, in which admitted that the circumstances of his erratic behavior last year were the result of drug use.

"Drug use?" I mused, as I lay on the couch. "This could be good."

What followed was, indeed, shocking: Mr. Tyler formally admitted that his famous Sturgis flop off the stage was the result of ..... wait for it.... Lunesta.

And not just taking Lunesta pills, but snorting them.

*****

Now, allow me to be perfectly clear about one thing: I'm not proud of my failed attempts to become the Brian Jones of the Cough and Cold Aisle back in the day.

But I sure as hell know that if I had an army or roadies, employees and record company enablers at my disposal, I would have made it a point to step it up well past the pharmacy aisle and gotten something a little more worth wrecking my career over.

(As opposed to wrecking my car. Naturally.).

But that's just me. I was hopelessly insecure and desperate for validation, and doing ridiculous things each and every day so that people would continue to pay attention to me.

I doubt that Steven Tyler would know anything about that, would he?

The Greatest Closing Track of All Time

2011-01-09T20:15:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, NPR's "All Songs Considered" blog did an entry asking readers to tell them what they thought the greatest closing tracks of all time were.

Now I know what you're thinking: NPR sucks. It is not metal. It is for yuppies. Their news is biased. They speak in monotone, and a large number of their employees have speech impediments.

The fact is that NPR does not suck. Because there is not one media outlet on this planet that does more with less.

None.

Is it for yuppies? I couldn't tell you. I may be on the wrong side of "young", but I'm urban and professional, and there's not much I can do about that.

Is their news biased? Let me tell you something, Jack: All news is biased. FOX and MSNBC are fucking embarrassing in what they cover. CNN is fucking embarrassing in what they don't cover. Cry "liberal" all you want, but NPR does more actual analysis than anyone this side of John-fucking-McLaughlin.

Do they have an unusually high number of employees who are (literally) physically incapable of properly enunciating? Yes. Yes, they do.

All of this is beside the point. Because near as I know, FOX and MSNBC don't know shit about music. And NPR absolutely does.

So, when I came across this particular NPR blog entry, I spent a good deal of time poring over the comments section, disappointed at how predictable so many of the selections were...the countless calls for "Sgt. Pepper", "Dark Side" and "Highway 61" from the balding pot-bellies I always associated with NPR listeners....along with the equally predictable calls for the closing cuts from albums by the Afghan Whigs, Radiohead, The Clash, and U2.

My selection? My selection reminds me that no matter how gray I am or how socially liberal my politics might become, I'm not quite the same as these NPR people.

Because I believe that the greatest closing track of all time happens to be"Rocket Queen", which concluded Guns n'Roses' debut album, "Appetite for Destruction".

It certainly wasn't a popular choice among their followers, but "Rocket Queen" was, in fact, a stunning closer for "Appetite". In the midst of a debut album that was more violent, more angry, and more misogynistic than just about anything else that had hit the mainstream (certainly much meaner than anything the Sunset Strip had produced in recent memory), "Rocket Queen" basks in a socially and lyrically filthy, over-the-top sexuality, making bedroom promises that would be fully threatening if they weren't so offhandedly boastful.

"You'd better turn me on tonight," Axl sneers, his bravado and contempt stemming from the power inherent in even having that choice.

It's nearly feminine in that regard....which is an interesting way of thinking about it.

Because out of nowhere, the songs stops on a dime approximately three minutes into what might be the funkiest and most sexual groove in the history of hard rock. And it shifts gears towards a much more classic, romantic, Southern-rock-style conclusion.

Those last three minutes are shockingly tender. They are pleading and vulnerable in a way that dreck like "November Rain" could never be, lacking any traces whatsoever of self-consciousness. Expanding on what I mentioned earlier about a nearly feminine voice for this song, it's not impossible to imagine this as - brace yourselves - a love letter from one prostitute to another.

And I challenge you to sit down with the song and consider that theory.

On one hand, this track would seem to reveal that there's more to Guns n'Roses than Jack Daniels, strippers, groupies and cocaine.

On the other hand, their debut album ends right there, with literally nothing but those three minutes to support such a claim.

2010 - The Year in Shows

2010-12-31T14:16:00.001-08:00

This wasn't the best year for me and live music. You get older, you have less energy, and you eventually slip off your pace. It happens.

I can't necessarily say that I did my best......In fact, I can't even come up with a list of ten shows worth noting. In 2011 I'll try to improve on that. In the meantime, here are the shows of the year.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros at the 9:30 Club

This show hardly deserves to make the list. But after hearing about their career-making performance at SXSW in 2009, I'd looked forward to seeing Edward Sharpe for about a year before finally catching this show. And I won't lie: they absolutely disappointed.

To start with, the band went on late, announcing to the audience that co-vocalist Jade Castrinos had gone missing prior to the show. Three songs into the set, the chick finally emerges, leaping and bounding onto the stage with an exuberance usually reserved among adults as the result of pharmaceutical enhancement.

Then, the band timidly announced that they would take an unscheduled 25 minute intermission (THREE SONGS IN!) while the people in the crowd milled about and stared at one another, none knowing exactly what the hell had just happened.

The show eventually resumed, but with such a bad start, it was more or less hopeless from there. Castrinos even botched the lyrics to the band's signature song. What on Earth could be said for them at that point?

You could say that I was dismayed by the unprofessionalism, but those words put too fine a point on it: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros didn't have their shit together on the very most basic levels, and that's not acceptable. It's unacceptable when you're playing around the corner at the Velvet Lounge, it's unacceptable when you're playing RFK Stadium with Metallica, and its unacceptable when a record company has scored you a gig at the sold out 9:30 Club.

Free Love at the Black Cat Backstage

With their over-sized ensemble, high-energy performance, infectious positivity, and general hippie-cult sensibilities, it would be reasonable to say that Free Love was aping Edward Sharpe's schtick.

Except they did it well....to a small room, hitting on all of their cues, and actually appearing to enjoy themselves.

Free Love is what Edward Sharpe seems to have been two years ago when I first heard so many great things about them.

Los Campesinos at the 9:30 Club

As intrigued as I'd been with this hyper-pop band from Wales, they were not my first pick this evening. Now when the band of the moment, Frightened Rabbit, was playing a sold out show across the neighborhood at the Black Cat.

I was far from the only person left out of that show, but I didn't pout for long; the fact that Los Campesinos was playing on the same night seemed like a fairly equitable consolation prize. And knowing that most of the city's hipsters would be at the Black Cat, I looked forward to a more intimate evening at a larger venue.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into a nearly packed 9:30 Club!

Now, I'm far from certain how I feel about indie and punk music making to the masses the way that they have in the past five or six years. And I'm even less certain how I feel about Shaw being overrun with the types of frat boys and blond chicks that I spent so many years in the deep, dark city specifically to avoid.

But I can't deny that this evening - a weeknight evening when independent music drew not one but two full crowds to hear bands that received zero radio play - struck me as less of a turning point and more of a tipping point for Washington as a destination once again for independent UK musicians on tour.

Phosphorescent at the Black Cat Main Stage

As I mentioned earlier on, the older I get, the fewer chances I take on live music. But I have to admit that I was glad to have run out to see Phosphorescent after randomly seeing the video for "It's Hard to Be Humble When You're From Alabama" on Pitchfork.com.

While the set was far more firmly on the side of "real country" than alt-country, it was a very worthwhile divergence from more typical Black Cat fare. Moreover, the bookends of the set - the afore-mentioned "It's Hard to Be Humble..." (a contender for my song of the year, by the way) and a beautiful cover of Willie Nelson's "Reasons to Quit" were outstanding ways to open and close out a weeknight show. Excellent spur-of-the-moment decision.

Roky Erickson at the Black Cat Main Stage

Almost nothing should be appealing about the idea of putting a 60-something schizophrenic recluse (with only a small handful of very obscure hit singles from the 60s) on the road for a club tour. I had reservations; to be honest, the possibility for a disappointment -- or worse, a disaster -- wasn't far from the back of my mind.

Besides all that, I've already gone through that embarrassing phase of seeing old rock stars do reunion tours, and with very few exceptions, it's just hard to get excited about the mythology of it all anymore.

That being said, I guess I didn't know exactly how excited I was to see Roky until he shuffled out on stage and carved out the opening chords to "A Cold Night for Alligators", followed by a sandpaper bellow that has gotten rougher and stronger through the lost years.

It would not be overstating things to say that there was something legitimately awe-inspiring by his performance; having shuddered my way through the excellent documentary on Roky's struggles with the mental health system, its truly heartbreaking to know how much the guy has surrendered over the years. But because of that, it was also inspiring to see him clutching onto the one thing he can still do effortlessly.

I couldn't tell you much of what he played after the second track, an outstanding take on "Two Headed Dog". I didn't really care, either. By that time I had gotten a whole lot more than what I'd come for.

The Joy Formidable at the Black Cat Back Stage

Read the review here.

The Washington City Paper review had a line that summed this one up perfectly:

"Every once in a while, a band comes to one of Washington's smaller venues and puts on the sort of performance that ensures everyone present that they will never play in a space that small ever again."

Lamb of God at Star Live (Beijing)

Just like last year's Lamb of God show, I've been promising myself that I'd write a traditional "ticket-stub-and-a-story" entry about this show for nine months now, so I'll try and do the short version here:

In April, I happened to meet Randy Blythe and John Campbell of Lamb of God, while touring the Forbidden City in Beijing. I was on vacation; they were on a tour through Asia, and playing their first concert ever in China that week.

(I should mention in here that despite my generally being down on American metal for being sort of dumb and drunk and violent for a better part of the past fifteen years, LOG is, in fact, my favorite metal band these days. In fact, I'd seen them for the first time at the 9:30 club maybe six months earlier, for an absolutely astounding show, and it was purely a coincidence that we were in China at the same time. I swear.).

Randy and John were unbelievably friendly, posing for photos, asking questions, and generally prolonging the conversation well past the point where I felt (as a fan) that it was time for me to move on. (Best story: Randy informing us that the Chinese government had canceled their date that week in Shanghai, because it was too worrisome to have "a religious band" playing in town during the run-up to the much-ballyhooed World Expo. Awesome.)

They also went out of their way to ensure that my fiancee and I made it onto the guest list for the first of two shows that week.

The show itself was perhaps a step or two behind the complete blitzkrieg they unleashed on Washington the previous winter; Randy had admitted to me that they were only a few dates into the tour, and that the jet lag was still pretty severe. (I's believe it...the first week in Asia, its nearly impossible to stay up past 10:00 PM; mid-afternoon tends to be a little grouchy as well).

But you couldn't tell from watching the crowd. It was clearly a big deal to have an American metal band play Beijing, and the crowd demonstrated that - a mix of shaved-headed Chinese youth up front in the pit; old-skool, stringy-haired metalheads in the middle and to sides; and a whole lot of very curious music fans who seemed to simply be taking advantage of the opportunity to catch an real, live metal show.

It was kind of a big deal to me, too. Show of the year, hands down. Many thanks to Neil Yueng in Shanghai for tipping me off that LOG would be in town, to Randy and John for inviting us out, and to my fiancee for being up for the adventure and picking this as her first metal concert.

Happy New Year!

2010-12-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

Ah, the holidays.

A time at which we put aside our petty differences to compulsively stress over meeting the conflicting deadlines of finding the perfect gifts and doing all the bullshit you promised your client by the end of the year. Somewhere in there there's the story of a child being born to humble - in fact, humiliating -- circumstances, who would grow up and literally change the world.

Enough....I was hoping to write about holiday music. In the spirit of full disclosure.....the spirit of this entire blog, I suppose... I'll tell you: I love Christmas music. Almost all of it in fact.

Some cringe when they hear "Sleigh Ride" in the mall for the ten thousandth time. Not me....that song is a goddamned American masterpiece. Particularly the low brass right around the two minute mark.

O Holy Night? Gives me a lump in my throat every time.

Johnny Matthis? Sorry, but that stuff is golden.

Hell, there's a mentally challenged street musician who plays electric guitar across the street from my apartment on most weekends. The guys drives me up the fucking wall because he only knows about nine songs and plays them on a loup for the better part of five hours most nights (Jesus Christ, enough with "All Along the Watchtower". I can't get no relief, neither, Jimi.)

I despise this guy with an uncommon passion, for his insistence on playing at a volume so loud that I can hear it clear as a bell with the windows closed, half a block away, five stories up and across one of the busiest thoroughfares in all of Washington D.C.

And yet, this evening when he busted out "Silent Night", it was the first time I didn't hate him.

But not everyone gets off the hook. No siree....If you want to hear more about the Christmas tunes I love, you can check out the blog from last year. (Proud of that one, in fact).

This year, you get to hear about the Christmas songs I hate.

Baby Its Cold Outside - Ray Charles and Betty Carter

I'm not even sure this is a Christmas song, but I hear it an awful lot this time of year.

People who know me know my feelings about Ray Charles: he was an abusive son of a bitch, never you mind the grinning and swaying Jamie Fox nonsense. You want a nice blind piano player, I can find you one. You want one who gets off on humiliating his drummers, Ray Charles is your man.

Moving our attention back to the song, let's start with Betty Carter's voice. What the fuck is that all about? She sounds like she's been drugged.

Which brings me to my next point: This song seems to be the preface to a date rape.

No means no, Ray.

(Blind motherfucker.)

Santa Baby - Eartha Kitt

There are certain members of my family who love this song, including my mom.

And this has always struck me as a little ironic, because at the time we were growing up, mom usually was teetering on the fine lines between depressed, angry and fucking crazy.

Regardless of how you want to diagnose the state of her mental well-being, an unavoidable fact is that a great deal of her depression and anger manifested itself in some very staunch and vocal opinions that were well into the realm of the puritanical. The fact that she has a soft spot for this completely trashy piece of schlock novelty makes me crazy in its inconsistency with her worldview as we once knew it.

(Think I've got mommy issues? Fine. But I'm willing to bet that an awful lot of the people who find this song to be sexy also like to use the word "daddy" in bed.)

Seriously, Santa is a married man. Try not to give him a blowjob this year, Eartha.

(You ho.)

Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time - Paul McCartney

Dude. You were in the Beatles. Get it the fuck together.

++++++

Happy holidays!

The Joy Formidable - Black Cat

2010-11-12T17:57:00.000-08:00

I'm not exactly sure I'm up for this post....its been a shit day and my eyes are burning from exhaustion. But I also know that if I don't get this down now, I'll probably blow it off and give up.

As recently as yesterday, I was pretty certain that i wouldn't be doing a year-end "Best Shows of 2010" post because I just didn't get off the damned couch to see ten shows worth writing about.

But, at the very minimum, as of midnight this morning I had a very serious contender for the show of the year. Because the Joy Formidable bowled me the fuck over last night.

Now, there was a time about eight or ten years ago or whatever, when I used to see bands all the time that I thought were just poised to break out. (I miss you, the Put-Outs.....and the Hissyfits, too. And Emm Gryner. You, too, Jamie Block!). But I've never been as certain as I was last night.

Playing before a crowded (but not quite packed) back stage of the Black Cat, the Joy Formidable accomplished the astounding feat of not only replicating live, but totally enhancing an already electrically lush-sounding catalog. From the majestic "The Greatest Light is the Greatest Shade" to the rapturous "Last Drop", I was pretty must gobsmacked all night...taken in not only by the music, but also the command of the stage from diminutive Ritzy Brian, who seems to have taken her cues in equal parts from Chrissie Hynde and Bowie-era Mick Ronson.

(In particular, her aggressive, stomp-and-pace style of guitar playing reminded me completely of Ronson's performance in D.A. Pennebaker's "Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" concert film. Meanwhile, it reminded my pal, Dan, of Joan Jett's infamous "Pussy To The Wood" approach to guitar playing).

And that's as good as its going to get tonight.

Kudos to the Joy formidable, for reminding me why I go out to see live music...

Not Dead Yet

2010-10-24T20:12:00.000-07:00

I'm still here...just got a lot on my plate between work and wedding stress. (And an inconvenient situation with the IRS, that should be all tidied up at the exact same time that I've spent every dollar that I have. Guess I'll be sticking at this goddamned job a little longer than expected.)

I haven't given up on this blog, and I'll have a few things to report in coming weeks, including additions to the "Rock Star Encounters" series; some additions to the "Recent Distractions" series (including, I hope, thoughts on the new Keith Richards autobiography and the not-so-new Slash autobiography...as well as impressions of the seemingly-excellent new season of "That Metal Show"); and maybe even a return to the old ticket stub cache.

When I get desperate enough for content, I'll trot out the good old "Ten Songs That Make Me Cry"post, because, well....because they sure served their purpose in recent weeks.

Dokken vs. Chicken

2010-09-08T17:18:00.000-07:00

Sometime after my 6th grade fascination with Lionel Richie and before I became obsessed with the Rolling Stones, my very favorite band in the world was Dokken.

I know how that sounds; even hard rock fans from the 80's don't get this. Sure, Dokken was a decent band. Sure they had their hits.

But, come on, no one picks Dokken as their favorite band.

Well, I did.

I was taken in by George Lynch's guitars. I was taken in by those 1980's videos - both excellent and awful. I was taken in by the tension that was a big part of their style and songcraft - most immediately linked to the Sunset Strip scene, but most definitely influenced by early 80's European hard rock and the New Wave of British Heavy Metal.

Plus, Dokken was something of a musician's band. Despite a rhythm section that never really set the world on fire, Lynch was a bona fide guitar virtuoso, and Dokken was an actual vocalist.

They weren't a party band and they weren't a delinquent band: they were musicians.

