The Ties That Bind: My Life-Long Connection With Springsteen

The month of July found me saying "good luck, goodbye" to someone I felt I was just getting comfortable enough to really say "hello" to. Granted, it was only roughly a six-hour drive away to Destin, but there is something to be said of the ones you love when they are around. Before departing for the Florida coast, she brought me a gift, a book certainly fit for a music geek of my size, a book entitled Bruce Springsteen's America: The People Listening, A Poet Singing by Robert Coles. What can I say, she knows me pretty well. Enclosed in its pages were numerous insights on the music of the Boss from everyday folks like me, weaving a pseudo-philosophical tapestry out of his body of work. I was so enamored with the many varied interpretations of Bruce and his songs that I felt obligated, as a life-long fan in good standing, to contribute my own memories, reflections, and personal feelings involving Springsteen. If I were allowed to insert my own chapter into Coles' piece, it might go a little like this...

The cradle sat in one corner of the nursery where I spent my first few years. Pictures in numerous family albums showed the standard mobile that would linger overhead. On the the wall adjacent to my crib was a quilted characterization of the ever-so-popular Paddington Bear, complete with a yellow hat and blue jacket. Across the room, two eyes peered towards me day and night from a poster scripted with painted blue font. It was the album cover of Bruce Springsteen's 'The River', his now-classic, breakthrough double album. Floating around in the attic of the house I live in now is a cassette tape narrated by my father. As he talks into the old maroon RCA Tape Recorder deck (approximately the size of the last VCR's I saw before DVD took over completely), he points around the room to show off the prowess of my newly-developed first words. Pointing to himself, he asks, "Who am I?", to which I responded "Dada". Proudly, my father then points over to the 'River' poster and says "Now, who is that?". My second word, was "Bruce".

My dad and mom love to tell the stories of my toddler years as a music geek. They came up with games for me while playing records in the living room. My favorite story, and one that to this day we don't know how it worked, involved my dad's collection of .45's. For those who may not know, the .45 was the small record with one song per side (unless, of course, it was an EP). Every .45 from the same record company had identical labels on the record, meaning that any given record released by Columbia Records looked exactly the same as EVERY other release on Columbia Records. Only the artist and title information distinguished them. For their own amusement, and to their wonder, my parents would sit my dad's crate of records on the floor. They would then ask me to find them a certain record by a certain artist, usually Springsteen. Even though I was unable to read, I was somehow able to distinguish the difference between all the different orange Columbia singles labels and find the song they wanted to hear. Maybe that's part of the reason why I am so nerdish about my music even now, but that's just what they told me.

Bruce's music was just a piece of environment from thereon. He was another voice of authority and experience, like that of an older brother. I guess what drew me into the bond was simply the sound. I remember distinctly hearing the opening, swaggering chords from "Glory Days" as the music video played. I remember Max Weinberg's snare cracks that accented the synthesized chorale of "Born in the U.S.A.", and the rasp in the anthematic words that Springsteen preached. There was the gentle harmonica that introduced "Thunder Road", and the rolling wall of sound that plastered "Born to Run".

Clarence Clemons' saxophone cried beneath the roads of "Jungleland" like that of a gospel call.

Relating to Bruce came naturally as I grew up. Granted, that sounds bizarre, being that my life in South Carolina in Georgia does little to mirror the boardwalks and dark alleys on Bruce's Jersey shore. What I have found is that there is a universal need to find that thing that you can be a part of that is bigger than you. For some it is faith, others are in love, and for others it is that one chance to escape, lashing out at whats holding you back, fighting the good fight. It is all there in the Springsteen lexicon. He personifies the anti-hero in all of us who gladly throws caution to the wind, no matter how high the stakes. Hope is found in the ability to face the "Darkness on the Edge of Town". The tragedies are in the resignations of the 'Nebraska' album. Even when he is going against the grain, the commitment to his ways is what twists these romantic fables into morality tales. Instead of a sword-wielding knight, he carries a Fender Telecaster. Instead of a damsel in distress, it's the girl down the street, with the angry father who doesn't want his daughter falling for a rock and roller. Instead of a noble steed, it's a '69 Chevy. That type of chivalry is what I longed for my whole life. Listening to Bruce Springsteen made me feel like maybe I was the sidekick, with gambling of my own to do. I don't have the guts to be this man, but he's the hero I thought I had to be. Of all the promised lands I have yet to find, I imagine them to be filled with souped up cars, with girls named Mary or Wendy in the passenger seat. I feel closer now than I have ever been, but I haven't gotten there yet. I'm on my way though, and I find that this highway is jammed with broken heroes like me.

