Jon's Rants, Void of Smarts

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 03:41:00 +0000

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 17:28:00 +0000

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 18:37:00 +0000

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Sat, 06 Oct 2007 19:09:00 +0000

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Fri, 05 Oct 2007 21:37:00 +0000

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 19:01:00 +0000

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

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Sat, 25 Aug 2007 23:45:00 +0000

"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.

A Moment Like This?: Thoughts on the Eve of American Idol Registration

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Sun, 12 Aug 2007 02:25:00 +0000

Why am I auditioning for 'American Idol'? Perhaps it should do all of you good to know that I am totally aware of what I am up against in the next few days. 'American Idol' is more than a reality TV show; to millions of viewers, it is the reality TV show when it comes around every year. It attracts all of the ratings with a perfect twist of the bizarre (namely the audition episodes), the uncomfortable (every season has one person that shouldn't have made it that far), and the overall talented (usually the top 12), along with a loveable ringmaster in Ryan Seacrest and the ever-entertaing judges Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul, and Simon Cowell. Though a money-making juggernaut, the essence of the show does what most in the record company would never dream of doing these days, breaking down the wall between the passionate music lover and the business of which they are a consumer, thereby giving any John Q. Viewer with a voice the opportunity to further themselves in a music career. That seems easy enough, right? No pressure whatsoever.

I don't fully know what to expect of the auditions. I suppose that in my mind's eye it would be the biggest excercise in controlled chaos ever. Occupying the Georgia Dome will be thousands of everyday people, ranging in vocal styles anywhere between Mariah Carey and a 2 year-old toddler singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider". I would imagine that the producers of this show must be some of the most patient and skilled in the business, carefully sifting through the mediocre casual crooners to grab onto the handful of honest possible contenders and another handful of crazies that are just as inspired. How many times do you think they will hear "You Raise Me Up" by Josh Groban? Could you ever listen to anything by Whitney Houston again after being paid to sit through a few thousand off-key renditions of "Saving All My Love"? They will sit through as many as necessary so that we as viewers can enjoy the very few that were easily the most ridiculous, most enjoyable, or both in front of the panel of judges (sometimes even both). These producers give the final program a stroke of genious that no writer could invent; God bless them, every one.

As for me, as I have already stated, I am a longshot and a half. For starters, I am hardly genre-specific when it comes to singing. Daughtry was a rocker, Fantasia sings R & B, Carrie Underwood was always a country girl (as was Bucky), Clay was a crooner, and Ruben was all about soul. I enjoy singing a little bit of it all, which is tough to sell in a format-based radio market. Second, I have no style. Sure, once you are on the show, they set you up with the stylists that give you a look for the show, but beyond that I have absolutely no fashion sense. However, I should also state for the record that I would never be dumb enough to try and pull off any of the numerous hair styles that Sanjaya was brave enough to fail at. Image is way more important than some people consider in the music industry; sometimes, it can even make up for what you lack in talent. I am always reminded of this by an old episode of the Partridge Family. The band is booked to play an Air Force base under the agreement that they back uo an 18 year-old daughter as a favor to a friend of band manager Reuben Kincaide. Keith Partridge falls in love with her, as she is beautiful. What Keith doesn't realize until later is that she can't carry a tune at all. Of course, the family is now in crisis mode as they will be playing a song for a horrible singer. Reuben, the genious that he was, dresses her in hot pants for the performance, and the loud cheers and cat calls of the crowd drown out the sound of her voice. In effect, this still happens today, but it won't be anytime soon that anyone will squeeze this dude into a pair of hot pants for the sake of selling a record.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to the fact that this is truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to sing in front of as many people as possible. It would be ridiculous for me to not at least try. Regardless of the outcome, even if my tenure goes no further than registering for a spot in the audition line-up tomorrow, I can look back and say that I was there. That is more than what some others could say. I could be the next Taylor Hicks as easily as I could be turned into the next William Hung, but for now I will take my cues from Sanjaya; God knows if he can make it, just about anyone can.

"Seacrest out."

