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

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

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

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

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

Am I a hater?

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

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

Is it fair? Maybe and maybe not.

Do I make exceptions? I sure do.

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

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

I fucking love Areosmith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I loved Aerosmith because they were legendary.

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

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

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

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

TWICE!!

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

*sigh*

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Like the performance with Britney Spears.

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

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

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

But guess what? Hired help on both songwriting credits.

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

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

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

And you're the one that jaded me.

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

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

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

Yay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does this all prove?

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

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

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

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

And that's in bad taste.

The Halloween Mix tape

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

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

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

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...

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.