Touch of Grey: Jon's Top 10 Albums of 2007...and then some

I have always been somewhat of a hesitant rebel. Almost all of this can be attributed to my dad. We are about the same build, same height, and same mindset when it comes to the workings of the world. Physically and philosophically, we have pretty much seen eye to eye since I was in high school. When the fine line of tolerance was crossed on either part, we have never come to blows; it's not that we didn't want to, it is just that Pops made it very apparent from an early age that it was a fight I would lose. Neither of us have much brute force of our own bodies to rely on, but I have seen the fear and pain my dad can inflict with a folding chair. That's another story for another time, but to sum up his thinking on brawling, he may not be able to knock you out with a punch, but he will damn sure knock you out with nearest heavy object he can throw. The line he repeated whenever I was feeling stonger than usual was one I will pass down to my kid: "Age and treachery will always win over youth and skill." To a degree, that age [with varying definitions of treachery] dominated my picks for Top 10 albums of the year.

1. Bruce Springsteen - Magic: Springsteen and his legendary E-Street Band came back together for the first time in five years and crafted their best rock record since 'The River'. Sprawling arena anthems serve as a soundtrack to a no-holds-barred lyrical assault on the current White House administration. Years from now, I firmly believe this will join the ranks of 'Born To Run' and 'Born in the USA' as an essential Springsteen album.

2. Bright Eyes - Cassadega: Conor Oberst and pals build on the chemistry that made 'I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning' so great. It may be the best Americana album not recorded by Ryan Adams or Lucinda Williams.

3. Bad Religion - New Maps of Hell: At a point where punk can pass as pop on top 40 radio [that means you, Fall Out Boy], one of the last lingering groups from the early-80's California punk scene release a quick, loud, angry modern punk record. Now in their 40's, they continue to run laps around the newer generation of punk bands nearly half their age. Thank God somebody still does it right.

4. Neil Young - Chrome Dreams II: Possibly my favorite album he has done without Crazy Horse, this is a strong rock revival for Neil. It has all the elements of his best work over the last 30 years.

5. Radiohead - In Rainbows: Forget the hype over its release, this album was great even without the hullabaloo. No bells and whistles, just their best album in years, at a convenient price of your choosing.

6. Steve Earle - Washington Square Serenade: The last of the hardcore troubadours moved up to New York, and he wrote about it. Sincere, honest, and different, just the way I like it.

7. Wilco - Sky Blue Sky: FINALLY! They dumped all the excess noise and focused on songs. This stands up there with some of The Band's best work. Jeff Tweedy may have finally nailed it.

8. Bettye LaVette - The Scene of the Crime: Great for two seperate reasons. First, it introduced to a soulful voice I had never heard. Second, the Drive-By Truckers stepping in as a new Muscle Shoals rhythm section proved that beyond the ferocious amplification of their legendary rock shows, they can be one of the tightest studio bands in the country.

9. Mavis Staples - We'll Never Turn Back: Instead of flaunting the sound of her family's legacy, producer Ry Cooder, used her voice on old songs of struggle to represent the new struggles of our generation's America. The outcome proved to be timeless; it is a must-have.

10. Iggy and the Stooges - The Weirdness: Iggy Pop and the Ashtons, along with the great Mike Watt, released THE garage album of the year [sorry Jack White]. Kids today want to know where punk came from; this is the band to start with. Good to see they still have some of that rebellion in their system.

Also, for those who are interested, below are the top 10 live performances I caught this year.

1. Jason and the Scorchers' Weekend Benefit for Perry Baggs - Exit/In; Nashville, Tennessee

2. Mavis Staples - Bonnaroo; Manchester, Tennesee

3. The Hot Rods CD Release Party - Smith's Olde Bar; Atlanta, Georgia

4. Henry Rollins - Roxy Theater; Atlanta, Georgia

5. Tool - Bonnaroo; Manchester, Tennessee

6. The Police - Philips Arena; Atlanta, Georgia

7. Coheed and Cambria - Tabernacle; Atlanta, Georgia

8. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals - Fox Theatre; Atlanta, Georgia

9. Drive-By Truckers - Variety Playhouse; Atlanta, Georgia

10. Metalsome, Inc. Christmas Benefit - Variety Playhouse; Atlanta, Georgia

No Distance That Could Hold Us Back: On the Brink of 2008

Slowly but surely, the excitement and insanity of another Christmas is beginning to calm back down to a point of some regularity. Our Christmas tree is still up, but the multi-colored lights are unplugged. The inflatable characters of the Grinch and Snoopy lay flat in our front yeard, waiting to be boxed up until next December. Last night, I bagged up the last of our Christmas trash and left it at the street. Just an hour or so ago, we tore away the last remnants of meat from a pile of shrapnel that was our Christmas turkey. It is only a few days away from the new year, and in spite of myself, I have something new to look forward to.

