Welcome to Where Time Stands Still

You wouldn't know it to look around here recently, but I do have more to say.

But less than three months in to 2012, its already been a very busy and very stressful year. Twelve hour days and 800-mile round trip commutes are becoming semi-routine, and I think that it is safe to say that my charmed life has become very complex.

I know what happens after the stress and anxiety take over, and it is not good at all. For the immediate moment, I think that I have to focus my efforts on not sailing off that cliff.

Listen, damn it: we will win.

I'll be back soon.

Yes, Actually, Everybody Does Want Some

In light of my last post, I thought it would at least be fair to showcase a truly cool Vimeo page that Van Halen put out to promote the new album.

Boys and girls, this is freakin awesome. Bloated rock stars aren't exactly known for giving away free content. They also aren't known for doing a very good job at looking like they enjoy one anther's company.

As such, this makes me very happy. Please enjoy.

VH Interviews from Van Halen on Vimeo.

Brown M&Ms from Van Halen on Vimeo.

You Really Got Me from Van Halen on Vimeo.

Everybody Wants Some (?)

When I was 14 years old, my big brother took me to see the Rolling Stones on the Steel Wheels tour. It may sound cliche - perhaps dramatic - but the experience kind of changed my life.

So many things left an impression on me that night: the over the top set, the light show, the performance, the phenomenal depth of their set list (including songs I knew, songs I didn't know, and songs that I didn't know that I knew).

But more than anything, it was the legend of the Stones that turned me on that night -- the twenty five years of sex, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, fist-fights, groupies, jail time, divorces, rumors, feuds and infamy.

In point of fact, the Stones' most scandalous years were mostly behind them by the time I was born. But in an odd way, that only fed my fascination. For the better part of the next twenty years, I was entirely obsessed with the legend of the Stones, and I made sure everyone knew about it.

A funny thing happened in my early 20's, though. I started hanging out with a lot of musicians....punk rock guys who were a good ten years older than I was. They were my band mates and my best friends, and I looked up to each of them.

Imagine my disappointment when they all -- every last one of them -- dismissed and belittled me for continuing to see the tours behind admittedly terrible albums like "Bridges to Babylon."

Make no mistake: these guys totally respected what the Stones did in the 60's and 70's. But they couldn't fathom why anyone would want to see them today. The two most favorite words of the music snob -- "embarrassing" and "irrelevant" -- frequently came up every time I pleaded my case.

It always came across like sour grapes to me. What the hell was so wrong about the Stones continuing to tour and record if they still enjoyed it and people still enjoyed hearing (and seeing) it?

Seriously:

What was the big fucking deal?

+++++++

This brings me to the recent reunion between the Van Halen brothers and David Lee Roth.

Guess what?

I don't get it, and I don't get why anyone would want to see it. I find it.....wait for it .....embarrassing and irrelevant.

And it's not because I hate on Van Halen. Quite to the contrary: I firmly believe that Roth-era Van Halen was one of the single greatest American rock bands ever. Superior to Aerosmith. Superior to the Allmans or Skynard. Superior to the E Street Band. Superior to the Stooges or the Ramones.

On par -- so help me God -- with the Beach Boys, the Velvet Underground, Metallica or the Wrecking Crew.

Roth-era Van Halen was phenomenal. To this day, when I hear the word "rock star," I think of David Lee Roth in the "Jump" video, with the silly tights, the hairy chest, the mane of hair, and the "I'm-very-serious-about-not-taking-this-very-seriously-heyyougotanycoke?" attitude.

So, then, why the hate for the reunion?

Because that moment is gone. I saw it in real time through the eyes of an eleven year old, and it'll never be so vividly cool or crazy again.

Make no mistake, is was real beyond real for a nation of 17-year olds with only Journey and AC-DC to fall back on in 1982.

But for me, that moment passed before I was even old enough to see the band play live; all I was left with was Roth's half-assed solo career and Van Halen's laughable earnestness with frontmen that were little more than substitute teachers.

These things happen. It is the nature of peaking before you're done with your career. And even though it seems completely unfair to a natural musician as creative as Eddie Van Halen or a natural entertainer as enthusiastic as David Lee Roth, perhaps the best they could do for their fans is to preserve their memories of Van Halen at their greatest, unclouded by middling solo records and meandering personnel decisions.

I want that Life Magazine spread intact in my brain. (I can't find it online, so suffice it to say you either know what I'm talking about or your don't).

What I do not want, is to remember them this way.

Of course, some of this commentary is pretty superficial. No one is s carefree or as beautiful at 55 years old as they are at 25. That's just a fact of life. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter how you look, so long as the songs hold up.

Just ask Tom Waits.

So, how does the new song hold up?

Well... not well.

Oh, "Tattoo" isn't as terrible as people like to say. But it still isn't any good. And I can't say that such a lackluster effort doesn't diminish my 1984 memory of Van Halen as the most exciting, most fun band on earth.

To the contrary, it solidifies my image of them as a bunch of older guys, doing what they can to stay in the limelight a little longer and recoup some of the cash they lost when they were young and foolish and didn't know what they had between themselves.

And that's a problem.

Because when I struggle - and fail - to reconcile those dialectically opposite images of the same band, I'm hit with a very uncomfortable kind of empathy:

I suddenly know exactly how my older friends feel when they look at the elder Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

The Year in Shows: 2011

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

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

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!

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.