They just happened to be wearing clown suits. Or pirate costumes. Or possibly something they bought from a bunch of Puerto Rican drag queens.

And, of course, there was the feuding storyline between Don Dokken and George Lynch -- the sort of alpha-male bullshit that always builds a band's mystique that much more.

Still (and I don't retreat on my personal preferences very easily) sometimes I do wonder what I was thinking. A whole lot of those albums that I liked so much -- specifically Under Lock and Key and Back for the Attack -- just didn't age very well. I still struggle to identify the culprit, though my gut says that it had something to do with the occasionally-embarrassing dramatics of Mr. Dokken's vocals and lyrics.

(Fucking hell, "Kiss of Death" is a MOTHERFUCKER of a tune, but thanks to the vocals and lyrics, the verses of that song are a fucking drag. How could I have known, indeed...DON?).

((To some extent that's not fair....but if you've ever found yourself torn over whether or not to love or loathe the Scorpions, Dio, or even the mighty Iron Maiden, then you should know EXACTLY what I'm talking about)).

Anyway, time went on and by 1989 or so my brother had taken me to see the Rolling Stones and I fully plunged into classic rock for the next few years. Goodbye to Dokken, and hello to a bunch of...uh....a bunch of old music that helped prevent me from embracing Jane's Addiction or the Pixies when it might have actually "meant something", as they say.

Oh, well.

Dokken chugged along, but they never really could sound quite right after the 80's. Don brought in new players on top of new players, but they never struck gold again.

Until now.

Congrats, Don. You have finally upstaged George.

Recent Distractions: Heavy Metal Picnic

2010-08-07T10:57:00.000-07:00

So, I've been slow on the updates lately, partially because I've been trying to get out of the house and get a little more active.

As part of this effort, last night I trucked on our to Silver Spring, MD to attend the premier of Jeff Krulik's "Heavy Metal Picnic" at the American Film Institute.

For those who don't know, Jeff Krulik is the co-creator of the cult masterpiece, "Heavy Metal Parking Lot". On top of being a pop culture touchstone, Krulik is a guy I've gotten to know fairly well in the past seven or eight years, and someone I consider a heck of a nice person. As such, it was kind of important to me to show up and support him.

Little did I know that much of the metro D.C. area had the same idea; it was a packed house, and easily the best attended (and most enthusiastically-attended) event I've ever seen Jeff participate in). More on that later....

Despite the fact that "Heavy Metal Picnic" follows much the same style as "Heavy Metal Parking Lot" (roaming cameraman captures extremely drunk early 80s redneck kids partying outdoors in an an unsupervised location), "Heavy Metal Picnic" wasn't actually shot by Krulik. In fact, it was shot by one of the partygoers, a big lug names Rudy Childs, who had the forethought to bring his novel-at-the-time camcorder to The Full Moon Jamboree, a massively oversold field party in ultra-posh Potomac, Maryland. In an odd moment of serendipity, Childs just happened to shoot a hell of a lot of the same kinds of kids doing the same kinds of things that Krulik would capture a year later in the parking lot of the Capital Centre before a summertime Judas Priest concert.

Krulik did, however, direct the film. And with the help of editor, Greg DeLiso, he packaged it into a far more complete (though occasionally bumpy) document.

In fact, "Heavy Metal Picnic" is a real extension of its cousin film. Krulik had little trouble tracking down the various partygoers, organizers and bands that played the Full Moon Jamboree, and gave generous amounts of time to many of them. And by incorporating the perspectives of the 40-and50-something versions of the wasted youth captured in the footage from 1985, it sends a message about the circle of friendship...about how important those seemingly fleeting moments of youth are -- especially the ones that you're so quick to dismiss as stuff you used to do when you were a dumb kid.

Part of what impresses me about Krulick's style, is that when interviewing the party-goers as adults he treats them all with a respect for their dignity and a sincere curiosity about their opinions and memories. At no point do you get the sense that he's mocking them - despite the fact that a certain kind of mean-spirited snobbery is exactly what draws so many viewers to Krulik's signature film.

That's not to say that Jeff coddles his subjects. He absolutely recognizes when a subject has drunkenly talked himself into a pile of mud, and he knows that this often means comedy gold.

As I mentioned before, the place was packed. Not only were most of the major subjects of the film in attendance, but so was a large swath of the D.C. independent filmmaker/documentarian community, a handful of musicians, some friends and fans of Krulik's, and damn near every single 1980s redneck who was in attendance at the Full Moon Jamboree -- all of whom provided a steady rotation of Bronx cheers and comments from the peanut gallery throughout the film.

(Among them was this one fucking aging hipster goofball tool that I run into at least once a year, usually with his loudmouthed wife. I have never been introduced to this nutsack, but I seem to run into him at shows, in bars, at Fort Reno, and even once at a Nationals game. Aside from just being kind of annoying and loud, I have no idea why he sets me off to the extent that he does, but I have to tell you, every single time I see this guy I want to kick him in the nuts, then go to church and pray that I don't morph into him at the age of 45).

But that doesn't matter. What matters is that Jeff Krulik has made another film that brings back memories of a forgotten time. As I look around Washington and see it changing faster than ever, I have no doubt in my mind that there may be nothing more important to the preservation of a scene (or a mini- or micro-scene, such as my own moments on 14th street in the mid-to-late-90's), than dedicated archivists......your photographers and zine writers and the like.

In an era of flip cams, digital cameras and blogs, it is now easier than ever to capture these moments in time....and that's seriously important. But it also should serve as a reminder than guys like Jeff Krulik (and Rudy Childs) were doing something equally or even arguably more important back in 85-86, when few others were doing so.

So, take a moment and check out Jeff's site if you get a chance. He's done a hell of a lot more than Heavy Metal Parking Lot and Heavy Metal Picnic, and I think he deserves a lot more credit than he tends to get.

("I Created Lancelot Link" has always been my personal favorite).

Rock Star Encounters - vol I: Dave Mustaine

2010-07-13T20:24:00.000-07:00

Among all of the great band feuds over time, Metallica vs. Megadeth will always be my favorite.

During my formative years loving metal (87-91), this was *the* feud. Beatles vs. Stones? Simon vs. Garfunkel? Ike vs. Tina? Forget it - that was for the history books. Oasis vs. Blur was ten years into the future. But Metallica vs. Megadeth was happening in the now, and it was real.

Barrages of episodes of "Behind the Music" and awkward feature documentaries have since shed light of nearly all corners of the vendetta between Metallica and Megadeth, but back in the day, this was very much a cult war, spilled out on the pages of low-brow magazines like Hit Parader, Circus, and the perennial bottom-feeder, Metal Edge.

I never exactly picked a side, though I always knew that I liked Metallica more; at that point in time, their albums were more epic, their songs were smarter, and their entire presentation was always more confident than Megadeth's.

That said, Megadeth spoke to me in their own way. They were angry; Mustaine was emotional to the core, and his lyrics were spiteful in a way that resonated to a 15 year old like myself.

Metallica was Michael Jordan: focused, visionary, intense, intelligent, artistic, and above all else, supremely talented.

Megadeth was Isaiah Thomas: calculating, bitter, hungry, disrespectful, a little bit evil, and above all else, vengeful.

The NBA was better for having both stars, just as metal thrived under each band.

Now, the common thinking is that Metallica won that feud, based on their obvious superstar status growing from the Black Album.

Artistically, however, the question becomes more subjective: Starting in the the mid-to-late-90's, Metallica stumbled repeatedly; some (including myself) don't think they've stopped just yet - though I hope that we can all agree that they should never fall any lower than they did on St. Anger.

Meanwhile, Megadeth "quietly" produced a long list of albums that - aside from a relatively engaging foray into pop-rooted song structures - held much more true to the core tenants of thrash and metal. The result seems to be a career that has been less successful, but more principled.

Another difference between the two bands? I met one of them.

Sort of.

Back in the late 80's, the music retail gods smiled upon my hometown of Rockville, MD, and delivered upon us our very own Tower Records. The significance of this should not be understated: Tower was a West Coast chain, known at that time for being highly selective of what East Coast towns they would expand to. A flagship store did exist in Washington, D.C., but it was tucked away and somewhat hidden in the Foggy Bottom neighborhood. As for suburban locations, you could forget about it. Tower was way too cool for that.

But this new location was a game changer. Located two miles from home, it promised easy, relatively affordable access to just about anything and everything I could ever want: tapes, CDs, cassingles, music magazines, videos. I actually kind of credit the place for keeping me out of trouble as a teenager: Tower was close enough to home, open late enough, and central to enough fast food joints and movie theatres to make it a relatively obvious alternative to getting drunk in empty parking lots, like most bored teenagers do.

And it also gave me the chance to meet Megadeth.

I do not remember the year, the record they were supporting, or, how, exactly, that I'd learned Megadeth was doing a signing at the Rockville Tower Records. But I remember that I was freaked out that rock stars would be in my hometown, and I made sure that Fran the Man would drive my car-less ass out to the event that Sunday afternoon.

As always, he would, so we trucked on up to Tower to meet Megadeth, arriving ten minutes early, just to be safe.

Much to our chagrin, upon arriving we witnessed a line of at least 100 metalheads out the door of Tower, streaming down the sidewalk, past store front after store front of the Congressional Shopping Center.

This was a bummer. I'd been looking forward to this event for days and days, but it had never occurred to me that I'd actually have to wait in line.

Fran the Man, who didn't even like metal, had a disapproving look on his face. "This'll take hours," he told me. "Let's go."

I looked at him with disappointment. True, Fran the Man was always up for adventure, but he liked his adventures to be at least somewhat practical. It was hard to look at the situation and not see anything more than a gigantic waste of the afternoon, with no guarantee of meeting the band.

But giving up just seemed so half-assed.

"Let's just go in the store," I told him. "We'll watch."

Fran the Man was agreeable to that, so we walked through the front door of the store, to be immediately confronted by the store manager - an older guy with glasses and a golf shirt tucked into khakis. He bore a slight resemblance to a dorkier Stephen King. (Apparently, Tower had called in the regional brass for this event).

"You gotta be here to shop....no loitering," the Manager of the Macabre preemptively told us, his tone mimicking that of a high school vice principal.

"We're just here to shop," Fran the Man and I said (...in wholly unconvincing unison). In an attempt to recover, I put my best quizzical expression on my face and asked, "What's going on here anyway?"

The manager ignored that last part and told us to come on in, and that we'd "better buy something."

There we stood, taking in everything - the sections of the store that had been roped off, the signing table, the merch, the angry metalheads at the front of the line who clearly knew what we were doing. Trying to act natural, we worked the aisles, picking up random Aerosmith and Rolling Stones discs, and eying the doors at all times.

Truth be told, I was always an excitable kid when it came to music, and I was just about out of my skull in anticipation of seeing Megadeth. Would they play a song for us? Would they give a speech? Would girls take their tops off and ask Dave to sign their tits? This was going to be awesome, even if waiting in line for a personal audience had been vetoed.

So, there I was in the back of the store, when the storage room door swiftly opened and a beefy security guy waddled through, followed by none other than Dave Mustaine and the rest of the guys in the band. He was dressed in a black tank top, blue jeans and sneakers, his tangled shock of strawberry blond hair piled high enough to make him look even shorter than his slight frame (I was a little taken aback by how little the guy seemed - I would over time learn that this is a pretty common reaction to meeting celebs...especially when you happen to be 6'3").

It was a strange moment - here was one of the biggest guys in metal, maybe 15 feet from me, and none of the tough, dumb-looking meatheads in the store had even noticed. So, I took it upon myself to be the first one to make noise.

Raising my puny arm and making a fist, I shouted "DAAAAVE!" to him.

Immediately, I regretted it: My voice sounded totally fucking weak. The word "Dave" ended up coming out in two syllables - an over-excited and extremely loud "DAAY", followed by a self-conscious and much quieter "Aaaaavvve", which I had hoped would sound at least a little bit cooler and more familiar.

It sounded neither. I mean, my voice might as well have cracked. I sounded like a tool.

For a moment, I thought the guy was just going to walk on by and ignore me. Shit, upon hearing my own stupid voice, I half wished that he would. By this time, everyone in the whole store had heard me, and they were all yelling for him.

Never breaking his workman's trudge towards the signing table, Mustaine instead turned his head to me, lifted his chin and nodded at me. He did not speak. He did not smile. In fact, he kind of scowled, which is basically the expression Dave wore through much of the 80s.

And then the moment was gone. The store went bananas. People were screaming and yelling for his attention, cameras were going off, and the manager was doing his damnedest to keep order. The band took their place at the signing table, and we looked on for a moment, quickly realizing that a record store signing is not, in fact, a worthwhile spectator event.

"Let's go," Fran the Man said, for the second time that day.

+++++++

Strangely enough, I never did get around to seeing Megadeth live. I have no idea why; by the time I had become a more critical consumer of music, it was very much becoming clear that Megadeth had more integrity as a metal act that Metallica did. Yet, it regrettably never happened.

There's still time to change that: Tower Records may be dead, but Megadeth marches on. In the meantime, I've got YouTube.

My Last Words
if you're tight on time, just FFW to the 4:00 minute mark to truly appreciate all that Metallica gave up in sacking Mr. Mustaine.....

Smashing Pumpkins

2010-06-20T17:28:00.000-07:00

Since sometime in early April, I've been trying to get motivated to do a post about the night I saw the Smashing Pumpkins at the Patriot Center. And its increasingly looking like I just can't get it up to give them that much attention.

Now, listen: I'm not an out-an-out hater on the Pumpkins. They have the makings of at least one fantastic greatest hits album. But so do the Eagles. And Journey. And I sure can't get my dick hard for those bands, either.

I should admit that my bad attitude about the Pumpkins comes largely from reading Jim DeRogatis' Milk It! Collected Musings on the Alternative Music Explosion of the '90s (...now THAT guy is a hater!)

His hypothesis generally is that of the top rock acts of the '90s (the Pumpkins, Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam and Nirvana, give or take a few other bit players), the Pumpkins were essentially the most expendable.

I tend to agree with him, despite how much I like tracks like 1974, Zero, and especially Jellybelly -- all of which appeared on the terribly pretentiously-titled and difficult-to-listen-to "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness".

Think about it: Pearl Jam took Fugazi's mission and generally brought it to the masses. Sure, it was diluted by the time it got there, but that's the price. NIN momentarily brought industrial music out of the basement, where it had been simultaneously flourishing and suffocating for more than 20 years. And there's not much I could say about Nirvana that hasn't been said before, but let's keep in mind that their legacy includes the Foo Fighters.

But the Pumpkins? Their legacy increasingly seems to be that as long as you've got a rad sounding guitar, a great drummer, and the ability to write hooks, its perfectly fine to have a shitty voice, a patronizing display of teenage angst and a totally unlikeable attitude about your own level of talent.

Is that fair? Not entirely. Corgan's most whiny and faux-angsty output is on "Mellon Collie", and that's a concept album of sorts, about an isolated teenager - ergo all the 'tude on those songs. Still, Billy has never been shy about showcasing his massive ego or his ridiculous voice, regardless of his other undeniable talents.

+++++++

This show was fine, actually. Nothing to write home about, but it was good enough. Jimmy Chamberlain was back in the band, and the beautiful Mellisa Auf der Maur had replaced D'Arcy - and anything involving Ms. Auf der Maur is a good thing in my book.

(Someday I'll write about that time I locked eyes with her in the Red Room of the old Black Cat).

((Ah, wistful...))

As for the show, the details aren't exactly vivid. I recall an acoustic performance of "1974" at the end, as well as a moment during "Zero", when someone in the crowd inflated a five foot penis and started tossing it around the crowd. Billy and James shared a laugh, and for a moment it appeared that they liked one another.

And with that, I'm totally tapped out on the Smashing Pumpkins. I mean just...whatever. They were a fine band for the 90's, and I'll always respect Billy Corgan for getting an enjoyable album out of Courtney Love (the sometimes-overlooked "Celebrity Skin", which Corgan basically wrote for her).

Then again, every single time I hear a fucking terrible screamo band break into a pussified melodic vocal hook, I can't help but to hear Corgan's influence all over the place. Oh, sure, the chasm in talent between those emo dickbags and Corgan is obvious, but still -- that shit is all over you, Billy. That's the problem with being a "genius". Remember that the next time you tell a reporter about how you basically taught James and D'Arcy how to play their instruments.

+++++++

So, that said, I *do* have a story about the Smashing Pumpkins.

I'm not exactly sure what the year was, but it was probably the Summer of 1990 or 1991. It was Fran the Man's birthday, and because we were so tremendously lame, we decided to make a rare trip into Washington, D.C. to go to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner (which was at least slightly less uncool back then -- let's not forget that these establishments were all the rage at some point in the late 80's. Cool kids knew better, but we did not).

Anyway, we went out and had dorky fun.

When dinner was over, we proceeded straight to the Metro to go home, like the good little suburban kids that we were. After all, Washington was a little rougher back then, and you didn't want to be screwing around if you didn't know your way around.

As we approached the station, a homeless man hobbled up to us.

"Three bands, three bucks! Three bands, three bucks. 9:30 Club, baby!"

Fran the Man and I looked at one another.

"Where is it," I asked.

"9:30 Club! Right THERE, man!" he responded, excitedly waving his arm down the block.

"How much?"

"Three bands, three bucks!!" he responded, his voice taking on a decidedly exasperated tone.

Its hard for me to believe that I had so little adventure in me. We certainly had $6 between us. And we both knew all about the 9:30 Club, even though neither of us had even been in it: that was a punk rock club, and we were NOT punk rock kids. We were debate team kids.

