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.

Recent Distractions: Heavy Metal Picnic

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

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.....