I am now contributing album reviews to INsite, a local Atlanta entertainment publication. I just submitted my first review which will hopefully make deadline for the January issue. As much as I write about music on this blog, it should come to no shock that this is a dream come true for me. I grew up reading David Fricke's reviews in Rolling Stone, and in recent years, I have been keen on the writings of other pop culture critics and pundits, the likes of which include Lester Bangs, Anthony DeCurtis, Rob Sheffield, Leggs Mcneil, and Chuck Klosterman. The transition from being a reader to a writer has been quite embarrassingly nerdy. Within the span of three weeks, I was given the link to stream the new Drive-By Truckers album, and I recieved my first free CD in the mail from Barsuk records. "Giddy" doesn't even begin to cover my ridiculous giggling reaction. I look forward to the future opportunities to come from this; hell, people may just happen to care about my music snobbery afterall.

It was a terrific 2007, regardless of Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, and the rest of our paparazzi faithful that continue to make American celebrity status less and less synonymous with talent or contribution to society. It was a terrific 2007, regardless of the troubling hole we have dug ourselves into with this continuing war in the Middle East. There were dreams to remember, and nightmares to forget. We loved and lost; we lived and died. There is still hope for us all.

"To everything, turn, turn, turn...."

Coming In 2008: Finding God in Orlando...then finding Bad Religion in Zach Baldwin's room

What We Do Is Not So Secret - My Punk Rock Part 3

Birth of a Nerd Rock Superstar

When I listen to Weezer's first album, I remember Jeffrey Leachman. I met Jeffrey within thirty minutes of first arriving at Awtrey Middle School for the first day of my sixth grade year. Our homeroom teacher was an older lady and wasn't really good with names; some could argue that her glory days of teaching were long gone, and she was just apathetically counting the days down 'til reaching retirement or death, whichever could have possibly come first. To remedy her problems with memorizing names and faces, she sat us in alphabetical order by our last names. Jeffrey sat slouched down in front of me, his malnurished, string-bean frame accented by visibly big ears and a short haircut that looked like he had just rolled out of bed. He was wearing matching honey-gold sweatpants and a sweatshirt; he was resting his head in one hand while the other drew invisible shapes on the desk, stopping every few minutes to push his thick, clear-framed glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. Jeffrey tended to twitch every now and then, as if someone snuck up behind him; in addition, he had buck teeth in the worst way. I suppose the bullied kids of the world can smell their own, because I sized Jeffrey Leachman up for dead before the first bell even rang.

By the time lunch came around, Jeffrey had become the object of many pointing fingers and wandering eyes of his peers. One particularly comes to mind, a taller athletic kid named David; he was well-dressed and groomed, and he would more than likely be the first kid to tell you he was proud of it. David was the first kid that I remember approaching Jeffrey Leachman with cruel intentions. Regardless of what he has made of his life since that day in the Awtrey Middle School cafeteria, no matter his status as a gutsy politician or possibly the first doctor to find the cure for all cancer, I will never be able to truly forgive and forget the prick he was when we were merely 12 years old.

Jeffrey had sat himself at the far end of the table; I was sitting towards that end as well, because I didn't really know anybody in my lunch class at the time. Jeffrey had his salad cup set apart from his tray. David walked and made a comment to the effect of, "You not eating your salad?" He might have even called him a rabbit in reference to his aforementioned buck teeth (If not then, certainly at another point in time). It was then that Jeffrey claimed in a matter-of-fact way that he was allergic to lettuce. Apparently, this was all the information that David needed. Word had traveled around the sixth grade that this Leachman kid was "scared" of lettuce. Every lunch period over the following few weeks, at least one hot shot, David included, would tauntingly hold out a piece of lettuce towards Jeffrey's face. With a howl, Jeffrey would jump away in fear; the further back he jumped, the more they would laugh. There were times that kids would sneak a piece of lettuce back to class with them, just to lay it on his chair. Oh, how quickly the charming innocence of youth can give way to sheer cruelty. And they wonder why reality TV got so big.