Hello Again, Hello...

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 17:14:00 +0000

Hello blogosphere. It's your favorite morbidly obese pop culture geek living in Kennesaw, GA. Sorry for the delay in postings. Believe it or not, I have a life apart from posting my rantings and ravings about my opinions online. Of course, it should be noted that the majority of this blogger's free time away from work consists mainly of team trivia and karaoke. You can go ahead and say it; that makes me sexy. Before I go on with my next post, which I am hoping you will enjoy, I feel I need to put some closure on just a few issues and perhaps add to others that have been discussed. I promise it will be brief, as the original blogs required enough reading. I am not saying the posts won't be as long anymore, but I will try and control myself.

Here we go...

The Tom Waits Album Review:

I had written and rewritten an unpublished album review for Tom Waits' three-disc masterpiece Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers, & Bastards, and I made mention of it not only here but on my MySpace page and to all my buddies out there who asked about the album. It is now nearly 8 months into 2007, and the album has been out there for quite some time. In my opinion, this would make any newly released review of the album a bit outdated. Therefore, I have dropped that post altogether, suffice it to say, the album is great and you should buy it.

Our Generation's Very Own Bob Dylan, Paris Hilton:

Every now and then, in the midst of the day-to-day toil of life, you have to look for the little things that bring a song to your heart and a kick in your step. For my money, I just can't help but cheer up at the visual image of Paris Hilton, crying for her mommy and bawling her eyes out as the authorities whisked her away. I always thought that she had the Chevy Chase catch phrase as a motto to her own silver-spoon-fed life: "I'm Paris Hilton, and you're not." With a slap of handcuffs on her risk, she was introduced to a sick and cruel concept that everybody else, well, almost everybody, is all too familiar with: reality.

You see, when you live your life like a Chevy Chase catch phrase, excluding the AWESOME verbal assault in the car from National Lampoon's Vacation when they are only 10 hours away from Wally World, you can only set yourself up for failure. We get it, you are Paris Hilton. You are rich, famous, kinda pretty, and easy like Sunday morning, albeit hungover from Saturday night. You have a TV show, you're in films (direct-to-video or otherwise), and you've written a book that remarkably didn't involve the use of crayons, water colors, glitter, or stickers. Even more impressive, you somehow (I have my theories) inked a deal with Warner Brothers Records to make what was, according to you and your entourage, the most important album of last year.

Why does this mentality fail? Just ask Chevy Chase how he feels, knowing that the last good work he did landed somewhere between National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and Paul Simon's music video for "You Can Call Me Al". For the latter, all he had to do was sit there and lip sync a song. In reality, her TV show is banking off of her ignorance, the only movie she got good reviews in was a sex tape, her book was clever enough to tell us how we, in fact, couldn't be like her, and her album was a flop. And yet you wouldn't know she was this big of a failure, because she is still hanging out with the stars in Hollywood and nabbing front-page reports on all the celebrity magazines.

Imagine my enjoyment when the last front-page photo I saw her in showed her in the backseat of a cop car, red-faced, and crying. Yet, I should have known that it would only make my dilemma worse. After her release, she was on Larry King, talking about how innocent she really is and how she found God. Excuse me while I play the fiddle for her. If she truly found God, that's great; good for her. However, the fact that you come out saying you have never been the spoiled brat that we all know you have been insults my intelligence. Make a movie as good as Fletch, and then maybe I'll think otherwise.

Lastly, along with finding God, she says she also took the time to write about it in about 12 new songs. Terrific! Finally a new conversion that could outdo Dylan's 'Slow Train Coming'. Maybe she'll even do a soulful cover of "Gotta Serve Somebody". But wouldn't that require you to have a soul?

The Picture at the Top of this Post

His name is Neil Diamond. Laugh if you want, but he rocks hard. All the proof you need is on Hot August Night, a double live album recorded live at the Greek Theater in the early '70's. It is available at almost any CD retail chain. Buy it; you won't be sorry. It dwarfs such monumental '70's live albums as Frampton Comes Alive or Cheap Trick's At Budokan. Just be sure not to confuse it with Hot August Night II, its less than stellar sequel recorded at the point in the '80's when Neil was writing songs dedicated to extra terrestrials ("Heartlight") and middle-aged housewives would gladly leave their husbands for him.