"Who's playing," I asked, knowing full well that I wouldn't recognize the name.

"Man, its them Smashing Pumpkins! Girls EVERYWHERE! Man, you got three bucks...come ON!!!"

Fran the Man and I exchanged glances once more.

"That sounds gay," I told Fran the Man, and we stepped onto the Metro escalator, missing that opportunity forever.

But, you know, for years afterwords I told people that I went to that show, and that I saw the Pumpkins back when they were on the club circuit. Years later, Fran the Man would admit to me that he had done the same thing.

But, of course, we didn't.

Because I thought it would be "gay".

So there you have it - my life at 17: Dinner at rock and roll-themed chain restaurants + homophobic slurs = bad taste and arena rock.

Hooray for me.

R.I.P. Paul Gray 1972 - 2010

2010-05-27T21:03:00.000-07:00

Its easy to write off Slipknot as a bunch of meatheads. I admit that I was down on them for years.

Anyway, the news of Paul Gray's death hopefully rounds out what has been a tragic spring for the metal community.

If you had any doubts or preconceived notions about the guys in Slipknot, I encourage you to take a look at the following video of their press conference this week. You won't be converted to being a fan, but I know it gave me a different perception of the band: Stripped bare - without masks, music or costumes; grief-stricken and fragile -- they represent a portrait of humanity that most people never see in metal.

If you don't have time to watch the whole thing, at least try and just to the 4:40 mark for a beautiful moment.

Be at peace, Paul Gray.

RIP Ronnie James Dio: 1942 - 2010

2010-05-16T13:41:00.000-07:00

Well, there goes another one of the greats: Ronnie James Dio died from cancer this morning.

As I mentioned in a previous post, my sadness has almost nothing to do with any liking I had for Dio's music. In point of fact, he didn't really make my type of metal.

On the other hand, I was a huge fan of Peter Steele's music, and I was nearly unfazed by his death last month.

Why?

Because Dio was one of the good guys. Whether you're scouring music forums, reading comments on Blabbermouth.net, or talking with old fans, it is universal that everyone thought Ronnie James was a good person.

Of course, you'll also find a great number of wonderful things online about the guy Pete Steele was, but the poor decisions of Pete's life certainly draw a stark contrast with how Dio went about his business, even in the years when no one was rushing to buy his records...as well as those recent years when that cokehead douche bag Jack Black was making him a punchline for all his cokehead douche bag fans.

...And don't even THINK about giving me that shit about how Jack Black really loves metal; I'm sure a lot of guys in minstrel shows really loved jazz too, but that didn't stop it from being a crime against art.

You see, Dio never would have had an outburst like that. Not in his character, God bless him.

Quick story:

A few years back I was lucky enough to attend a screening of "Metal: A Headbanger's Journey", during it's limited theatrical release. During the Q&A, director Sam Dunn was asked if Ronnie James Dio was truly the nicest guy in metal. Without blinking, Dunn grinned, raised his eyebrows and said, "Yes, he sure is."

What followed were stories about what an awesome host Dio was in him home, how generous he was with his time, and how every time he mentioned to the other subjects interviewed in the film that he was also speaking to Dio, they all gushed about how wonderful a person he is.

Farewell Ronnie. Rest in peace, brother.

Sometimes I Wish to God I Didn't Know Now...

2010-04-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

I won't pretend that I ever loved Poison, and I won't pretend that I hated them.

They may have been a cartoon band, but they also had a knack for writing songs that stick to your memory like flies on a windshield. (Forget what a songwriter's song "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" is....try and get "Unskinny Bop" outta your head now that I've put it back in there.. I respect that kind of talent.)

I also won't pretend that Brett Michaels didn't totally annoy me as he made his transition into reality TV star. But he created a brand for himself long after the likes of Stephen Pearcy are still trying to cling to relevance, so God bless him.

Anyway, to get to the point, the news of Brett Michaels' brain hemorrhage has got me pretty sad. Not because I particularly liked Brett or Poison, but because its been two years since I lost someone from the same episode.

I hate even thinking back to that time, but I'm forced to now.

I didn't know her well.....she was the sister of a friend, and we'd only met a few times. She was always friendly, and a little bit shy. I was happy to learn that she was just about to move into the building I lived in, and I was looking forward to seeing her around and getting to know her better.

Then one day as she was getting ready for her big move, she was hospitalized. A few days later she was dead.

Just like that.

The memories of the following week were the saddest I can ever remember.

I remember running into her brother as I was on my way to work on the morning that she died -- the two of us hugging on the sidewalk, time stopping as we tried our best to keep it together and commuters hustled their way past us and down into the Metro.

I remember helping the family move her belongings into a condo in which she would never live.

I remember the horrible, horrible sound of her parents wailing as they put her coffin in the hearse after the funeral.

That entire week was heartbreaking in every single way, and I walked around in a complete daze for about three weeks afterwords, emotionally raw from the experience.

So, I guess you'll have to excuse me for having a pessimistic view of Brett Michaels' chances for a full recovery. I want him to beat the odds, because I would hate for his children to suffer the way that my friend and his family and the rest of us did.

But I guess I lost a little faith two years ago.

So, give me something to believe in.

R.I.P. Peter Steele: 1962 - 2010

2010-04-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

Timing is a bitch.

I've done so frigging many posts about Type O Negative concerts lately, that to tell you the truth I was dreading the fact that I still had one more ticket stub for them, which would require yet another entry that would at once apologize for loving them so much back in the day, while trying to justify it all.

But then I got home after being out of the country for two weeks and learned that Pete Steele had passed away.

So let's try and do this right....

You can read my former posts about Type O Negative here, here, here and here. If you follow this blog at all ( I know there aren't many of you), you know that at a certain point in the mid-to-late 90's, I really loved that band. In fact, I was probably a little too vocal back then about how fond I was for them, but whatever; it spoke to me at the time, and I still go back to them once in a while.

To be sure, Type O did some goofy shit, and they didn't exactly pull off the second half of their career on a note befitting of their potential (Steele's last several years, in particular, were often hard to watch). But they also did some truly groundbreaking things in metal that deserve to be recognized.

I sure hope that my fan-boy adulation for them back then didn't dissuade too many folks from seeking them out and giving them a listen. At his best, Peter Steele really was one hell of a songwriter, a vocalist and a performer.

Here's a quick clip of one of my favorite performances of Steele's. I hope you enjoy:

type o negative nation

2010-03-23T21:37:00.001-07:00

type o negative nation
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

I can't imagine that anyone wants to read anothe r entry about Type O Negative less than I want to write one. But you're here and I've got the stub, so what are we going to do?

Try to be patient....

My friends were pretty goddamned accustomed to my stupid obsession with those four dicks from Brooklyn by this time.

In fact, when the band came through D.C. on the "World Coming Down" tour (the second time), my bass player, Mark, was kind enough to dial into WHFS and win a pair of tickets for us. Awfully nice thing for him to do, especially since my guitar player, Greg, and I spent an awful lot of our downtime hazing, mocking and otherwise abusing Mark as the odd man out in the band.

(He brought an awful lot of it on himself, but that's a different story altogether).

Despite Mark's kind gesture, I'd predictably bought my fanboy ass a ticket more or less as soon as the show was announced.

And this posed something of a problem, because my gigantic boner for this band had basically turned every single person I knew off from them; I knew we'd have trouble finding someone to go with us. Mark - who didn't even like metal - was along for the ride, but he sure didn't know anyone who wanted to go.

Inspiration would strike one evening as I left work.

I was working at the same fucking yellow pages ad agency I'd been at for the previous few years. It was located in a beautiful converted granary in "old town" Gaithersburg, MD. (How can a city that's only like 75 years old have an "old town"?)

In addition to our offices, the granary conversion had yielded a auto mechanic's shop, a bar, an army recruiting station, and a hair stylist. Often, when walking to my car, I'd wave to the cute young girl who worked at the front desk of the salon. Every day, she'd get a great big smile on her face and wave back to me. This was often the best part of my day.

For weeks and weeks (maybe months) we never spoke....we just smiled and waved at one another. I remember one evening in particular when I was so excited to walk past her at the end of the day that I forgot to bring my car keys...which meant I'd have to walk past her again as I backtracked, then walk past her a third time on the way back to my car. Fighting off the mortification, I simply pulled the keys out of my pocket, pointed at them and shrugged as I walked past.

She broke into a full laugh, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that her head had turned to watch me as I continued my walk across the parking lot. This sort of thing did not happen to me very often.

She was adorable, and I was absolutely smitten... yet, I'd never spoken to her. I didn't even know her name.

I probably never would have, either, if she hadn't taken the initiative of scheduling her smoke breaks for the time at which I tended to leave the office. One evening as I was headed home with a stack of CD's my a friend had lent me, she decided to break the ice.

"What you got there?' she asked as I was still fumbling to come up with a greeting.

It was the first time I'd heard her voice. It was playful, and vaguely impish. She reached out and grabbed Jeff Buckley's "Grace" out of my hands.

We stood in the parking lot for a brief few minutes, getting to know one another. Her name was Morgan, and up close she seemed much more beautiful than I'd ever noticed: She was tall, with long legs and a slightly oversized mouth that made her smile that much more evocative. Together with her gigantic brown eyes, her ever so slight lisp and her upbeat manner, she was sort of like a beautiful little puppy with great big paws and ears.

Conversation naturally gravitated towards music, and lo-and-behold she told me about all sorts of metal bands she'd been to see - Powerman 5000, Pantera; you know: that kids stuff.

It was settled: I'd ask her to the show the next time I saw her.

And wouldn't you know it? A few days later I had her number and we had a date: That Sunday night, after we'd wrapped up band practice, Mark and I would pick her up at her home in Germantown, and we'd all go see Type O Negative together.

"That was easy," I thought to myself. "I should do this sort of thing more often."

++++++++

For once I manged to play it cool and not compulsively call as soon as I got the digits. Instead I waited patiently all weekend, not calling until Sunday afternoon, right before practice started. I wanted to get directions to her place, and confirm the times with her.

No answer. With my bandmates looking at me expectantly, I shrugged it off and we started one of our marathon four hour practices; I had all afternoon to reach her. (This is how it was done before cell phones and text messages, kiddos).

During the break I tried again. The woman who answered the phone sounded decidedly older than I'd expected. That's about the time I realized she was living with her fucking mom.

"Shit," I grumbled to myself. "Why did I assume she'd have her own place? In fucking Germantown?"

I left a message, and her mom sounded skeptical of who I was and what my intentions were.

Practice ended. I still had not heard from her.

I called again. The same old bag answered. I left another message.

Mark and I looked at one another. Time was getting tight, and this had become embarrassing.

Twenty minutes passed, and I made one final attempt to call her. Her mom told me point blank that Morgan wasn't home, and that she wasn't going to be home. Her tone was firm, and I felt very foolish.

Even Mark - who had a merciless streak for teasing me about my bad luck with women - seemed to take pity on me. It was getting late enough that we were in danger of missing the show, so the decision was made: It was time to hit the road and make the best of the evening.

++++++++

The car ride was very quiet. I was trying to be a big boy about it, but this one stung; it wasn't like I wasn't used to being turned down (or worse, stood up). But it was completely and totally foreign to me to have a girl agree so enthusiastically to a date, only to bail like this.

Mark and I parked somewhere down in South East, near where Nationals Stadium currently stands. The box office was just about closed by the time we arrived, so we had to do some coaxing to find someone to get Mark his ticket.

It all worked out though, and we got into the show just as the band was getting ready to take the stage.

I don't remember the details of this one too well, but I remember that they opened with an abbreviated vamp on Pink Floyd's "On with the Show". After a song or two, Peter Steele welcomed the crowd by announcing in near monotone, "We are Type O Negative from Brooklyn, New York. We were here a few monts ago at da Nine-Toity Club. Dat show sucked. Dis show will rule."

He was more or less correct on both counts.

(God, Nation was a great venue).

++++++++

I was so disappointed about the whole incident with Morgan that I'm pretty sure I either worked late or left out of the office's back door for a few days so that I wouldn't have to face her. I was angry and embarrassed, and, frankly, I didn't want an explanation. I just wanted to be done with her, because that was so much easier than admitting how interested I had been, and how outrageously happy it had made me that she agreed to go out with me in the first place.

Halfway into that week, I stepped out of the office for lunch with my coworker Sean - a rolly-polly African American guy who was more or less convinced that he was the second coming of Billy Dee Williams. We were teammates, and we had a somewhat strained relationship.

As we stood at the front door to the office, chatting and waiting for a third coworker to join us, Sean's tone suddenly changed on a dime.

"Well, well, weeeeellllll," Sean cooed. It was his trademark phrase for when he saw a girl he liked.

I looked up to see Morgan standing halfway out of the front door of the salon, maybe twenty yards away. She was staring at us with a weird, pensive look on her face; Her mouth was partially open, as though she had started to say something then suddenly decided against it.

She had been waiting for me.

"I'm not talking to you," I shouted to her.

I smiled to let her know that I didn't mean it, but I'm not sure she picked up the gesture. Her eyes were sad. I the tiniest voice I've ever heard she said, "You have to."

She didn't say it very loud, and her voice cracked just a little bit...She was pleading with me.

While Sean looked on, puzzled, I trotted over to her.

She explained to me that her friend had a serious illness, and had taken a turn for the worse over the weekend. She told me that if I'd given her my number she would have called, but instead she was back and forth from the hospital all weekend.

I stood there, trying to determine if I should believe her (I did), and if I deserved to feel so ugly for being petty about this whole situation (I did).

We talked for a second or two, and I told her not to worry about it. I guess I wasn't mad so much as I felt small. Her little voice made me want to try and protect her somehow - from what, I have no idea - but that urge made me very uncomfortable; everything about the whole experience was so awkward, and I vividly remember noticing at the time that she made no offer to make it up to me. (Maybe that sounds selfish in light of her personal situation, but I still felt a twinge of resentment over that, as embarrassing as it is to admit.)

On the spot, I guess I just allowed this to be a missed opportunity...even though I really wanted to be a nice guy and be there for her.

++++++++

For the next few weeks, Morgan and I repeated our ritual of smiling and waving, but, naturally, it wasn't the same. We chatted every once in a while, but it was just an effort to be nice.

At some point later that year she ran outside and stopped me to let me know that she was moving to Cleveland. Her sister would be going to college out there, and she thought it would be good to tag along and have a change in scenery.

I took a second to process that, and I guess she saw the confused look on my face.

"I'm only 19, you know."

Her voice dropped a little when she said it, her tone confessional. It's not like I didn't know that she was younger than me, but I thought she was at least of legal drinking age. I should have picked up on it earlier, but her guilty voice indicated that she'd made some effort to disguise this fact from me. All of the awkwardness of the past few weeks started to make a little more sense, even if it was no less embarrassing.

Jesus, I was 26. A 19-year old held little appeal for me.

I wished her well and we said our goodbyes. No hugs, no kisses, and no exchange of contact information. I guess if it had all happened ten years later, we'd still be "friends" on a social networking site, but that's not how it worked back then.

I never saw her again, and to be honest, I'm not sure when the last time I'd thought of her was, prior to coming across this ticket stub.

I do wonder what would have happened if we'd gone out on that date. I'm certain that I would have plied us both with plenty of alcohol, and from there its kind of a crap shoot. I was in a weird spot those days, slowly waking up to the fact that the nice guy routine had been an abject failure in advancing my pursuits with the fairer sex. As a result, I was on the verge of entering into a kind of reckless, mercenary point in my life, and I'm not sure either of us would have made any good decisions.

As long as she did ok for herself in Ohio, it's probably safe to say that she was better off without my influence.

Which is kind of a cop-out. Sure, I was making a lot of bad decisions back then, but it was basically fueled by the anger and awkwardness that comes with the frustration of chronic loneliness. Truthfully, I was ready for a good influence in my life, and an awful lot of them were fumbled right before my eyes. It was painful.

++++++++

What does that have to do with the concert? Nothing, I suppose.

Or everything.

I look back and I tend to remember all of the great times from my 20's. But I also easily forget that most of those moments were tied together by long bouts of loneliness and feelings of rejection and an overall sense of utter failure that followed me around through every single doomed romance...no matter how many ways I insisted to people that I was neither angry nor lonely.

I beat myself up a lot for being so obsessed with Type O Negative back then. But those emotions were exactly what Type O's best music was all about....feeling worthless and channeling those frustrations in stupid, macho, self-destructive ways. Songs like "Burnt Flowers Fallen" "Can't Lose You" and "...Bacchus" were, in fact, forcefully simple and romantic and honest in confronting that dreadful feeling that you may, in fact, be a failure as a man.

So, yeah, maybe I went a little overboard.

But its kind of silly to deny that it spoke to me....especially at a time when I was practically paralyzed and muted by insecurity.

Or should I say....Frozen?

Ten Bands I Just Don't Get

2010-03-03T16:46:00.000-08:00

(sorry for the double post - didn't post chronologically due to a blogger formatting issue)

It isn't a personal attack. Try not to pee yourselves, nerds.

Black Flag - Yes, I read "Our Band Could Be Your Life". No, I still don't get it. Sorry.

The Clash - I guess if I were ten years older and had been an existential pussy during the 80's, the Clash would give me as big of a boner as it does for everyone in their 40's.

But I just can't get excited for this band. "White Riot" has always struck me as a really awesome punk song, and "White Man in Hammersmith Palis" is as close to reggae as I can come without punching a hippie or a frat boy. So, I'll give them that.