As the teasing of Jeffrey Leachman became more and more of an everyday activity, I was pulled aside by my homeroom teacher. It had been decided by the other teachers that since Jeffrey and I shared most of the same classes, conveniently sat close to the end of the lunch table together, and I was conveniently of larger size than Jeffrey, I would watch out for any troublemakers who would pick on him and report any ill-willed actions to the teachers. It was a job I neither asked for nor wanted. I was a big kid in sixth grade, but that's just a subtle way of saying that I was overweight. I wasn't built for intimidation or speed. I couldn't pose a threat to any of these guys that were giving Jeffrey a hard time, and I couldn't run away fast enough when they decided it was my face that they were ready to pound. In effect, Baby Huey was looking after Tweety Bird. Alas, what's right is right, and I did my best to keep those guys away from Jeffrey. Soon, it was me that they hated, and part of me resented Jeffrey for that reason. I was 12 and didn't know any better, but I guess David and the rest of his like would argue that now, too.

Recently, in the midst of writing this, I have wondered where Jeffrey Leachman is. Part of me has always wondered about the possibility of him picking up a guitar. Though I only recalled certain instances of his childhood misery, it seems to me that he could be a completely different person now. I would love to see him on TV as a political pundit, speaking for the little man. I could certainly see him as a tech geek turned billionaire. In that bout of fantasy, it would be fitting that David was his personal assistant (fate could be so kind). As a music geek, what I see in Jeffrey Leachman was a creative time bomb in the making. Within the weak little body, I could hear that screaming vengeance, that disenchanted youth, and perhaps even a sad longing for understanding that he could never find in his own peers. Jeffrey didn't seem to have the passion for music that I do, but for me, he is Paul Westerberg's wail at the very beginning of "Bastards of Young" by the Replacements. In Paul Westerberg's howling, I hear the exact same thing.

Jeffrey Leachman could be a Rivers Cuomo in hiding. Rivers wore thick-rimmed glasses, and he dressed in a hand-me-down shirt that seemed a little big for him. I first saw, and heard Rivers and his band Weezer on MTV when they aired the video for "Undone (The Sweater Song)". Nirvana had lashed out with unrelenting angst. Green Day brought that level of apathy the youth could realate with from the alternative waves to the mainstream. Weezer showed that even the most non-provocative demographic (read nerds, geeks, and wierdos) harnessed a feedback-laced punk sound of their own. The nerds who had sheltered themselves in KISS-laced rock and roll fantasies in the confines of their garage finally had a voice in the rock market that wasn't limited to the lament of Pavement, the humor of They Might Be Giants, or the oddball Dead Milkmen (though I personally love each of these). This same nerd that Cuomo embraced in that debut Weezer album seems to barely scratch the surface of what I witnessed in the life of Jeffrey. Something tells me an album by Jeffrey Leachman would make Rivers Cuomo seem like a novelty, only because I don't even know if Jeffrey knew who KISS was.

What We Do Is Not So Secret: My Punk Rock-Part 2

Middle School on Ice Planet Hoth
Upon entering the doors on the first day of any kid's tenure in middle school, was there any preconceived notion pertaining to anything other than how much it was going to suck? Elementary seemed to end like 'Star Wars'. Every fifth Grader, the Luke Skywalker's that we were, walked down the halls in parade fashion to the sound of applause and cheers from students, faculty, and staff members; the Rebels had just blown up the Death Star, freedom prevailed, and it was in good form to clap for the kids who made it possible. The big difference between how it happened in reality and my 'Star Wars'-lavished memory of it is that Carrie Fisher never handed me a medal. In fact, the fifth grade victory parade happened EVERY year; it was routine more than tradition. While the teachers were certainly proud of our accomplishments [because it ultimately is a reflection of their hard work], the younger students were actually thinking, "I have been clapping non-stop for twenty minutes, and you fifth grade jerks are out of here? I should be so lucky." It wouldn't be a stretch to suspect the janitors and lunch ladies agreed.


Middle school was 'The Empire Strikes Back'; the overall theme seemed darker, numerous attempts to gain ground seemed to fail [like on Hoth], girls fall for scoundrels [like Han Solo], some old friends may sell you out [just like Billy Dee Williams], new allies help support you [like Yoda], hormones run stir-crazy as the strict father clashes with the rebellious son [like Luke and Vader], and in the end, your heroes are defeated. In a strange twist, you are left with a great emphasis on character development and a clearer view of purpose. 'Empire' only lasted a little over two hours and is considered one of the best films ever; middle school took three years.


Enough with the George Lucas foot-kissing...


