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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.