But "London Calling"? Just shut up before you launch an entire generation of annoying politically-minded bands.

Anything Involving Richard Hell - Yeah, yeah, you lived in NYC in the 70's when it actually meant something. You're a part of the blank generation. Now take your "New Pleasure"-singin' ass and get the fuck outta here.

Spoon - My God, could the music critics at NPR be any more in love with these guys? Enough already.

AC/DC - Metalheads hold this band sacred, but all I have ever heard in AC/DC is a salute to being white trash. I will give you "Hells Bells" and "Ride On". I'll even throw in "Highway to Hell" if you're gonna make a fuss about it. But I gotta draw the line somewhere, and "Dirty Deeds" is the last song I'll even consider letting in.

I can't stand these fucking guys or their dumb fans.

((...Great, now I can't ever go back to Baltimore)).

Fugazi - Speaking of fans I can't stand, go ahead and lynch me. But before you do, you ought to know that I get it: Fugazi is an immensely important band for all the things they stood for and all the things they did for independent music. Not only do I get that, but I appreciate it. All of it.

But that doesn't mean I have to like their music. Because Ian MacKaye has no fucking concept of pitch and I'm tired of him getting a free pass on it!

Fuck - even Lemmy shouts halfway in key. (Sort of).

The emperor has no clothes. Get it together, MacKaye.

Nice rhythm section, though....

Radiohead - I keep waiting and waiting for the hooks, but they never come.

I mean, they NEVER fucking show up. Where are the goddamned hooks with this band?????

(And don't you tell me to be patient. I've been patiently listening to this sickly little fourth grader snivel and moan since "Creep").

Siouxsie and the Banshees - I dated two different girls who thought this chick wrote "The Passenger".

Depeche Mode - Not only do I not get what people love about Depeche Mode, but I outright resent them.

It all goes back to one moment of epiphany I experienced my senior year of high school. I was standing on the side of the stage during down time for rehearsals for "Guys and Dolls" (yes, fuck you very much, I was in the stupid drama club), listening to two fellow students discuss Depeche Mode.

One was a new girl who had transferred in only a few weeks ago. Her name was Amy. She was pretty and friendly, and the five or six straight boys in the drama club were all scoping her out pretty hard.

The other was a kid a year behind me, named Bill.....a tall, gangly, goofy, immensely intelligent and funny kid (who went on to have a fairly amazing adulthood as a writer).

They were engrossed in a conversation about Depeche Mode. I was standing perhaps five feet away, and I knew I had absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation. I also knew that this young lady would not turn around and ask me about the Rolling Stones or WASP.

I seem to recall that Bill and Amy may have had one of those three-week romances that are all the rage in high school. They seemed like an unlikely pairing to me, to say the least.

But deep in my little brain, something clicked: I realized that there was a small number of women who would give guys like me and Bill the time of day. And I also realized that they all seemed to like Depeche Mode. And as my college and post-college life developed, this fact became indisputably true.

And because I could not bring myself to get behind that stupid band, I lost a boatload of opportunities to have something in common with them.

Meanwhile, Bill is probably still pushing drama club girls and English majors off of him.

Man, fuck those guys....

The Dead Kennedys - Gah. I guess you had to be there.

Strange Highways

2010-02-10T20:13:00.000-08:00

Just a quick shout out to Ronnie James Dio.

I think it's more or less common knowledge by this point, but Ronnie is pretty sick. His wife has been kind enough to share some relatively encouraging updates with music fans, but it's a small comfort to anyone who has ever been through a cancer scare or loved someone who did.

Which is far, far too many of us.

You know, it's funny: My formative metal years were just after Dio's best solo work, and yet I've never been a huge fan. Still, I am compelled to pull for him, not just in the interest of beating back cancer, but also because he is perhaps the one and only guy in metal - perhaps in the entire music industry - whose character has unanimous endorsement:

Music fans, journalists, filmmakers, other musicians.....all have openly admitted that Ronnie James Dio is simply the nicest musician around.

Which makes this news all the sadder and more unfair.

So, hang in there, Ronnie. We're rooting for you. Some of us might even be praying.

Ten Bands I Just Don't Get

2010-02-08T18:39:00.000-08:00

It isn't a personal attack. Try not to pee yourselves, nerds.

Black Flag - Yes, I read "Our Band Could Be Your Life". No, I still don't get it. Sorry.

The Clash - I guess if I were ten years older and had been an existential pussy during the 80's, the Clash would give me as big of a boner as it does for everyone in their 40's.

But I just can't get excited for this band. "White Riot" has always struck me as a really awesome punk song, and "White Man in Hammersmith Palis" is as close to reggae as I can come without punching a hippie or a frat boy. So, I'll give them that.

But "London Calling"? Just shut up before you launch an entire generation of annoying politically-minded bands.

Anything Involving Richard Hell - Yeah, yeah, you lived in NYC in the 70's when it actually meant something. You're a part of the blank generation. Now take your "New Pleasure"-singin' ass and get the fuck outta here.

Spoon - My God, could the music critics at NPR be any more in love with these guys? Enough already.

AC/DC - Metalheads hold this band sacred, but all I have ever heard in AC/DC is a salute to being white trash. I will give you "Hells Bells" and "Ride On". I'll even throw in "Highway to Hell" if you're gonna make a fuss about it. But I gotta draw the line somewhere, and "Dirty Deeds" is the last song I'll even consider letting in.

I can't stand these fucking guys or their dumb fans.

((...Great, now I can't ever go back to Baltimore)).

Fugazi - Speaking of fans I can't stand, go ahead and lynch me. But before you do, you ought to know that I get it: Fugazi is an immensely important band for all the things they stood for and all the things they did for independent music. Not only do I get that, but I appreciate it. All of it.

But that doesn't mean I have to like their music. Because Ian MacKaye has no fucking concept of pitch and I'm tired of him getting a free pass on it!

Fuck - even Lemmy shouts halfway in key. (Sort of).

The emperor has no clothes. Get it together, MacKaye.

Nice rhythm section, though....

Radiohead - I keep waiting and waiting for the hooks, but they never come.

I mean, they NEVER fucking show up. Where are the goddamned hooks with this band?????

(And don't you tell me to be patient. I've been patiently listening to this sickly little fourth grader snivel and moan since "Creep").

Siouxsie and the Banshees - I dated two different girls who thought this chick wrote "The Passenger".

Depeche Mode - Not only do I not get what people love about Depeche Mode, but I outright resent them.

It all goes back to one moment of epiphany I experienced my senior year of high school. I was standing on the side of the stage during down time for rehearsals for "Guys and Dolls" (yes, fuck you very much, I was in the stupid drama club), listening to two fellow students discuss Depeche Mode.

One was a new girl who had transferred in only a few weeks ago. Her name was Amy. She was pretty and friendly, and the five or six straight boys in the drama club were all scoping her out pretty hard.

The other was a kid a year behind me, named Bill.....a tall, gangly, goofy, immensely intelligent and funny kid (who went on to have a fairly amazing adulthood as a writer).

They were engrossed in a conversation about Depeche Mode. I was standing perhaps five feet away, and I knew I had absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation. I also knew that this young lady would not turn around and ask me about the Rolling Stones or WASP.

I seem to recall that Bill and Amy may have had one of those three-week romances that are all the rage in high school. They seemed like an unlikely pairing to me, to say the least.

But deep in my little brain, something clicked: I realized that there was a small number of women who would give guys like me and Bill the time of day. And I also realized that they all seemed to like Depeche Mode. And as my college and post-college life developed, this fact became indisputably true.

And because I could not bring myself to get behind that stupid band, I lost a boatload of opportunities to have something in common with them.

Meanwhile, Bill is probably still pushing drama club girls and English majors off of him.

Man, fuck those guys....

The Dead Kennedys - Gah. I guess you had to be there.

Type O Negative

2010-02-01T20:56:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-30T13:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-21T13:02:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-09T20:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-06T19:39:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-21T16:49:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-16T20:04:00.000-08:00

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.

The Halloween Mix tape

2009-10-25T18:59:00.000-07:00

Halloween has always been just about my favorite holiday - be it the memories of trick or treating as a kid, college parties, or the years in my mid-20's when I realized that you could basically say anything you wanted to a young lady at a bar as long as you were in a costume - Halloween has always been represented a free pass to get a little silly.

But hand in hand with the excesses and the goofiness of Halloween are the wonderfully dark and creepy aspects of it: Horror. Terror. Ritualism. The occult.

What other holiday could better represent metal than the one that so effectively mixes together silliness and evil?

And, so, I offer you my Halloween 2009 Mix Tape. (Heh...."Mix Tape". The kids don't even know what that means).

(By the way, I'm totally copping this concept from Heavy Metal Time Machine and Noise Creep, and I admit that a handful of the same songs/artists appear on their lists. Sorry. Total coincidence).

Motley Crue: In the Beginning/Shout at the Devil:

The spoken word intro to "Shout at the Devil" is assuredly ridiculous, but it was also harrowing and confusing to my grade school ears.

First of all, WHO is that talking? He who breeds WHAT awaits me?? Am *I* one of those children of the beast?? WHAT did he just say about the dusts of hell?? WHY am I supposed to shouting AT the devil?

And do these guys really worship Satan?? I'm beginning to think they might be a bunch of pansies. (Except Mick Mars. What the fuck is up with that guy....?)

Whatever. There's little time for a 12 year old to discuss these matters, because that first chord kicks in, and Tommy Lee is caveman-banging on some gigantic drum, and everyone is starting the gang chants. Halloween has arrived.

SHOUT!

Danzig - Twist of Cain

Did someone say gang chants and caveman drums? Look out, Danzig just showed up!!!

This song is the sound of walking in on a ritual sacrifice in your best friend's dad's basement.

("Hey Marty's dad, what's u......oh, fuck. Nevermind. I'll be leaving now.......Please.")

Alice Cooper - Billion Dollar Babies

There are an awful lot of Alice's songs worth including, but this is hands down the creepiest one for my tastes. The lyrics are weird enough, but what the fuck is that bridge all about?

And who the hell let this guy on the Soupy Sales show?

Boris Picket and the Cryptkickers - The Moster Mash

Before you judge me, you remember this one thing: this is more or less the blueprint for every single Misfits song. Ever.

Samhain - Horror Biz

Ok, ok....Jesus, I'm sorry I made fun of the Misfits.

Here's some of the infinitely more frightening Samhain's take on "Horror Biz". (And if that's not good enough for you, here's "I am Misery". Or if you really want to punish yourself, here's the 7:00 minute version with the scary "Misery Tomb" intro).

Type O Negative - Black # 1

Halloween anthem.

And damned close to actually being a scary video, were it not for the midgets in the tree. And the vampire goofball who floats across the screen at the 3:23 mark. Seriously, who is responsible for that?

Black Sabbath - Black Sabbath

No explanation required.

Morbid Angel - God of Emptiness

Most terrifying video in history. God, this was a bad idea. I knew better than to watch the last 90 seconds of that shit. Those fucking Florida metalhead goofballs. I'm totally going to wet the bed tonight.

Motley Crue

2009-10-19T20:40:00.001-07:00

In the modern history of questionable musical taste, I'm pretty sure that no one has ever spent their weekend seeing PJ Harvey on Friday night, and Motley Crue on Saturday. And even if they did, I bet they didn't cross two state lines in order to do it.

((Honestly, I don't even remember it happening in this sequence, but the ticket stubs speak for themselves.))

Ok, so Motley Crue:

It's just too easy to diss them, with the ridiculous lifestyle and the drugs and the hair and the girls and the bikes and the image that every other lousy faux-nasty hair band aspired to. And to top it all off, they were so, so, so stupid.

But still...That's the easy way out. It's the easy way out to say that they were just copping the Dolls. It's the easy way out to say that each of them are lousy human beings. It's the easy way out to say that they always cared more about coke and pussy than making music.

Because the fact is that the Crue released two absolutely stellar hard rock albums. And even when carnal pursuits officially overtook their priority on musicianship, the band still managed to string together a list of hits that must have left Don Dokken tearing his hair extensions out.

No matter how many ways you want to discredit Motley Crue, somehow those guys pulled off ten years' worth of nasty riffs and outstanding hooks.

And, of course, there was Tommy Lee - such an absolute moron of a person, and yet one of the very few rock and roll drummers who you can actually can a true musician.

Oddly enough, I wasn't a huge Crue fan when I teenager. I liked them just fine, but in one of those awkward manifestations of sibling rivalry, I somewhat shunned Motley Crue for no better reason than because they were my little brother's favorite band.

And because of that, I never got around to seeing them live when the Dr. Feelgood tour hit the Capital Centre my senior year if high school....even though a lot of my friends went and raved about it the next day.

I'd have opportunities in the future - that silly tour with John Corabi, and I think even on that tour behind the God-awful Generation Swine album - but I didn't bother with either. Over time, as I began to appreciate "Too Fast For Love" and "Shout at the Devil" all the more, I regretted missing out on them.

So, when the reunion/greatest hits tour was announced, my co-worker Scott and I rushed to check out the dates -- only to learn that the closest stop on their tour would be in Philly.

Undeterred, we teamed up with my boss, Jeff, and his then-wife, Joanna (North Jersey natives who were plucked straight out of a Bon Jovi video) and planned to caravan up together Saturday afternoon.

As we were all pulling out of the driveway to Scott's house, I jokingly told Joanna to try and keep up with me, as I was leading the way.

"I get a fucking speeding ticket and you're gonna eat it," she spat at me.

I'm pretty sure that was her way of showing affection.

+++++++

Well, we made it up to Philly with no speeding tickets (and, consequently, on an empty stomach). But, of course, things still went wrong.

The concert was at the Tower Theatre - a venue I'd been to at least twice before. I more or less knew where it was, but I asked Scott to print me some directions. And that was the last I thought of it, until we ended up in Center City, and Scott told me, "Ok, it should be just over this bridge."

I looked across the bridge at the Electric Factory - a different venue all together.

Somehow, we had printed directions to the wrong fucking club.

This was pre cell phone, so I has to find some way to get the message to Jeff and Joanna that we'd fucked up - a message I'm sure that they would greet with great frustration and ire.

So, we pulled over - of all places - in front of a bus on Broad Street. It seemed as though every horn in Philadelphia was honked at us over the course of the next two minutes, while I quickly brainstormed a plan.

"Jeff, please tell you wide to stop yelling at me," I pleaded, as Jeff gave me a blank, yet expectant, stare.

"Ok, the Tower Theatre is somewhere near Market and 69th Street," I stammered. "Market Street is right there. We're just going to have to go about 69 blocks West and we'll get there."

Since no one actually knew anything about the lay of Philadelphia, they all agreed that this was a logical plan. Gulping, I jumped in the car and led them through several very rough parts of Philly. I believe we stopped at every single red light along the way.

But no one actually gave us any trouble, and I didn't really think that they would. But I still knew I was going to catch hell from the New Jersey National Guard as soon as we arrived.

((Quick aside - at one point we crossed over a particular street and Scott immediately noticed that the potholes had cleared up, and the streetlamps were working, and that there was no more garbage piled up around us.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked.

"What happened? We just left Philadelphia, Scott, that's what happened."))

We arrived at Upper Darby and had about an hour to kill, so we went into a local mini-mall and decided to grab some absolutely nasty cheesesteaks. Noticing an overwhelming police presence, I asked a local cop what was going on.

The officer eyed, me - he was about my age, but a dead serious guy. One of those angry-looking Irish-Italians that Philly is full of.

"They've got their movie opening up tonight," he said, glaring at a bunch of amped-up African-American teenagers who were lined up to see "Belly" at the local theatre. He didn't really have to say any more than that. I remembered well how screwed up race relations were in the Philadelphia area.

+++++++

The show itself was a blast. Nikki Sixx's new "find" opened up for them - a band called Laidlaw that was comically lousy and who couldn't get off the stage fast enough.

The Crue was on soon enough after that. They opened with a very strong "Dr. Feelgood", and I watched in amazement as Tommy played high hat, cowbell and snare at the same time, all while doing a stick twirl that appeared almost second nature to him - as though he had so much spare time that he was compelled to do something else with his hands while playing three other parts.

((The guy is a god of a drummer. Seriously. If you don't get that, I probably can't convince you of it. But he is, and this is fact.))

Just about everything was greatest hits that night. "Shout at the Devil", "Girls Girls Girls", "Wild Side"...you know the set. They even threw in their last great single ("Primal Scream") and their last not-completely-terrible one ("Afriad"), and they both sounded fine.

It's funny the little things you remember....I vividly remember that Tommy asked for some extra time between songs. "What Tommy, did you break something again?" Vince asked.

"Yeah, hold on," Tommy could be hear saying away from the mic.

"Yoooooooou fuckin idiot," Vince grumbled, to which everyone laughed. It seemed familiar and friendly - like two old buddies messing around.

Of course, a read through "The Dirt" reveals that things between Tommy and Vince were at an all time low at this point, with fist fights being semi-regular occurrences. Weird to recall that moment, and how wrong I was in my interpretation of it.

Very long story short, I was glad I went to this show - they were complete professionals and kept the dumb ass rock and roll shit to a minimum. focusing instead on a catalog that's pretty damn fine. Even to a self-conscious snob like me.

+++++++++

After semi-trashing them for the past several hundred words, it's probably worth noting that I met Nikki Sixx two or three years ago, when he did a book signing at the Georgetown Barnes & Noble for "The Heroin Diaries". It was a long line, and it ate up my entire night, but I did want to get a book signed as a birthday present for my little brother.