In sixth grade,I was a loser and I was angry, but not just due to the standard hormonal imbalances inherent in every guy hitting puberty at the time. It wasn't that the same kid fears that haunted me in elementary were now a few inches taller and the voices slightly deeper, and it had very little to do with my overall distaste for the new mathematical riddles, off-white prison-painted walls, or the less than appetizing mid-day cafeteria food. At 24, it finally becomes so clear what really was the center of my distress: the woes of a kid named Jeffrey Leachman.



Before we recall the story of Jeffrey Leachman, let's first remember that twilight had already passed on the peak of the early '90's Seattle scene that birthed Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain had been dead for an entire summer. Two summer months must have been all the time that every other kid my age needed to revisit their opinions, because upon arrival to Awtrey Middle School in August of 1994, some of the same kids who mocked me and beat me up for my love of Nirvana and the like were now donning their t-shirts. More and more atheletic types were cross-pollinated with punk rock fashion. Atlanta's top 40 hit station, Power 99, was now alternative rock radio 99X. Beavis and Butthead was TV show of choice. The same kids that hated me last year now hated me even more, but they sure did love the music I listened to.

I was heartbroken. What made the music of Kurt Cobain any different in August than it was in March? Why did they love him so much now? Was it a simple change of ideas, or could it have been the unwitting rock martyrdom that Cobain created with a shotgun blast to the face? Maybe this new crop of mimics and hypocrites were the Roman soldiers of our day, nailing a Christ to the cross in mockery, only realizing after he has died that he was truly the son of God [certainly an over-the-top remark, but at the time I was 12, pissed, and uneducated]. I never really could cope with the idea that my personal hero now somehow related to everyone that I couldn't even stand at the time. I'm sure you knew the type of folks I am talking about; in a conversation, they would be the one to proclaim, "Nirvana's Nevermind was the greatest debut album ever." and the flock of other fools nodded in agreement as I rolled my eyes. Go figure. Needless to say, I stopped listening to Nirvana for a while; there wasn't really a reason to.

A Love Letter to Kennedy

In the fall of that same year, I flipped over to MTV's Alternative Nation, a show that focused specifically on the alternative rock movement that was now in bloom. The show was usually hosted by the darling VJ known as Kennedy. With her thick-framed glasses, frizzy hair, and fruitful knowledge of all things rock, she quickly became the girl of my dreams. Juliana Hatfield sang in the song "My Sister" about how her older sibling was going to take her to her first "All Ages" show featuring the Violent Femmes and the Del Fuegos; that sounded to me like my dream date with Kennedy. In my mind, it made total logical sense that a charming TV personality in her mid-20's would be easily won over by a sophisticated, caring 12 year old nerd like me. I could imagine winning her over with a line about how much I dug Local H or buying her a drink and simply listing the numerous ways in which she was better than Tabitha Soren [the other smart, pretty woman on MTV]. We would sing "Punk Rock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen at the highest volume possible while cruising around town to all the record stores, jokingly holding up the crappiest albums we can find and telling each other how much we need to buy them because they are so bad that they are actually good [i.e. Cathy Dennis and Rick Astley].

This, of course, was at a time back in the prehistoric days of 1994 when the basis for most of MTV's programming was still music. "Real World" cast members were still somewhat normal and boring people, "Beavis and Butthead" were still on the air, Jon Stewart was hosting a fledgling talk show, and Laguna Beach wasn't even a location mentioned on "MTV Sports". Kurt Loder and the aforementioned Miss Soren covered the goings-on every week on "Week In Rock". Some music videos were made with artistic integrity [i.e. Pearl Jam's "Jeremy"] while others were just as absurd as they are today, but they seemed awesome at the time [i.e. Guns 'n' Roses' "November Rain" and Aerosmith's "Crazy"].

A night out with Kennedy would come to a close as we watched videotaped reruns of "My So-Called Life", a show I am not afraid to admit that I watched. Claire Danes was so pretty, but don't tell Kennedy I said that. Afterall, Claire Danes wasn't the girl who introduced me to Green Day; Kennedy was.

What We Do Is Not So Secret: My Punk Rock-Part 1

Punk is not really a style of music. It was more like
a state
of mind. - Mike Watt of the Minutemen

It's very cliched to go, 'You're not punk.'
We don't care if we are, and we don't care if we aren't. - Joel Madden of Good Charlotte

I remember that Nirvana's 'Nevermind' was one of the first albums I ever bought with my own allowance. I remember always wondering why anyone would fish for a naked baby in the water with U.S. currency as the bait, but before I even heard a note from the band, the seemingly obscene image of an infant penis was enough to make me wonder, "Can they really get away with something like that on an album cover?" In truth, I can't remember where I first heard of Nirvana [although I am quick to say that I heard the Weird Al Yankovic parody first], but I can certainly tell you the circumstances of my life at that point.

I was midway through elementary school. I was, for the sake of classification, a textbook nerd. I read Bruce Coville's entire 'My Teacher Is An Alien' book series, and I was convinced that they should be made into a movie series in the vain of Star Wars. My favorite band at the time was Spinal Tap. Though I knew they went by different [real] names outside of the band, I wasn't at an age at which I could fully comprehend that Spinal Tap was fake. In a way, they weren't fake at all to me; in a true breaking down of the fourth wall, my dad took me to see them at the Fox Theatre on their 1992 'Break Like the Wind' Tour. I was a registered member of the Barney the Dinosaur Fan Club, right before the peak of his PBS notoriety, when his videos were the only way in which to watch him. I was overweight; I wore thick-rimmed glasses [at a point when it was not the height of hipster fashion]. I sucked at sports during an era of public school systems when Dodgeball was still an acceptable form of atheletic competition. My left ear was pierced which left me open to a neverending string of jokes that suggested I was, therefore, gay [although schoolyard folklore specifically stated that this was signified by a piercing of the right ear]. My naturally thick, curly hair was in a constant, involuntary state of fluctuation between "pompadour" and "afro" stylings. I had the biggest crush on a girl named Katie Rutledge, the most beautiful girl in the entire elementary school, who, with the enchantment of those sparkling eyes and flowing, dark blonde hair, seemed to be able to easily win the hearts and undying devotion of every single bully in the school. My best friend at the time was Joey, a guy who, when I wasn't around, found it in his heart to tell all of these bullies about my crush on Katie Rutledge. In short, besides lunch, school really sucked for me. Picture the often-forgotten movie 'Angus', only I don't get the secretly bulemic homecoming queen in the end.

Bearing all this in mind, 'Nevermind' was a 12-song overture to embrace my loser within. It was like nothing I had ever seen or heard before. I remember opening up the jewel case to find the blurred band shot with Kurt Cobain flipping of the camera, sneering in a way that seemed more sinister than playful. I didn't know who this guy was, but I could tell before hearing the first immortal riff of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" that he was pissed about something and he was going to tell me about it. Every song hit me like a freight train. The lyrics were mysteriously vague, therefore symbolic for whatever bits of frustration and angst I was harboring. I felt stupid and contagious. I found my friends, and they're in my head. Through the voice of Kurt, I could tell these handsome bullies, "I'm so ugly, but that's okay 'cause so are you." Through the eyes of this musical vision I could see my buddy Joey as a friend, as known enemy. Just because I was paranoid, didn't mean that they weren't after me. For the first time, a band was able to give me a musical outlet, and they communicated it in a way that I somehow understood for a very tender age.

Needless to say, I dove into Nirvana and the Seattle scene that followed it. I went back and bought 'Bleach', Nirvana's debut release on Sub-Pop Records. "About a Girl" served as my unrequited love ballad to a Katie, who barely knew I existed [if at all]. I purchased all of the singles for the unreleased recordings and b-sides, my favorite of which was "Even In His Youth", a song that seemed to convey disfunctional family life in a recurring cycle. Though my homelife was certainly a fine one, it somehow became my anthem for a while; call it angst. I found that Kurt Cobain released a single entitled "The Priest They Called Him" accompanying a really old fellow named William S. Burroughs; I wasn't even 11 years old, so of course I couldn't make the connection of any significance in this collaboration. Of course, on several levels , I certainly do now. I got into the Melvins, on the strength of the fact that Dale Crover played with Nirvana on several recordings, and Kurt Cobain produced one of their albums. I checked out the Pixies only to find that Kurt wasn't lying when he said he kind of ripped their style off. By fifth grade, I was into Sonic Youth, L7, Mudhoney, Soundgarden, Screaming Trees, and Pearl Jam. I absorbed the lyrics like the poetry of Poe [author of 'The Raven', not to be confused in this context with the mid-90's singer]; these were words of dark, frustrated, unhappy, and even lonely young men. The voice of Generation X just happened to fall directly on my young ears. This was my punk rock.

Of course, listening to this music made me even more uncool in the eyes of my 5th grade peers. I actually got beat up by a kid for saying that Nirvana was better than Guns 'N Roses, which at the time was blasphemy. 'In Utero' was retarded and yet the video for "November Rain" was Oscar-worthy. I was picked on as it was, and I now found myself defending this band that no other 11 year old kid seemed to get, that is, until around April of 1994.