Upon finally reaching the front of the line, I mentioned this to Mr. Sixx just after he'd finished signing the book.

"Give me the book back....can I write him a note?" he offered.

Between the words "Kevin" and "Nixxi Sixx", he scrawled a quick "Happy B-Day!"

It was a kind offer, and a completely unnecessary one that held up the line a few moments longer. And it was a completely cool thing for him to do. Completely fucking cool and classy and awesome.

So, I'm sorry if I in any way trashed him or his band in this blog post. Here's a lousy photo I took of him.

((For the record, my brother never even noticed the autograph or the message. Seriously.)).

P.J. Harvey

2009-09-29T20:22:00.001-07:00

P.J. Harvey
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

If you've been here before, than you know that I've got a weakness for writing too much and editing too little. And, so, there's a danger that I might try and get a little too cute with this entry.

I'll try and avoid that and get straight to the point: I had no fucking business being at this show.

Of all the shows I went to in the hopes of shedding my bad taste and becoming hip, this one stands out as particularly futile.

But in my defense, this wasn't my idea. It was the brainchild of my roommate and guitar player, Greg, who offered to buy my ticket if I would drive.

(Greg, you see, had driven his cargo van into a large tree one afternoon during a mysterious episode thought to be chalked up to low blood sugar and diabetes. In addition to smashed bones and burnt skin, the cargo van had been totaled and I had to sober up for a few weeks while I carted Greg's ass around in my then-new Nissan.....a car that somehow survived my stupidest years, including that one time when I drove it into a speed limit sign on the back woods roads of upper-Montgomery County while hopped up on asthma pills and Miller Lite.

This car will be joining Greg's cargo van up in car heaven very shortly, and I can't help but to look at her during these last days and think, "Damn it, God, take me instead").

Anyway, trust me, I know that P.J. Harvey is supposed to be awesome, and I'm not saying she isn't. But it wasn't my thing then, and I'm pretty sure it's not my thing now. I certainly went in with an open mind, but truth be told I was bored as hell all night.

Those NSFW photos of her vagina, however, still have my attention. Because, like I said, I have an open mind.

I know, she'll only make you cry

2009-09-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

Just a quick shout out to the geniuses over at Clods of Sodom for helping to out those bastards in KISS.

It kills me to still have such affection for early KISS. I can't help loving almost everything about those early albums.....the muddy made-for-vinyl mixing, the comic book artwork, the contrived high school lyrics, the aura of suburban boredom, juvenile delinquency and cheap pot that oozed out of each of those first five or six records.

...And the hooks on songs like "Strutter" and "I Stole Your Love"....to say nothing of those fucking Ace Frehley solos on "100,000 Years" and "Black Diamond" and "Nothing to Lose" and about 16 other songs.

They all paint a very vivid picture of a moment in time that I was about seven or eight years too young to have lived for myself.

Of course, it's not exactly new news that KISS blows today. And it's not news that Gene Simmons basically sees his fans as the rubes who exist solely to support his whore habit.

I just never realized the level of the contempt with which they viewed their fans.

I admit that there's a part of me that wants to withhold my sympathies for all those folks in Manchester, New Hampshire silly enough to still give KISS their money. But that's not really the point.

The point is that KISS broke their word to their fans. KISS lied to them.

And they did it underneath the shittiest of pretenses.

Fuck those Flaming Youth motherfuckers. Fuck them and their wigs and their chest hair and their cosmetic surgery and their policy of contracting founding band members as their employees. (Look it up, kids....)

Sign the petition.

Fuck KISS.

I turned around, I read the writing on the wall...

2009-09-08T19:17:00.000-07:00

As I sit here in my bedroom, the legendary Lemmy Kilmister is a brisk three mile walk away from me, somewhere in the Shaw neighborhood of Washington, D.C..

Perhaps he's in his tour bus. Or perhaps he's backstage at the 9:30 Club. Then again, maybe he's at the side of the stage watching Rev. Horton Heat warm up the crowd.

Maybe he's doing crank. Maybe he's doing a stripper. Maybe he's drinking vodka. Maybe he's telling people about the history of 1960s Manchester garage bands.

I'll never know, because I'm up here in Cleveland Park tonight, and I won't be making it down to the 9:30 Club.

It's a shame. There aren't many bands I'm dying to see anymore. But Motorhead gets a little more special to me with each and every gray hair that sprouts from my scalp.

With their near absence of chart presence, their career of financial insolvency and their refusal to give up, Motorhead just might be the most noble band in my world. As I grow older and weaker and more apt to live in a state of compromise, Motorhead reminds me that there is nothing more poetic in life than determining what it is that you love and excel at, and doing that until you can't do it any more.

...And, yet, I will not be joining Lemmy in Shaw this evening.

Because I have to be at work early tomorrow.

Lemmy would not approve. Lemmy would tell me to shake it off, be a man, and do something for myself tonight.....forget about tomorrow for a second and indulge in what makes me happy tonight.

I would have no answer for him, except that I somehow cast myself in the role of office villian over the course of the last several weeks, and tomorrow is a very high pressure occassion when that matter needs to be rectified, if only for the day. And arriving late, exhausted, and with a large blue stamp on my hand will not help that effort in the least.

If Lemmy were here, Lemmy would ask me if I cared what these coworkers of mine think, and I would tell them that I do not. He would aks me why I pain myself to conform to their system when I'm clearly not cut out for it. He would pressure me about my misplaced values, and the early grave that I'm driving myself into in this environment of politics and peer pressure.

He would tell me that tonight *he* will help make a few hundred people happy for two hours, and tomorrow, *I* will simply make myself a little bit more miserable.

And I would have no answer for him at all.

At the end of the day, it's my stupid decision to forego seeing Motorhead as some sort of perverted penance for being an asshole in the office lately. And it was a series of stupid decisions that got me to this point at work. But here I am and there they are, and that's just how it's going to have to be.

The fact is that there's something necessary and even healthy about being called out for being a fucking prick. Because if you emerge from the humiliation intact, you may yet learn humility. And its been made clear to me that I need a dose of that right now.

This does not matter to Lemmy. In all likelihood, Lemmy knows that I'm a fucking prick, and he accepts me as such. Which makes this whole gesture seem that much more pointless.

I ain't no nice guy afterall.

Working So Hard....Working for the Company

2009-09-02T18:38:00.000-07:00

So, the rumor mill is reporting that Charlie Watts wants to pack it up and retire from the Rolling Stones.

(Or maybe he doesn't.)

If so, I say good for him. The guy entered the band semi-reluctantly, and with the exception of a few dark years in the early-to-mid 1980’s, he was a workhorse for the band from the start. He’s at retirement age, and who am I to begrudge him of that?

No doubt, he’s had his share of haters over the years; As a drummer and a fan, I’ve endured a never-ending litany of complaints about his style – always from those who tend to know the least about the role of the rhythm section in a rock and roll band.

The fact is that while Charlie was never a technician, he was no Ringo: He was the king of rock and roll backbeat. And after laying down the mid-tempo chug of “Honky Tonk Women”, the badass intro fill on “Monkey Man” and the frantic solos on “Paint it Black” (to say nothing of the rimshot samba on “Sympathy for the Devil” - Jesus Christ was I happy when I finally saw the Godard film and learned how to play that shit), he’s got nothing to prove to anyone.

Keith Richards may have always been the soul of the Stones, but Charlie was the only one with any integrity at all….particularly in the past 15 years when Keith has been doing silly movies, mugging for the camera, flubbing his guitar solos, and generally getting his ass handed to him by Buddy Guy.

And with all of Keith’s big talk in the mid-80’s, it was not he, but Charlie who finally lost it and famously cold-cocked Mick.

(Like I said: integrity.)

Keith Richards himself has often said that Charlie *is* the Rolling Stones, and that he wouldn’t go on without him. Yet rumors persist that Steve Jordan or Charlie Drayton have already been lined up. Quite bluntly, I don’t think that anything could possibly kill and bury my love for the Stones faster than if they actually did that. (See: The Who).

Of course, there’s a better than average chance that his decision won’t hold.

In fact, RollingStones, LLC, have already issued a denial. Besides, Charlie has quit the band a countless number of times, and Mick and Keith are nothing if not persuasive. I even admit that I fantasize about Charlie coming back, the Stones giving up the stage show and the backing band and simply performing stuff like “Play with Fire” or “Ventilator Blues” on bar stools until one of the guys finally stroked out for good. I can’t imagine a more honest or graceful way for the band to exit.

That, of course, will never happen. Honesty and grace have never been the Rolling Stones' areas of expertise…which is exactly why Charlie makes for such a lovely oddity of a rock star.

Good luck, Charlie. You’re free to do what you want, any old time.

Random Thoughts on 8 Hours of Metal

2009-08-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

Eight fucking hours in the car yesterday. Went down to West Virginia and back for the boss, who was kind enough to splurge for a rental car with XM Satellite Radio.

Despite being something of a nerdbomb evangelist for this technology back in 2001, I've only had a handful of experiences with satellite radio. This road trip would be a chance to change all that.

I admit that I lost probably a good hour flipping around various sports, talk and news stations, but my arrival at the back-to-back bacchanal of Hair Nation and Liquid Metal somewhere east of Front Royal would prove to be exactly what I needed after absent-mindedly hovering over an all-Springsteen channel for the better part of 15 minutes.

The experience was sublime. The following are a series of thoughts that passed through my head on my journey, including observations on metal as well as other random music generes I took in on the drive:

- If there's a better metal band than In Flames, I'm not even sure I want to know about it.

- I have no explanation for why I keep telling myself that I like Pantara. I'm pretty sure I just like that one song.

- Did Little Steven just say that was Dolly Parton sounding all 1960's NYC girl band?!?!? Dammit, I already forgot how it went. Fuck.

- An all Greatful Dead channel????? Ooof. There but for the grace of God go I....

- "All Nightmare Long" is the first Metallica song that I haven't found overwhelingly disappointing since.....oh, jesus, this is depressing. ...Since "Fuel"??? [EPILOGUE: Good thing I missed the first two minutes of this song or I never would have made it to the good part. I take it all back. Metallica disappoints once again. Why do I have to love your band so much more than you do, James?].

- The Troggs might be the worst band to come out of the 60's. Period.

- I could have gone the rest of my life never hearing "You're Invited But Your Friend Can't Come" ever again, and that would have been just fine. (Actual thought process as the song came on: "Jesus, what the hell is this? This just might be the worst fucking Crue song ever. What album was thi.....oh, right, right. Now I remember. Jeez, Vince.")

- Those guys in Lamb of God sure sound tough.

- Ok, Bruce, we get it: you're awesome live. Wrap the damn song up already.

- "Up All Night (Sleep All Day)" might have the most tard-tastic verse and chorus this side of Aerosmith, but that pre-chorus at the 1:00 mark is everything anyone ever needed out of a hair band.

- Is someone actually requesting all this Whitesnake and Deep Purple?? Good grief...

- Corrosion of Conformity - Clean My Wounds: HOLYFUCKINGSHIT! I FORGOT ALL ABOUT THIS SONG!! I MAY HAVE TO PULL THIS CAR OVER AND RAGE ALL OVER ROUTE 81!!!! YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH!!!!!

- Maybe I never gave Papa Roach or Slipknot a fair shake. Ah, whatever. Fuck 'em.

- Those poor bastards in Cinderella were actually really talented. Whoever was dressing them probably deserves to be shot.

- Whatever happened to Grandmaster Flash, anyway?

Gwar and the Misfits

2009-08-24T20:55:00.001-07:00

Gwar and the Misfits
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

Imagine for a moment that you are young and single, and you have been invited to a BBQ. You know the following things about the BBQ:

There will be a lot of people. Many of them will be of the opposite sex. The weather is expected to be good. There will be beer. It should be fun.

However, you have also been informed that there will be no burgers, no hot dogs, no ribs, and no chicken at this "BBQ". The only food that will be served will be veggie burgers.

In that sense, no matter how good of a party it is.....no many how many women you meet, or how many beers you drink, or how many friends you make......this will still be a very lame BBQ.

Do you go to the BBQ? And if you do, have you thus waived your right to complain about it? And if you end up having a good time and stuffing your face with BocaBurgers, should you be too embarrassed to tell your friends about it the next day?

Welcome to the dilemma of a Misfits fan in the post-Danzig era. Because a Misfits without Danzig is most certainly akin to a BBQ without meat. (Though as long as Jerry Only is milking this gig, this BBQ will never be without its meathead).

(Yes, yes....again with the Danzig).

Actually, the Danzig dichotomy needs to be addressed: Almost all punk rock fans have a soft spot for the Misfits, and most outright love them. However, these same folks tend to think of Danzig's solo career as little more than a punch line. So, why shouldn't a revival band without him be fine and dandy for everyone?

(Think about it: there is totally a precedent for this phenomenon of goofy lead singers of once-beloved rock bands, and the tools who go on to front them to great success).

I guess there are a lot of reasons, actually. First and foremost, the Misfits had been dead and buried for something like 15 years before Jerry Only brought them back with a new singer. And beyond that, there's something about the Misfits that is quintessentially teenage. Sometimes it just best to leave those memories as they were.

And then there was the fact that Michael Graves - while no doubt one heck of a trooper to try and fill Mr. Danzig's boots - was just a weird, weird pick. He was young, and sort of vaguely good looking, but not in any sort of punk rock way. He looked a little like a frat boy to me. He had pipes, for sure, but Ripper Owens he was not.

Regardless, I went to this concert on my own will. In fact, I'm sure it was my idea.

Took my little brother, who by now was finally over that episode at the Guns N'Roses concert.

This was in no small part because the Misfits would be joined on the tour by the one-and-only Gwar. Somehow, despite the fact that we were suburbanite little dorks, Kevin and I had known about Gwar and their sideshow tour for years and years. Together with the Misfits, it seemed like a good opportunity to kill two birds that we'd probably never otherwise hunt for.

The show wasn't particularly memorable. The Misfits brought a lot of energy and did the mainstays - Skulls, AngelFuck, etc. I even think that they played one of the Misfits songs that Danzig had taken with him to his future bands....(drawing a blank here, but it must have been "Horror Biz").

The point is, if you could forget the fact that you were watching a glorified cover band, it was a fairly fun set.

Gwar was.....well, Gwar was Gwar. They sang a lot of songs with gross lyrics ("Fish Fuck" stands out), and they made a fucking mess of the stage, as they were fully expected to. To say that they were "good" would be an overstatement, but they sure were entertaining, and didn't take themselves too seriously.

I'm not sure that can be said of anyone who came out of the Misfits camp. God only knows what part of being from New Jersey and dressing up like a zombie and playing punk rock is to be taken as sacred, but nonetheless, not having a sense of humor seems to have become some kind of an ironic curse associated with the extended Misfits clan.

Or so I was thinking right before I saw Jerry Only emerge in the 9:30 Club balcony and sign a bunch of stuff for teenage fans. I stood there with my brother and watched, thinking how cool it was for him to be making the rounds after his show, and how rare it is for a performer to be that accessible - especially a performer as legendary (um....relatively speaking) Mr. Only is.

After shaking a few hands, he made his way towards the stairs, close by where I was standing with my arms folded. I lifted my chin and smiled to him - I intended it to be a subtle but direct gesture.....I didn't want to be a fanboy, but I thought that perhaps he might appreciate a nice word from someone over the age of 17.

Jerry was having none of it. Locking in on me with his peripherals, he stared past me and strode by at full speed, totally dissing me.

Maybe it was the Samhain shirt I was wearing....

Zakk and Ozzy Make a....Mistake

2009-08-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

Like a lot of people, I happen to find the current age of celebrity obsession to be completely vapid and soul-destroying. I don't even know who most of the hot actors and actresses are anymore, or why they're famous. Or why we care who they are breaking up with.

As everyone can see by now, there's no better example of the shallowness of this culture than the dignity-shredding circus surrounding Michael Jackson's death. People keep tuning in for story after story about the newest absurdity of his strange death, and I can't help to think that we are somehow trying to distance ourselves from some sort of implicit participation we all had in his sad life.

All of that said, it would be wrong for me to try and deny a lifelong Jackson devotee of his or her grief. Because regardless of any actual relationship that we have with our favorite musicians, the fact that they scored and/or performed the soundtracks to the best times of our lives means that we will always feel personally connected to them on a level that is flawed, but very forgivable.

Which brings me to the big news of the past few weeks in the metal community: The celebrity break-up of metal godfather Ozzy Osbourne and axe-man Zakk Wylde. And why it makes me so, so sad, despite having no personal connection with either man.

Long story short, it looks like Ozzy has sacked Mr. Wylde. And by telling him through the press.

Now, it's not a surprise when Ozzy switches guitar players; throughout his career he's gone through them like Peter North's costars went through boxes of Kleenex.

But it always made news anyway, perhaps because so many of us have always felt that Ozzy spent the second and third chapters of his career searching for his next Randy Rhoads: It's no secret that he was absolutely devastated by Rhoads' death, and that no matter how much of a lunatic Ozzy had always been, the Rhoads tragedy seemed to be the fulcrum for the full out insanity that became Ozzy's cocaine-fueled lifestyle in the mid-80's.

(The obvious flaw in this, of course, is that Ozzy didn't "discover" Randy Rhoads: Rhoads was already a known name in guitar circles long before Ozzy poached him from Quiet Riot, which makes one wonder if his quest to be come a guitar kingmaker was somewhat doomed to begin with).