My family and I were spending April 27 at our weekend getaway, a trailer home on the edge of Lake Hartwell near the Georgia-South Carolina border. We had gone swimming that morning and I distinctly remember my dad leaving to run some errands and buy groceries. When he came back, he overheard through the static reception of the AM radio a news report claiming that Kurt Cobain was discovered dead in his Washington home of an apparent suicide. My first reaction was to flip the TV to MTV, at which point I truly felt the crushing blow of reality. Never before had I felt the loss of such a close friend, a friend that didn't even know who I was. He didn't write those songs specifically for me, but he inadvertantly spoke volumes to me. Kurt was gone, and with him, I truly think I lost a little bit more of my childhood innocence. The weekend would soon be over, but needless to say, there were no more jokes about Nirvana once I got back to school. It's as though even the bullies had nothing to laugh about. They felt stupid and contagious, too.

Say 'Goodbye' to Hollywood: Highlights and Insights of An Interesting Television Experience

"I'd like to build the world a home


And furnish it with love


Grow apple trees and honey bees


And snow-white turtle doves"



Is there a better song than this to be singing at 5:30 in the morning? Not if you were auditioning for the seventh season of American Idol in Atlanta at the Georgia Dome. Like a never-ending cycle, the refrain from "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing" was hammered into our heads by a Production assistant from the fifty-yard line, directing a crowd of hopefuls that eventually filled nearly half of the Dome's first-level capacity. For an hour or so, that is all we did, we sang and clapped half-heartedly as a majority of folks waited for their caffeine to kick in. From the get-go, my brother Nick rolled his eyes; such happy lyrics are not necessarily his flavor of choice, so he rewrote the refrain with every turnaround to include something either more vulgar or suggestive. For the sake of not typing his versions of the song here, we'll just say that he made Mojo Nixon proud. As for me, I just had to stop my self from singing "I'd like to buy the world a Coke"; it seemed fitting considering that Coca-Cola used the song in a classic advertisement and they also just happened to be one of American Idol's biggest sponsors.



We'll fast-forward through a few hours of waiting, though there were even a couple highlights during that time that are worth mentioning:



- While listening to the Fox Music Network over the dome's PA, we heard an interview with Chad Kroeger from Canadian band Nickelback. During the snippet, he talked about how being real and finding inspiration from what you know is the key to writing great songs. He went further to talk about how their audience would be perceptive enough to lose interest if Nickelback if the band were ever to "phone in" a new album. All I can hope is that their audience would be perceptive enough to realize that Nickelback is so generic, that not even I could tell what is "phoned in" and what is sincere. Just because I once said that Chad Kroeger looked like a Hollywood version of Jesus does NOT mean he will ever be the savior of rock and roll.



- In this time of waiting we also learned that public school systems really do fail people, not in grades necessarily as much as basic social and understanding skills. Funny enough, this could also contribute to the reason Nickelback is so popular. Just like in elementary school, everybody auditioning was given a seat assignment via tickets; these tickets were plainly marked with a number to a specific seat in the stands and, more than likely, were handed out in a certain order pertaining to the time at which you registered to audition. This did not stop the numerous Idol hopefuls who happily parked it anywhere they saw fit, which leads us to the fun exchange I witnessed just two rows in front of me. A girl and her mother, both sporting matching bleached blond hair, arrived to find a group of four young ladies that were occupying their assigned seat. When approached by the daughter, these girls stated that they were aware that they were sitting in the wrong seats but were only doing so because yet another group of folks had taken their seats. Much like myself, the mother of the girl, did not care about these four other idiots' situation, she just wanted them to get the hell out of her seat; they refused, citing that they were their first. At which point the furious mother said, "I'll get security," which in a whole new realm of idiocy consisted of her looking at MY brother who was in HIS seat and asking, "Would you please get someone in security?" Hold the phone. You will take the time to argue about your seat with the morons sitting in them, yet you are such a moron yourself that you will not step away from the conflict for just a moment to track down and tag a yellow-shirted guard? Needless to say, I laughed when Nick's response was, "Um, no."