All the same, one can never deny that Ozzy's taste in guitar players was damn near beyond reproach: He cut his teeth with the single most iconic guitarist in heavy metal history; he flirted with the mighty George Lynch and academy award winner Steve Vai, wisely avoiding a committment with either (both are undeniably too ego-centric and visionary to be anyone's side-man for long); he gave Rhoads a platform to introduce to the masses a Robert Johnson-styled approach to simultaneous rhythm and lead guitar playing; and he debuted the maligned would-be wonderkid known as Jake E. Lee.

(Those who spent their teen years tearing through drugstore copies of Circus magazine - or perhaps Hit Parader in a pinch...but never Metal Edge -- received constant updates about Ozzy's frustrations about Lee, Lee's feelings of abandoment over their tattered relationship, and nearly gleefully tepid reviews of the flop that was Lee's next project.

Ironically enough, though, Ozzy's albums with Lee have aged surpisingly well. "The Ultimate Sin" in particular is astonishingly good when you consider how much of a mess Ozzy was at that stage of his life. Conversely, "The Blizzard of Ozz" showcases some of Ozzy's best work with Rhoads, but the record is absolutely plagued with terrible early-1980's production hallmarks that devalue songs like "Goodbye to Romance" to nearly complete unlistenability).

And, so, when Ozzy announced in 1987 that he would be introducing a 19 year old viruoso for his upcoming record, all eyes were on one Zakk Wylde. Would this be the new it-kid in heavy metal, or was Ozzy going to dud out once again?

No matter what you say about the album that was "No Rest for the Wicked" (certainly not a classic), one thing was for certain - the media unanimously gave Wylde their full endorsement on his debut. His obnoxious, rude, hyper-macho style gave Ozzy's music an ass-heavy feel that had not been associated with Ozzy since Sabbath. (...maybe on "Suicide Solution"?)

And although Ozzy had a long road todwards sobriety ahead of him, the rumor was that he was nearly paternal to Wylde, even roping him in when Wydle got out of control on the road.

Wydle would stick around on and off for the next twenty years. And over those next twenty years, Ozzy's life would finally see some seblance of balance for perhaps the first time: Not only did he begin giving some thought towards his obligation as a parent, but he also experienced a renewed level of success: "No More Tears", in fact, would mark the apex of his late-career artistic output. Ozzfest would prove to be a critical and financial success, and a launching pad for many a nu-metal sensation. He would even soon participate in an overdue Sabbath reunion.

All together, the events of 1990s should have firmly cemented Mr. Osbourne's legacy for once and for all. And the contributions of Mr. Wylde were very much a part of that. Those of us who rooted for Ozzy over the years were happy to see it.

Of course, the mastermind of his resurgence - his career manager and wife, Sharon -- also began a most shameful manipulation of Ozzy's image at about this time, most infamously by pimping him out to MTV in a truly repugnant display of exploitation.

No longer was Ozzy a visionary madman; he was now just an overmedicated nincompoop, and it was all laid out there for an entirely new demographic of viewers to see, who now may never know him as anything but a puttering old fool.

Ozzy seems to be on his feet again these days. His medication intake seems to have leveled off and he seems to be at his most lucid point since about 1991.

But I can't say that I trust his judgement. And I can't say that I trust his manager's judgement. And the manner of his dismissal of Wylde seems very much in line with Sharon Osboure's failed dealings with the likes of Motorhead and the Smashing Pumpkins:

It's rude, and it's unprofessional. And its sad for me to see, even though I have no good reason to care. None at all.

But I do recommend that this would be a good time for Wylde to reintroduce "Losin Your Mind" into his set-list.

Bullet

2009-07-28T20:45:00.000-07:00

So, check this out.....

Fred Armisen tends to make me laugh. A lot. But he also creeps me out to no end. And I find him a little annoying.

But Carrie Brownstein? That's a different matter entirely.

I know it's doomed for obvious reasons, but I still find myself falling more in love with the lovely Ms. Brownstein every day, and in the immortal words of Randy Owen, I'll be over the edge now in no time at all.

And giving love to Mr. Danzig? Now you're just toying with me.

C'mon, Carrie.....next time you're out east to meet the suits, give me a holler. We'll get together and listen to Static Age. Whaddaya you say?

Fear and Loathing In Seattle - Part II

2009-07-27T21:09:00.001-07:00

Seattle Mariners vs Chicago White Sox
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

Lordy, Jesus......road madness, cigarettes and Jaegermeister would drop me like a dead moose these days. But then again, I've lost a step in my race towards the Grim Reaper. (He's patient, that Grim Reaper. And when he wants you, he'll find you. He isn't interested in making your job any easier, so I sure ain't interesting in helping him do his anymore).

But, I suppose I was a little more stupid back in the summer of 1998. Behold......

*********

At some point, the music at the Showbox ended and we ran across the street to a swing dance bar where another live band was playing. The bartender was from Philly, and he gave free Jaeger shots to Fran the Man and to Ms. J, because there were Delaware Valley residents. (I was zombified enough that he wouldn't serve me. Even for money. And I was really bummed about it).

After last call, I have a fuzzy memory of a pizza stand where I was allowed to order pizza, but refused access to the lavatory. I was really bummed about this, as well.

And then...oh, Jesus.......Then we went back up to our shady 1940's downtown hotel.

I can't even begin to explain what might have been going through my head, but as we tumbled into our hotel room, the discussion became a little raunchy. There was talk of sexual naughtiness. Hell if I know what I was thinking, but I decided that it might be interesting to find out of Ms. J wanted to make out with me.

In fact, I believe that the exact words of proposition, as quoted by Fran the Man over the next several weeks, was the stunningly charming and romantic, "Hey....HEY! I daryou to makeow wi me."

Given Ms. J's recent-at-the-time history of calling my bluff, this was a really dumb thing of me to say.

And given that I was convinced that there was a spark to be lit between Fran the Man and Ms. J., it's an indefensible thing for me to have said. (Never you mind that Fran the Man's steadfastly insisted that he was not interested in her...what kind of a friend would attempt to hook up with the annoying girl that he thought was interested in his buddy....In front of his buddy?....In the same room as his buddy? Who does a thing like that?)

Jesus, this is icky, even ten years later.

Within miliseconds of my dare, I had been aggressively tackled by Ms. J and we careened to the floor in a drunken, clumsy, unattractive form of kissing. Her enthusiasm was a little daunting, but my inner Bacchus saw to it that we made the best of things.

I imagine that Fran the Man shielded his eyes before he (mercifully) cut off the lights - perhaps to protect our dignity, perhaps to protect his own.

He then (unmercifully) collapsed onto his bed, and began snoring loudly.

He had abandoned me.

Despite the fact that Fran the Man had left me to my own drunken devices to bring this horrible mistake to an end, it actually was Ms. J who, after several odd and surreal moments called things off before they got out of hand. Which was very thoughtful of her. I fell asleep there on the floor, and she sacked out on the bed.

No harm, no foul. Honestly, it was all really innocent, I guess.

Except it kind of wasn't. I really thought that things were meant to be between Fran the Man and Ms. J, and I'd yapped about it for the past several days. And there I was mouth-moshing with her while my best friend right there was in the room with us. There's nothing innocent about that.

And, frankly, Fran the Man and I both found her to be a little intrusive, and we each held a slight amount of hostility towards her for wanting to be one of the boys so badly that she crashed a road trip.

And we were all so absolutely, poisonously loaded that everything about this particular hook-up really stands out as messy at best and vaguely mean-spirited at worst.

(I don't even know why I'm admitting this; it doesn't have anything to do with music, and it certainly doesn't fall into the category of the kind of humorous confessional that I like to talk about. At least not when you're half-way honest about it).

((And making some wise-crack about how this particular hook-up falls within the theme of "bad taste" would be a little more rude than I'm willing to be)).

*******

I awoke the following morning to Ms. J stampeding over my nearly lifeless body as she hurried to the hallway bathroom, which we unfortunately (for them) shared with the visitors in the next hotel room.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room, which seemed to have been trashed the night before. Recounting the evening's events with no small amount of physical and moral discomfort, I breathed heavily, and stumbled to our 11th floor window.

Heaving the heavy window open, I bent over and stuck my head and shoulders out for a breath of fresh air. At that moment, Fran the Man limply roused from his bedsheets, rolled over, and addressed me in his textbook morning-after croak:

"You can jump now, Thomas."

((In all my years of friendship with Fran the Man, this is undoubtedly my very favorite moment of his undeniable wit. There was no comeback, no appropriate call for mercy. I was to be shunned and punished for my questionable judgment, and I had no course but to accept it as I faced a hangover that was simply devastating...even in those days when I routinely laid a hurt on myself several times a week.))

"I think (Ms. J.) is throwing up," I mumbled, with the irony of my response lost on neither of us.

"Yup," he responded. "I sure did about an hour ago."

I turned and looked over the room with disgust. There was the spot on the nasty carpet where I'd slept all night. There was the bed I'd passed over to Ms. J. There were the countless items that the three of us had overturned the night before.

I was depressed and full of regret.

"Fuck, we have to go to that Mariner's game, don't we?" I asked Fran the Man, who had arranged a meet up with a distant cousin and his wife, for the day's 1:30 battle with the White Sox.

"Jesus, what time is it? Is it Noon, already?" he asked into his pillow.

"Do we have to go?"

"Kind of."

An absolutely green Ms. J. emerged from the bathroom. She looked like she'd shown up at a brick fight without a brick.

"There is no way I'm going to that game," she moaned as she fell onto the bed.

I felt terrible for her. But I also was shamefully motivated to get out of the room as soon as I could, so I did my turn attempting to make myself vomit in the toilet (...an unsuccessful effort, despite the fact that the one-two punch of Fran the Man and Ms. J's stomach contents had somehow manage to clog the toilet, leaving a grotesque foamy yellow-green film all around the inside of the bowl.)

((Ugh.))

Somehow, I soldiered through a shower and dressed, and Fran the Man and I went down to the corner grocery to purchase for Ms. J a hangover kit (bagel, OJ, large water, Tylenol and rock candy). Upon our return she gratefully accepted our gifts and told us to go ahead to the game without her.

*******

Fran's cousin and his wife we a little older - probably young 40's or so. And they were really friendly and great. Awesome hosts, and glad to meet up with us, even though the adventures of the night before undoubtedly left us looking like lost members of G.G. Allin's touring band.

Fran the Man was hanging on pretty well, but I was about to drop dead. From the minute we entered the stadium all I wanted in the world was a nice, tall, cold overflowing Coca Cola to help mask that flavor of day-old cheap beer and cigarettes that never quite gets out of you mouth the next day. But, naturally, I'd spent every cent in my wallet on alcohol the evening before, so I ran unsteadily around the concrete hell hole that was the Superdome, searching in vain for an ATM. (I finally found one somewhere behind the home plate area, a cruel joke of fate given that we'd been seated somewhere around the 300 level).

On the way back to the seats I searched just as feverishly for a water fountain, but couldn't find one anywhere. Finally, I got myself in line for a concession stand that moved as slowly as possible. As I sweated Jaegermeister and inadvertantly swayed back and forth trying to keep my balance it dawned on me that I was still quite inebriated. (This occurred to me after I did one of those one-and-a-half-step stumbles into the woman standing in the line next to me).

((Classy.))

All I remember about the game was hating the stadium, and watching Ken Griffey, Jr. (who was part of that multi-year Brady Anderson, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa home run race) absolutely BELT a homer. Which isn't quite as exciting when you're indoors.

Oh, and I also remember generally feeling like shit on a English muffin.

One other thing that sticks with me is just how overwhelmingly friendly Fran the Man's cousin and his wife were. I mean, it was odd. I understood them being excited to see the East Coast relative, but why were they being so.....inclusive......to me?

(Faithful readers may have figured out by this time, that they totally thought that I was Fran the Man's boyfriend. This tended to happen to us ~~frequently~~ sometimes, though no one ever actually said it out load. Nonetheless, I got pretty good at picking up at the "don't worry, we love gays" tone of voice that certain people's families and friends used to use upon meeting us for the first time.

We really should have gone out with more girls...)

Fran the Man and I left the game and spent the afternoon bumming around Seattle, avoiding the hotel. He was giving me hell about the previous evening's activities with Ms. J, but I think he could also see a mixture of remorse and embarrassment in me, and I could tell that he actually felt a little sorry that it took me just this long to realize that Ms. J had been tracking *me* - not him - for the past few years.

But he liked it a little, too. I can be an amazing jerk to the people I love, and I had needed to be knocked down for an awfully long time. And I could tell he was kind of glad to see it done with no blood on his hands.

Some time before dinner, we headed back, and there was Ms. J, still lying in bed. There was a pail next to her, and the room still had the sick smell it had that morning. She hadn't left the room all day, and I felt pretty lousy about ruining her vacation.

I think we all had an awkward dinner together, but I don't really remember. The two of them sacked out early since we had flights the next morning, and I sat in the lobby and read a book by myself, feeling like a coward and a jerk.

*************

Much of the following day was a blur. Ms. J was trying to be an adult about everything and I continued to avoid conversation with her, which was mean and immature. We boarded our separate flights and I can honestly say that I don't remember a thing about the next several hours it took to get to Philadelphia.

But I do know that I never saw Ms. J. again, and I'm fairly sure that her friendship with Fran the Man withered shortly thereafter as well. Which strikes me as just plain terrible. Friendships are hard enough to keep alive once you get past your mid-to-late 20's and I feel pretty much directly responsible for killing that one.

Am I over-thinking it?

Yeah, totally: Hooking up with people you aren't supposed to is a big part of your 20's. And, heaven's to Betsey, you all know that more than once I've been the subject of that awful "Holy shit, I didn't actually make out with HIM last night, did I?!?" moment.

In a lot of aspects, the way you manage that uncomfortable aftermath can be a big part of what defines your character as it relates to the opposite sex in those years. Chalk it up to a crazy night, and there will be a lot fewer hard feelings than if you go out of your way to act embarrassed. But, of course, that would necessitate my thinking more about the other person than myself, which wasn't something I was very good at.

The next few years, I had abysmal luck with women. Just terrible. I'm not sure anyone even knows how bad because for a time I just stopped talking about my many failures and missed cues.

And it occurs to me that there's a lot to be said for karma.

Fear and Loathing In Seattle: Part I

2009-07-01T17:19:00.000-07:00

Besides the obvious, there was one key reason that it was dumb not to invite the punk rock girl to join us on our trip to Portland: an acquaintance of Fran the Man's whom we will call "Ms. J."

During the planning stages of our trip, Fran the Man and myself were unexpectedly joined at his King of Prussia, PA residence by Ms. J.

Ms. J was a nice girl. A true tom-boy, she was an athlete, a grade school teacher, and the type of girl who seemed to associate primarily with dorky guy friends like ourselves. She wasn't particularly feminine, but I wouldn't go as far as to say that she was unattractive; she just wasn't the type who cared to expend excessive effort into her appearance, and instead tended to get by on her outgoing and accommodating nature. She interacted with people with an immediate sense of familiarity - in fact, she used to call me "Tommy-boy" whenever she saw me, which was fairly frequently now that I think about it.

In fact, Ms. J had a way of showing up at Fran the Man's house almost every time I came up from D.C. to visit him. And she'd tag along at the last minute to various road trips, too - the trip to Boston after my Morrisey-style heartbreak over my dead romance with that insane Irish vagabond girl from Oshawa, the trips to the Jersey shore, and a couple of other random parties and misadventures in between.

Naturally, I assumed that there was some latent romance waiting to burst forth between Ms. J and Fran the Man, and that the two of them were just waiting for their Harry-and-Sally moment. That seemed to be the style of the both of them.

Looking back, I might have read that one wrong....

Anyway, weeks before the trip, Fran the Man and myself were on his fancy Internet machine, trying to timeline our trip and book our motels, while Ms. J. lay on Fran the Man's empty bed, watching us, and occasionally telling us what an awesome trip was, and how jealous she was of us.

"Man, I wish I could do a trip like that," she said, perhaps four different times over the course of an hour.

Fran the Man and I failed to respond sufficiently - after all, this was a buddy trip - no girls! As a result, Ms. J continued to push the issue: She really liked the idea of our trip. And she really wanted to come with us.

I decided to finally address the situation, by foolishly saying "Well, you should meet us in Portland!"

And, of course, my bluff failed. Her response was enthusiastic and immediate.

Fran the Man's response was an uncomfortable silence.

My response was to assume that Fran the Man was simply upset that I was forcing his hand in the matters of romance with Ms. J.

(Did I mention that I misread that whole thing?)

So, in Portland, we would be a trio. I wasn't totally thrilled with myself for opening up this door, but I figured that by the time we hit Portland, maybe we could use the company. And this would be far more uncomfortable for Fran the Man that it would be for me, anyway.

At least, that's what I was thinking.

And as a result of my flawed conclusion, I teased Fran the Man mercilessly all the way up the West Coast...about how his lover Ms. J. was chasing him across the country for a little of that Fran the Man magic. And I was awful about it: I was rude, I was annoying, I was persistent, and I was generally disgusting with the details.

Fran the Man, however, managed my comments with his typical grace and good humor. I couldn't quite get under his skin, and it was bothering me. It was almost as though he knew something that I didn't know. (But the thing is, Fan the Man is a really smart guy. And I've spent so much of my life assuming that he knows a great many things that I don't know, that sometimes I don't realize when I'm in trouble).

*******

Ironically enough, by the time we arrived in Portland, we DID need the company. Fran the Man and I were bumping heads over little things like maps and directions, and a third wheel actually helped alleviate some issues. Sure, it might have been nice if that third wheel had been a cute punk rock girl from NoCal, but whatever. Beggars and choices, you know?

In fact, Portland was kind of a blast. We had drinks at Dots, told all our stories from San Diego and LA and San Fran, and then we went out and saw the sights of a music festival taking place in town (which - I swear to god - was called the North by Northwest Music Festival).

The following day we split up. I drank a lot of coffee and bought a bunch of books and records at the many independent stores down town, and took an urgent and long over-due bowel movement in the lobby bathroom of a very fancy hotel.

(...you're welcome!)

In the evening, we got together for a nice dinner at Montage, then caught more bands, including a beloved-to-me Baltimore punk-pop band called LoveNut and a free outdoor show by some semi-famous funk band (no idea who).

*******

The following day we were Seattle-bound. There was a sense of euphoria between Fran the Man and myself: We'd made it from one end of the country to the next. We'd survived all manner of screw-ups and unexpected nightmares, and made it though still friends. And so this first night in Seattle, we would celebrate.

It all started innocently enough. We had dinner at Kells, walked around the Pike Place Market and took things slow. Later that night we hit up the bars in Pioneer Square.

And this is where the wheels officially came off the wagon.

By some stroke of great luck, we wandered into the Showbox Lounge (I think it was the Showbox - hard to remember a damned thing after a certain point in the evening) on a night when the club was featuring the side-projects of members of several national acts: Buzzo from the Melvins was doing his solo thing (but not Fantomas - at least I think I would have remembered if it was). One of the guys from Tool had a band. One of the guys from the Presidents of the United States of America had a band. And I'm pretty sure there was one more.

I don't really remember exactly what happened for much of the night, but things got ugly and out of hand very suddenly. There were beers. There were shots of Jaegermeister. There were a lot more beers. There was a failed conversation in the men's room with a very indifferent (and possibly hostile) Buzzo. To the delight of a very tall and attractive older woman in a red cocktail dress, a Budweiser was accidentally spilled down my pants when I drunkenly stood up to buy cigarettes.

And then there was the memory of watching Fran the Man and Ms. J. completely shitfaced and smoking Marlboro Reds with me - a smoke that I always found harsh enough, but was undoubtedly more toxic to the palates of my two compainions, who didn't even smoke.

(...Now, I say this with as little braggadocio as possible, but I've had something of a history of excess with alcohol. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that most people who know me know a little too well that my relationship with alcohol has never been very healthy. And at that point in life I was about to really kick things into high gear. This didn't really phase Fran the Man, because Fran the Man is bigger and stronger than I am. And for a guy who lives in a state of moderation, his tolerance for alcohol is awe-inspiring.

Ms. J however, seemed to be somewhat new to this approach to self-destruction, and in the back of my drunken little horse brain, I knew that this wouldn't end well.)

((But what did I care. Right?))

*******

Next up: the fear and the loathing. In Seattle.

Fear and Loathing In Seattle: Prequel

2009-06-30T20:48:00.000-07:00

As always, there’s the long version of this story, and
then there’s the short version (that somehow becomes
long by the time I’m done).This is my attempt at the
short version.

I’m not sure what inspired Fran the Man and myself to
road trip up the West Coast, but an inspiration it was. 
We would fly to San Diego,rent a car, then proceed up
the Pacific Coast Highway, stopping only for major
cities, baseball games, pee breaks, fast food and loose
women. The trip would conclude in Seattle.

So as not to make this entry any more drawn out than
it needs to be, here’s the bulleted re-cap of the
first half of the trip, with key learnings:

- Philadelphia 

Key learning: This airport sucks.

- San Diego 
Sketchy EconoLodge. Mission Beach = Girls in thongs,
meatheads. Mexican food. Getting drunk in Tijuana
and paying way too much for a pull-over hoodie thing
from a totally hot 15-year old Mexican girl. Over-
active bowels. Jack Murphy Stadium kind of stinks for
baseball.

Key learning: don't forget the sunscreen.

- Drive from San Diego to Los Angeles

Key learning: As long as the ocean is on your left,
you’re going the right way.

- Los Angeles 
Cab driver says that Hollywood actually isn’t anywhere
near our motel in Long Beach.  We should have
researched this. Fran the Man drives us to the Rainbow
instead.  (Where the fuck is Lemmy? I thought he lived 
here…) Lost as shit trying to get back to Long Beach,
we go over the same bridge three times; end up at the
same waste transfer station each time.  Next day:
lunch with Fran the Man’s buddy, Lieutenant Dan. 
(That’s his real name/title).

Key learning: LA is bigger than you think. Check out
a map before you book your shitty motel.  Or just go
to a fucking bar in Long Beach. You're not in Motley
Crue and it's not 1986.

- Los Angeles to San Francisco 

Key learning: So, when you’re on the PCH and you see
a sign that says “DETOUR, road closed 35 miles ahead”,
don’t be an idiot and say “35 miles? That’s like D.C.
to Baltimore!  We’ll find another detour before then.”
Because you’ll feel like a total asshole when the sun
goes down and chick at the service station stares at
you and says “Road’s closed up ahead.  You’re never
going to make it to San Francisco unless you turn
around and go back about 35 miles.”

Also, Big Sur is a lot prettier when you don’t drive
through it in the pitch dark.  Or so they tell me.

- San Francisco
We make it in about 20 minutes after all the bars
close. Fran the Man keeps complaining about how cold
it is. An expensive afternoon at Amoeba Records.  We
catch Nebula play a totally bad-ass set before a
nearly empty bar on Broadway, then proceed to a
gentleman's club. Somewhere in there we rode in a
limo (???) A moment of horror overlooking my ATM
receipts the next morning.

Key learning: Strip joints are not worth it. But the
limo was like $16.

- San Francisco to ?, California
Disaster. Truck went off a cliff somewhere south of
Ft. Bragg, and closes PCH. We’re detoured into the
mountains where we make a wrong turn. Narrow and
steep road.  All the cars that used to be behind us
suddenly aren’t anywhere to be found. Drive through
clouds. Needle is close to EMPTY.  Random (creepy)
cyclist tells us to turn around “before the road
ends”.  27-point turn. Ten minutes later, we pass all
those cars that used to be behind us, going the other
way and looking really bewildered and lost. Find a
gas station (barely) and a McDonalds. I take over
driving duties.  Fran the Man = asleep, and I
accidentally drive into the fucking Redwood Forrest.
Slow.  Dark.  Alone.  Scary.  Fran the Man awakes
after three hours and we have traveled less than
90 miles.  Sleep at the first motel we find. 
Eureka? Crescent City?  Heck if I know.

Key Learning: Don't take the PCH for granted.  That
"ocean on the left" trick doesn't work the whole way.

- ?, California to Portland: 
Flat tire. Stranded in a nowhere No Cal town during
repairs. Punk rock girl working the at diner
overhears us talking about our planned visit to Dot’s 
Café in Portland and chimes in.  She smiles and asks
to join us on our trip, because she has friends in
Portland we can stay with. We think she’s joking and
we (I) say something absurd like, "No girls allowed."

Key learning: I am so dumb.  So very, very, very,
very fucking dumb. So so so so dumb.

+++++

Next up: Baseball, Baltimore punk-pop, and a whole
lot of vomit in the Pacific NW.

2009-06-30T04:25:00.000-07:00

Been a long time. I guess I could say that I realized recently that I'm running out of ticket stubs, and that I've been spacing my posts out so I don't have to do any "real" blogging, but the fact is that about six months ago my soul began to be slowly devoured by an XBOX. I swore that would never happen to me. The shame of it all.

While I try and get my act together, here's a quick run-down of what I'm "working " on:

- Fear and loathing in Seattle: 24 hours of Tool, the Melvins, spilled beer, Ken Griffey, Jr., and my regrets.

- Jerry Only tries to freeze his life in 1982 (and I play along)

- What do PJ Harvey and Tommy Lee have in common? Me!

Ok, that should keep me busy until about Thanksgiving.....

Hey, Axl

2009-06-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

.

I hope you're paying attention. This is what happens.....

.

A Brief Reprieve: Indie Love for Danzig

2009-06-04T20:14:00.000-07:00

Like an awful lot of other snarky music snob assholes on the Internet, I've had my share of fun at the expense of Mr. Glenn Danzig.

And maybe he's got it coming. The guy has a well-earned reputation for being a total knucklehead, and despite his prodigious talent, he's gone to some absolutely comical extents to foster and cultivate an image that........well, it practically begs mockery sometimes.

But then again, Glenn Danzig is also one of the greatest punk rock vocalists.....ever. And his brilliance is actually intrinsically tied to his image fixation: what are the Misfits without that amazingly awesome infatuation with the retro-1950's and 1960's scream queen horror aesthetic? And how can you say that this image isn't completely joined at the hip to his distinctive (and derivative) vocal style, which owes just as much to the East Coast corner-boy do-wop sound as it does to more- frequently sourced influences like Elvis (a fair comparison), Jim Morrison (a weak comparison) or Roy Orbison (the most apt comparison of them all)?

((Incidentally, has anyone out there ever tired to sing along with the Misfits? The vocal melodies sound straight-ahead enough, but they can actually be tricky as hell. AngelFuck, in particular, is one of those dastarly tunes that sounds wonderful when you sing it a capella in the shower, then suddenly becomes an absolute vocal Bataan Death March when you actually try to follow along in the key he wrote it in)).

Anyway, in the post-Misfits era, it's been relatively easy to separate the brilliance of the Misfits with the rest of Sir Danzig's catalog. The nearly-obscure Samhain stuff is wonderful for scaring small children, but you have to admit that the guy momentarily forgot how to construct a song during much of this era.

And the Danzig solo albums? Some of them are hard rock at its finest. But the Randy Savage stylings of the band concept gave a whole lot of small minded music snobs an opportunity to ignore all that lay beneath the leather and tattoos, where the soul of a legitimately talented songwriter lies to this day.

Which is why I was completely fucking stoked to come across this clip:

Its wonderful enough to have Mr. Danzig honored in what appears to be a mostly non-ironic cover, but to have it come at the hands of indie goddess, Melissa Auf Der Maur brings a smile to my face.

Almost nearly as pleasing is to have this particular cover coming from Danzig's somewhat ridiculous second album - a rocker, no doubt, but certainly the point at which Danzig fully embraced the transition in image from dark bad ass to goofy tough guy. The whole idea makes me wonder if perhaps while I was foolishly rocking out to "Long Way Back From Hell" in my bedroom in Rockville, MD, the lovely Ms. der Maur might have been doing something similar in Montreal.

Perhaps this music is worth hearing. Stripped of the baritone bellowing and the heavy guitar and drums (not to mention the gang-chant background vocals), there IS a legitimately dark and frightening song here - perhaps accentuated by this performance by two singers so utterly and completely feminine.

So, there: Hats off to you, Mr. Glenn Danzig. I, for one, am tickled to see you receive your well-deserved indie cred.

As for all you haters out there, I know that nothing may ever change your minds. And for you miserable fucks, I offer you the following cheap shot at "The Sweatiest Ballerina":

Ani DiFranco

2009-05-31T21:19:00.001-07:00

Ani DiFranco
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

Ok, so I'm not going to hate on Ani DiFranco.

I happen to think that she's amazingly smart and witty and honest and funny and talented and a damn good songwriter. I really enjoyed that "Little Plastic Castle" album, and "Living in Clip" has a downright amazing ratio of good songs to not-good-songs for a live album of its length. I struggle to come up with a double-live that can keep pace with this one, in fact.

*Hmm. Shame there are only 14 tracks on "No Sleep Til Hammersmith", and no I'm not linking to that one. You agree or you don't.*

Incidentally, I never bothered to listen to anything of Ani's after those two albums, but they're enough to demonstrate to me that she's an absolutely amazing talent Just pointing that out.

All of that said, I look at this stub, and I can't help to feel terribly self-conscious. Because other than going vegan, I cannot think of a more cliche way to scream out for attention as a wannabe hipster than to suddenly embrace a feminist songwriter. (Note that this is true of lesbian rock as well, but note also that this was the late 90's, and the line between political, feminist, punk and lesbian seemed to blur beyond any sort of semi-clear delineation. Damn Riot Grrls are always making me feel stupid about this kind of thing.).

((By the way, is Ani doing dudes again or what? I never did figure that out)).

Anyway, the fact that I admit to enjoying Ani DiFranco's music while expressing embarrassment over it says a heck of a lot more about my continuing sense of insecurity than it does about her music.....and that, unfortunately, can probably be said for just about every one of these damned blog entries. Except maybe that time I saw Bruce Springsteen do that fucking Ghost of Tom Joad tour. Maybe I shoulda just listened to "Born to Run" and "Nebraska" then never picked up another Springsteen album and I would remember him with the same fondness that I hold for Ms. DiFranco.

Ok, so as for the show, it was fine. Very intimate, lots of interaction with individual members of the audience. Her performance style was very cute and engaging, which I realize to a certain type of music fan completely undersells everything else that Ani brings to the table. I say to them, whatever, dude. If that chick in Sleater Kinney - not named Carrie Brownstein - was half as charming as Ani, maybe I would have gotten around to seeing them in concert, too.

(Carrie - call me. Please. We can get past it.)

Ani was seriously, a brilliantly personal performer. And I did love this show, even if it was at fucking WolfTrap, an utterly ridiculous outdoor venue in the Virginia suburbs that is completely adored by that dispicable group of 30-to-40-something, yuppie, eco-conscious, intellectual, NPR-listeneing boring-ass buttheads of which I am all but a card-carrying member these days.

The thing about WolfTrap (other than the name....WTF?) is that it gives off a sense of intimacy because it doesn't look very big....probably because the shed part of the venue is situated among lots of fields and hills and trees, making...well, everything in your immediate area look smaller by comparison. But in fact, if you sit in the field, you might just be further away from the stage than you would be at the dilapidated grass at Merriweather Post Pavilion.

I'm sure I'm not the first person to consider this, but I assume that it is simply a compromise too small for the WolfTrap crowd to honestly struggle with, as they lay down their quilts on fine tall Virginia fescue and sip overpriced chardonnay with smoked gouda as they passively listen to the music and trade stories with one another about how they used to go to DC Space and "the old 9:30 club".

((I'm sorry, did that sting? fuck you.))

I do wish that I remembered more details about the show, but I don't really. I do recall a lovely version of "As Is", which is probably still my favorite song of hers'. But the details get fuzzy over the years.

The highlight was undoubtedly her bringing the Rebirth Brass Band on tour as her opener. Simply put, Rebirth is the single greatest American band in existance at this moment. Don't believe me? Check them out for free on June 13 here in D.C. During their opening set they worked Stevie Wonder's "Part Time Lover" into the mix, and for the encore of Ani's performance, she brought them on stage to do a Louisiana-flavored "When Doves Cry". It was kind of mind blowing.

So, apologies to Ms. DiFranco that I don't remember more details of her show, but I do thank her - profoundly - for turning me on to the Rebirth Brass Band.

Shame that it took me more than ten years to see them again.........but it sure did make for a fun Halloween 2008 in New Orleans.

Tibetan Freedom Concert- Part II

2009-05-27T20:27:00.001-07:00

Tibetan Freedom Concert
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

(Sorry for the delay in posting part II. It turns out that when your clients have a singular focus on invalidating your existence, you just don't take the same amount of comfort in going home and writing a blog about how much of a loser you are. Funny, that.....)

Back to the show.

This Tibetan Freedom Concert thing was was technically sold out, and close to everyone I knew was going to be there – all of us had field tickets. This was going to be fun, right? Fun! Indie bands! Rock stars! Beer! Sun! Women!

Fun!

FUN!!

Fun...right?

Ok, the plan that I was going to meet my friend Brian at the Rockville metro station in the morning, and we’d head down together and meet up with our other friends outside the stadium.

However, the first misfortune of the day was for Brian and I to somehow miscommunicate; as I waited for him at the Rockville Station, he was looking for me at the Twinbrook station (also technically in Rockville, hence the confusion).

We individually gave up on one another (this was still somewhat pre-cell phone era - more on that later) and headed down to the concert on our own, both believing that we’d somehow find one another on the field.

That didn’t really happen…..

I got myself to RFK Stadium and did a few laps around the ginormous pavilion of food, craft, clothing and anti-Chinese propaganda vendors, looking for my friends. But I was doomed to miss them in the veritable sea of 17 year olds, dreadlocked white guys and shirtless, sweaty people.

Undeterred, I headed into the stadium and onto the field, continuing to look for people I knew.

But it really was pointless. I had foolishly miscalculated exactly how many people can fit on a football field. I wondered in large circles searching for my friends as some old as some old rasta dude (Mutabaruka, maybe?) did his reggae thing on stage.

After that came KRS-1. Taken in by a short but intense set, complete with Omega-style stompers performing with him, I briefly forgot that I’d lost my friends. Maybe this day was going to be ok after all. And it was only like 12:30 or 1:00 in the afternoon by this time….I had all day to find my friends.

KRS-1 finished, then someone came out and gave a speech about Tibet or something. Then Live came on.

(Ok, so right here in my first draft of this entry, I wrote NINE WHOLE PARAGRAPHS about how much I hate Live. Seriously, I went on a fearsome tear about how totally lame they were and how utterly ridiculous 90's rock was when Ed Kowalczyk was considered to be a great big rock star, and how I considered the guy to be a totally pretentious liberal arts school pansy.

But a funny thing happened in the two weeks between drafting that entry and sitting down to post it. I heard Live on the radio like three different times, and I had to force myself to listen with an open mind.....and now that I'm ten years away from the complete radio and video saturation of those guys, they, you know.......they aren't all bad. There certainly was worse music out there back then.