ANYWAY, it was approaching mid-day at the Dome when Mr. Seacrest hit the field. I have to hand it to him, he is nothing if not two things: a hype man of the highest hip-hop standard and a hilarious highlight of Judd Apatow's 'Knocked Up'. When he took to the microphone, the crowd was awakened, and we totally forgot that we had already been up, awake, and waiting for nearly 7 hours at that point. It was what followed that reminded me about the magic of television. Within twenty minutes, Mr. Seacrest filmed the opening and closing sequence of the Atlanta show, during which time we were voluntary extras. During this time, we were instructed to keep silent; we were reminded, [my favorite quote of the day] "Mr. Seacrest's time is very valuable." Following his few minutes of prologue and epilogue crooning, Mr. Seacrest waved goodbye to his hometown crowd, hopped on a flight back to L.A., and probably kissed the ground as soon as he stepped foot back on Hollywood soil. I can't help but respect that. Afterall, if you are Mr. Seacrest, you don't have to deal with idiots battling over their seating assignments.



On with the auditions...



(Let it be noted that though it will appear differently on television, Simon Cowell, Randy Jackson, and Paula Abdul were not at this audition.)



Nick and I stepped on the field to sing at 3:11 PM, roughly ten hours after getting there. we were shuffled into various, random lines of four and sent to one of thirteen tables occupied by members of the production team. The line of four would approach the table, each individual would have roughly thirty seconds to sing, the producers would then discuss amongst themselves, and if anyone was the caliber that they were looking for, they were sent on to fill out further info; those who didn't make it past this table just went home.

I got to watch Nick audition at the table next to mine; he was singing Sam Cooke and singing it well. Sadly, I watched as all four possibilities, including Nick, took the walk towards the "Non-Winners' Exit" [because on American Idol, there is never a loser]. At the time, it qwas tough to judge his feelings on the matter, or to even know how it all went down. I come to find out later that his production lady was a real piece of work, telling all four hopefuls that their voices were "interesting" in the way that translates to the sensitive ear as "not good". As my group of four approached the table, it was obvious that all the stops were needing to be pulled, as I had been toying with what song to sing for days. In the end, I felt my karaoke brethren would at least smile upon me with a dignified loss if I was keeping it real, so I chose the immortal "I'd Do Anything for Love" by Meat Loaf. It was interesting to sing while also watching the reactions of these two producers, one of whom was a hipster-looking guy and the other a synthetic smile of a lady. He looked like he wanted to laugh and she just looked terrified, both of which are reactions that I can live with and look back on fondly. As they brought the four of us to the table they thanked us for coming, and said they were on the fence in regards to my performance. They called another producer via walkie talkie and said something I couldn't hear, but I would love to have heard, "Chuck, do we need a fat guy who sings Meat Loaf for this season? I've got a live one here." Apparently, the answer was "No."

My final mental picture of this American Idol audition captures another rejected hopeful who walked the long path to the parking deck. She was just a few strides ahead of me, but as we passed Georgia Dome personell and security making our way out, she seemed to be in high spirits. She was smiling and glowing all the way to the final staircase that ascended to street level. When we reached the top of the steps, an older woman waved, and this stunning girl collapsed into tears in her mother's arms. As I walked towards the car where Nick was waiting with his girlfriend Laura and our dear friend Kat, I heard her scream out amidst the tears, "They didn't want me!" I can't necessarily explain why I started laughing; it probably has something to do with the fact that while the statement was factual in this context, it was still overly dramatic [especially considering that at this point, there were no cameras rolling].

In hindsight, it was a fun, interesting, failed experiment. Of all people, I have been the first to say that I don't really see myself as Idol material. What I learned was that a lot of people DO see themselves that way. This was more than living the dream, this was the fast track to what they envisioned for the dream. In their minds, it is all completely logical:

I have a great singing voice. I will sing and they will like it because it sounds good. I will go to Hollywood. I will win over the hearts of America with my charm and wit; my friends and family have always told me that I am charming and witty. I will win American Idol. I will tour and promote my first album. I will be invited to parties. I will have a brief fling with a B-list celebrity that will lead to magazine cover glory. I will be a household name. I will be a legend. I will be happy, for once by God. I will be complete.

When the reality that these folks are competing with thousands of other folks who share this vision creeps in, usually after they have not won, they are totally crushed. The fact is, they shouldn't be. The producers were not Simon Cowell; they may not have liked your voice, but that doesn't mean they flat-out told you to never sing again. Keep singing if that is your passion. In the end, this is merely a television show that revolves around singing. Singing in reality has very little to do with Hollywood, Coca-Cola, endorsements, record deals, tabloids, money. My God, Chad Kroeger was right! Even if you suck, you just may be doing what you love and doing what you know. I know that I love music, and just because I don't get two cents from a record company big-whig, a former Lakers cheerleader, and a bass player for Journey will not change that. Afterall, keeping a firm grasp on reality is what makes a dream worthwhile.