So, yeah - sorry, Live. I just wish you'd have put your shirt back on and stopped taking yourself so seriously. Between Jim Morrison and that fucking tool from Creed, no one really needed you to fill the "Messianic rock star" void, you know??)

Anyway, I wasn't in the mood for Live, but I stood there and took it all in because I didn't have much choice: the stadium floor was starting to fill in, and I was slowly getting pushed forward and to the center of the field as more people entered. It was a feeling that I would need to accustom myself to as the day went on.

As hundred of high school students started rocking out to Live, I was more or less becoming miserable. Mostly because of the music, but also because of the emergence of a great many crowd surfers.

As Phil had prophesied, this meant that I essentially got kicked in the head every five to six minutes, and eventually I decided to just stop watching Live do their terrible thing and instead watch for crowd surfers so that I’d be better prepared to push them away before they once again clipped me in the ear with their Doc Martens.

(On that note, it’s not that my intentions were rooted in anything other than self preservation, but I still would like to point out that it was a total accident when I grabbed that teenage crowd surfer girl in the pink tank top by her left boobie. I was totally aiming for her back and she just kind of lost balance and flipped her tit on to my hand all of a sudden. Seriously, I didn't mean to squwoosh your over-sized bosom. What the hell were you doing crowd-surfing with your mams all hanging out, anyway???).

All during this clusterfuck of headkicking, boobgrabbing and bad music, the field continued to get more and more crowded.

And it was getting hot. I mean hot as hell. At 6'3", I was at least a head taller than most of the crowd, and I could barley get any breathable air at all. I had no idea how the people standing at armpit level were coping with the situation.

The real bummer was that when Live finally finished up, things didn’t get any better. The field didn't clear out one bit, and I was pretty much stuck in the middle, about 40 yards back from the stage. Between myself and the exit, there were a couple hundred kids I'd need to wade through if I was going to get out of there before Dave Matthews started his fucking abortion of a set.

And it was ultimately hopeless. The Dave Matthews Band took the stage and I was trapped there in the middle of all the goddamned frat boys and rich kids and their 17 year old girlfriends.

(I'm not going to give you nine grafs on why Dave Matthews can blow me, but rest assured that I would gladly camp out for Live tickets before I ever again see the DMB. And that's no joke).

As lame as Dave Matthews was, he somehow became the least of my concerns before long: the entire sky became covered in storm clouds over the course of his set, and the humidity was unbearable. At least one girl fainted and had to be carried out of the field during the set, but we were jammed in there so tight that it was nearly impossible to get her evacuated. As she was finally carried out, scores of kids were pressed together and nearly dragged out with her.

This was getting scary, and no amount of extended solos, happy ass songs, and lame covers of “All Along the Watchtower” made it any better. The afternoon had become downright unpleasant.

By the time Matthews had mercifully ended his set the sky was dark in that way that happens in D.C. right before a summer storm. I watched another limp girl get carried out, and took advantage of the opportunity to inch closer to the field gate. But it was honestly impossible to move faster than baby step pace.

By this point, I had forgotten all about my friends.

I stood there – stuck – as Sean Lennon got on stage and gave a pretty thoroughly condescending speech to the crowd about some monk who was there with him. He came off like a total douche.

Then there was Herbie Hancock. Fuck.

You don’t have to tell me why Herbie Hancock is important. I know all about the stuff he did with Miles and Stevie and Wayne Shorter long, long before he did that RockIt stuff. (Which, incidentally, was all the rage with me and my friends back in grade school).

But in a deathly crowded and humid stadium field, its safe to say that no one was feeling it. It had started to rain ever so slightly, but not in any way that brought us relief. And I could have sworn that I heard thunder rolling above his music.

And then, midway through his second song, a sudden BOOMing sound ripped across the stadium floor, scaring the poop out of basically everyone.

Suddenly - almost immediately - Herbie and his band got the fuck off stage and someone got on the PA to tell us to get off the field. All several hundred of us. Right. NOW.

But we were stuck. I mean totally stuck. Must have taken ten minutes to move the fifteen yards to the gate. One again, I saw a girl pass out and get taken out more or less in a crowd surfing fashion, as there literally was no room to carry her any other way.

Rumors were circulating that someone had been struck by lightning. Someone said something about a bomb. Event workers instructed us to take cover inside while the storm passed, and explained that a girl had been struck by lighting while talking on her cell phone.

I finally got under cover and climbed to the upper level of the stadium to grab a seat to take it all in. It poured down rain for about fifteen minutes, and a bunch of hippie kids ran around in the infield in a ring-around-the-posies type of dance, despite repeated warnings from the PA that they were in danger of getting themselves struck by lightning.

I waited there in the 300 level, knowing that the storm would roll through in a matter of an hour or less, when all of a sudden the PA announcer informed us that due to the lightning, the event had been canceled, and that they would resume with a full day on Sunday.

Well, this wasn't as I'd planned. I was not going to see Sonic Youth. Or Beck. Or REM.

Nope. I'd just paid $30 to see Live and the Dave Matthews Band, which was basically everything I was trying to escape at this moment in my aspiring hipster life.

Soaking wet, exhausted and grumpy, I got up and trudged down the walkway at RFK Stadium, occasionally stopping to peer over the wall and survey the crowd of similarly bummed individuals. And lo and behind, one time I peeked out and who did I see but that singer from that band, REM.

Now, I'm not actually a big REM fan or anything....but I'm pretty sure that celebrity sightings were pretty rare for me at that time, so this was kind of the highlight of the day.

He was talking to one of the event organizers, probably saying something like "Oh, shit, the rain just stopped and the sun just came out, and somehow there isn't a cloud in the sky all of a sudden. What the fuck are we going to do now that we've told all these kids to go home??"

That's when some idiot next to me shouted out "STYYYYYYYYYYYYYPPPPE!!!!!"

Powder looked up at us, started for a moment, then scurried back in his tent to eat some baba gonoush and meditate or something. (Lest you forget, he has an innate fear of lightning).

So, yeah, suddenly it was an absolutely gorgeous summer day, and the fucking concert was canceled. God only knows where my friends were.....maybe they'd been struck by lighting while talking on their fancy cell phones.

On top of everything else, the Stadium-Armory Metro station was jam packed, so me and 80 of my new best friends dragged our wet asses up to Eastern Market to get on the Metro there.

*****************

An hour or so later, I was at home, telling my hip new roommates about the day's events. (They were so hip, in fact, that they didn't attend this concert. That's how it works, you see?)

The next morning I awoke to learn that Radiohead had played a surprise gig Saturday night at the 9:30 Club, and upon arriving at work on Monday, my friends told me all about the awesome show on Sunday, when the Chili Peppers had returned to old school form, and REM killed, and the Beastie Boys were awesome, and Wycliff Jean played and women on the field all instantaneously started taking off their tops and showing the world their breasts.

Me? I spent the rest of that weekend at home in the outskirts of Olney-fucking-MD.

God was trying to tell me something about this agenda of mine to try and become hip, and how it was ultimately a hopeless idea.

But I just wasn't listening, no matter how clear it all is now.....

Tibetan Freedom Concert - Part I

2009-05-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

If I had to point to one moment in time when the complete irony of my attempts to become hip unfolded, it would be this day.

My memory is just a tad cloudy, but I believe that by this time I had moved into my friend Greg’s house, which was a terrifyingly dilapidated farm house on the outskirts of Montgomery County….in some strange no man’s land between Olney and Laurel.

(If I was living at Greg Ceton’s, that meant that I was quickly entering into one of the most exhilarating times in my life. Greg had defected from the Queegs and brought me with him. He then proceeded to move me into his house of horrors, where the two of us could practice all hours of the night as he wrote songs and plotted his next project: an exceptionally loud and noisy punk-pop outfit that would go on to become the Patsies....this minor act of betrayal nearly cost me the friendship of Queegs front man, Matt Reidl, and to this day I consider it to be a testament to his character that we are still close, despite my impulsive decision to ditch his band in favor of a tone-deaf song writer's odd Frankenstein of a band. Friendships have been sacrificed over less).

Anyway, it was kind of a big deal that the Tibetan Freedom concert would be in D.C. that year. Typically this event took place in San Francisco or NYC, but here it was at RFK Stadium: two full days of bands running the gamut across just about every single type of popular music from the mid-to-late 1990s.

All my friends were going to this event, and I definitely wanted to get in on the fun.

But the fact is that I’m not exactly a fan of festival concerts. I don’t like standing around in the heat with no shade to be found. I don’t like getting clipped $5 for bottled water. And I don’t like getting kicked in the head by crowd surfers (because, as my tall friend, Phil, puts it, if you’re over 6 feet tall and you’re in front of the stage, you’re just a speed bump).

The idea of two days of stadium festival madness wasn’t really my idea of fun, so I figured I’d just eyeball the line-ups for each day and decide which one was more to my liking.

I have to admit, this made for a pretty difficult choice. The event organizers had done a ridiculously wonderful job balancing each day’s performers so that there was something for everyone on each day. (Of course, this also meant that there was an awful lot of mid-90’s turd-rock on each day as well – more on that shortly).

My decision was to go with Saturday. That would allow me Sunday to recover from the intense sunburn I was undoubtedly going to experience from standing on the RFK field all afternoon.

If I remember correctly, I thought it would be cool to see Beck, and I thought it might be kind of neat to finally see REM, since I knew I’d never actually go to one of their concerts. And more than anything else, I desperately wanted to see Sonic Youth.

(See, this is key……when a kid raised on classic rock and heavy metal joins a punk band, moves into a scary group house and goes to see Sonic Youth, I like to think that he has finally emerged from his cocoon of bad taste, and arrived at the full-fledged mothdom of hipseterism).

Of course, like pretty much all of my plans to be seen as anything other than a dork, this was doomed to fail. It all started with the dumb decision to only purchase a ticket for the first day, but, of course, things got considerably worse from there.

To be continued....

Eric Clapton

2009-04-20T21:00:00.001-07:00

Eric Clapton
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

I'm going to try and be diplomatic about this.

Eric Clapton brought us Badge. And he brought us Layla. And he brought us Cocaine.

That alone -- not to mention all the bad-ass Cream stuff, and Bell Bottom Blues, and Can't Find My Way Home -- should be more than enough to cement him in a place above all judgment by a douche bag like myself.

That would be, unless the 1980's had never happened. And everything since then.

Simply put, there is no rock pioneer on Earth who has taken a larger and deeper plunge into irrelevancy than Eric Clapton.

Oh, sure, the Stones may have embarrassed their legacy more. And the Who may have doublecrossed themselves to the greatest degree. And Elton John and Rod Stewart may have come across as the most half-witted doofuses (sometimes I wonder if those two are the same guys who wrote "Every Picture Tells a Story" and "Honky Chateau"....seriously - is it even possible?)..

But Clapton? Clapton somehow managed to hang onto his completely bad-ass legacy without once leveraging it in any meaningful way in his "adult" career.

I challenge you: Name me ONE Eric Clapton single (not entitled "Tears in Heaven") worth remembering in the 1980's or 1990's. "She's Waiting"? No. "Running On Faith"? Close, but no. "I Can't Stand It"? Give me a break.

((I admit that I had forgotten about "Forever Man." And I admit that I really like that one. But I also admit that it sounds a whole lot more like something that would have been in the background during a car chase on Miami Vice in 1986 than on a rock legend's solo album)).

So, how did I end up at this show?

My best friend and former roommate from college was a big time Clapton disciple, and back then I wasn't the judgmental fuck that I am today.

That's not to say that I wasn't uncomfortable about going to see Eric Clapton. But Jay was in town for a conference, and Eric Clapton happened to be playing in town that same week, so I bit the bullet and made the best of things.

Little did I know what a snoozer this concert would be. Holy fuck. Boring beyond boring.

This was the "Pilgrim" tour, and it was an album probably best remembered for the decidedly adult-contemporary single "My Father's Eyes". I think it was also the opening number for the show - a telling sign of what was to come. The following several songs were of a similar fare - thoughtful but uninspiring (and uninspired) mid-tempo numbers, none of which I can remember particualrly well. (Most likely because I was fuming over the FOURTY-FUCKING-FIVE DOLLAR SEATS -- $45 to sit at the top row of stage right).

I do remember that he did a pretty great version of Cocaine that night, which had most everyone out of their seats for a minute or two. But in order to get there, we had to sit through another dozen mid-life crisis pop songs and that fucking "Wonderful Tonight" piece of dreck, which no one should ever have to listen to again after prom and/or their best friend's wedding.

I have to assume that he played "White Room" or "Sunshine of Your Love" or one of the other undeniable classics from his catalog, and I'm sure that I enjoyed them, or at least gratefully accepted them as a welcome reprieve from the rest of the evening's content.

But it didn't really make much of a difference. This evening was not about good taste or bad taste. It wasn't about my wonderment about how Mr. Clapton filled the MCI Center on the shoulders of such an unexciting album. It wasn't about the cost of the ticket or the warped value of the performance. And it wasn't about the very obvious double standard against the likes of Mr. Clapton while I gladly shelled out mountains of cash to see the Rolling Stones multiple times on each tour in the 1990s.

It was about hanging out with my best friend from college and running out to make last call at Nanny O'Brien's after the show, and perhaps relive a little college glory...which, by that time, felt like much further in our past than three years.

And even further today.

Washington Wizards vs. Seattle Supersonics

2009-04-11T17:09:00.001-07:00

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Washington Wizards vs. Seattle Supersonics
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

Growing up as a sports fan in Washington, D.C. in the 1980s, there were some damn good times. The Skins could be counted upon to go to the Super Bowl every few years – and they typically raised a banner when they went. The Orioles won a World Series when I was at that perfect baseball age of 9 years old. And maybe the Capitals were perennial Patrick Division bridesmaids, but they at least were a competitive team full of colorful characters, much like my beloved Skins were.

Of course, things would change over the years. Redskins ownership has since turned the franchise into a punch line. The Orioles seem further away than ever, now that we have an NL doormat right here in town. And the Caps may be the best team in town, but honestly, I’m way too fucking smart, clean and handsome for hockey culture . That’s just a fact.

And then there were the Bullets.

Now, I know that the Bullets were a good team when I was small. But I can’t honestly remember the team being anything other than sub-average at any moment when I was growing up. The Capital Centre was dark and dingy. The players tended to look a little old and out of shape. And the television broadcasts...Oh, the humanity of watching those terribly-lit games on TV, perhaps most painfully accentuated by the complete and total lack of crowd noise (which only made every single sneaker squeak sound that much louder).

Robin Ficker was pretty much the only thing that team had going for it.

To Abe Pollin’s credit, the man’s decision to fund and build his own kick-ass stadium in downtown D.C. was just about the greatest thing the guy ever did – for the team and for the city of Washington. If you've been living here for less than 20 years, it's hard to fathom just how beat up the majority of Washington used to be; Chinatown was a pretty seedy area before the Verizon Center/MCI Center came to town, and it’s probably safe to say that Metro Center was generally considered the end of the city for a great many visitors.

You can choose to disagree, but you’d be wrong to: The House that Abe Built was THE landmark investment into the future revitalivation of Washington, D.C.

That did not stop his team from sucking. Nor did the supposedly blockbuster acquisition of Fab Five college superstars Chris Webber and Juwan Howard. Nor did the effort to change the team’s name/brand from the Bullets to the Wizards. Or the following additions of names like Mitch Richmond or Rod Strickland (Don’t get me started about that Jordan guy).

Even as the triumvirate of Pollin, Wes Unseld and Susan O'Malley did everything they possibly could to bring Washington basketball into the modern age, the team rarely became more than “competitive”. It was a real shame. After a very public blunder, the management had finally woken up from a decades long slumber but they just couldn’t get their act together.

And what that meant for ticket sales was an all too familiar phenomenon: the seats remained largely empty until a team like the Knicks or the Bulls came to town, at which point the tickets would sell, just so that people could say that they saw Patrick Ewing or Michael Jordan. It was an utterly depressing state of affairs.

With the arrival of our new downtown stadium, however, there was reason to believe that this could all change. You could now travel to games via the Metro rather than trucking it out to Landover. The building had a modern design, with appropriate lighting. There were new concessions, with vastly improved sightlines. And the team looked one hell of a lot better (on paper, at least) than any other Washington basketball team (....um, Washington **NBA** team) I’d ever seen.

Games were going to FUN, and I was glad to be there as it was happening.

That’s where the irony of this ticket comes in.

Now, for the life of me I cannot remember how I got my hands on this ticket – and I should because this was the first game ever played in the MCI Center. I think I won it in a contest, but I can’t remember at all. Maybe my little brother won them? I seriously can’t believe it, but I simply have no idea how I came into these amazingly kick-ass seats.

I know that I went with my little brother, and I know (via a web search) that the Wizards were sporting a pretty cool line up that season, including Howard, CWebb, 1997 3-Point Champ (and La Salle University standout) Tim Legler and future star BEN FREAKING WALLACE, but for the life of me, the only person on our team that I can vividly remember was God Shammgod. (and that’s just because I loved his name, particularly as sung with the “YouDaManYouDaMan” song that played before all of the home games).

But I do remember seeing the Glove play that night. And I *THINK* I remember Branford Marsallis performing the national anthem. And I do remember President Bill Clinton giving the team his trademark thumbs up after the game from Mr. Pollin’s box seat.

And I remember that the Wizards won.

But that’s it. After all that effort by the ownership and management, all I can remember is that I finally got to see Gary Payton play.

How distasteful.