'Til next time...

And We Bid You Goodnight: The Inevitable End of an Era Written in Turkey, Dressing, and Dinner Rolls

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Wed, 06 Dec 2006 06:37:00 +0000

Thanksgiving; the warm-up for the “big game” known as the Christmas season. All of the elements came together the same as they would for the end-of-December festivities. Kids come home from the campuses. A family of five puts away a feast of turkey and fixings so mammoth in scale that the intake should be enough to tranquilize a wild lion. The youngsters are glued to the TV marveling at the sight of a giant Dora the Explorer inflatable dwarfing the Times Square melee, anxiously waiting in the cold New York rain for the arrival of Santa Claus and his jolly entourage. Mothers nationwide are cannibalizing sales ads page by page in preparation for the annual Black Friday shopping spree. Everywhere, the madness is spreading; it’s the mass American madness that feeds the retail business and promises low competitive pricing for the next year to come.

Don’t get the wrong idea; without fail, I dive headfirst into the holiday spirit. I will watch every bit of the Macy’s parade; every float, every marching band, every cheesy musical bit, I will not change the channel in fear that the Snoopy balloon will be long gone if I happen to stray. I still get the excitement from seeing Santa’s sleigh. Although I did notice, for those who didn’t, that Santa’s beard this year was short enough to mistake him for Kenny Rogers. While everyone else sang “Jingle Bells”, I was humming “The Gambler”.

As always with these writings, I happened to make an observation that, in some ways, was new to this holiday season kickoff. While all the excitement of turning our eyes and hearts towards the warmth of the season began, for some it marked the beginning of the end.

This Thanksgiving, I went out to Atlanta’s Fabulous Fox Theatre for the first night of a two-night run by Colorado-based jam masters, the String Cheese Incident. This was my second time seeing them live, and sadly it appeared to be my last. Following the band’s annual New Years Eve run, guitar player Bill Nershi is leaving the band and the remaining members have no formed plans to continue after his departure. For all intensive purposes, this Thanksgiving would be the String Cheese Incident’s last appearance in Atlanta. Of course, when the band took the stage, the crowd went nuts, and like always, the band obliged them with a night full of amazing musical adventure. The best way to describe a String Cheese Incident performance is to take the selection at your local Borders Books, throw it into an iPod, and play it on shuffle. Within the span of three hours of music, you heard rock, Latin, world beat, techno, country, bluegrass, funk, jazz, and blues. They even finished off the night with a nearly note-for-note rendition of Charlie Daniels’ classic, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”. Throughout the show, the band was feeding off of each other so naturally in a way only bands that have played together for so long could do. Every member shared the spotlight instrumentally; you got the sense that there was no awkwardness between the band and the soon-to-be-departed Nershi yet they played with such conviction that one could see they were acknowledging that the end was near and there was much more music to be played.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I couldn’t but draw parallels in my mind to another grand farewell, the Band’s final performance, Thanksgiving of 1976 at the Winterland Ballroom, rightly known as The Last Waltz. With such a send-off, most of which consisted of The Band acting as rhythm section to a slew of big-name friends who came to pay their respects, such as Eric Clapton, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Paul Butterfield, Muddy Waters, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, Neil Diamond, and Ronnie Hawkins to name a few, The Band’s legacy was sealed tightly. To this day, what they accomplished musically has become the groundwork and influence of the folk-country-rock melding known as Americana music, which is not bad to say for a band of mostly Canadians (fun fact – Levon Helm was from Arkansas). Years later, several “reunions” with some Band members would occur under the moniker of ‘The Band’. None of these, however, included guitarist and main songwriter Robbie Robertson; when approached about it, all it seems he could do was wonder what The Last Waltz really meant, if in fact it represented anything at all.

I wasn’t there for night number two of the String Cheese Incident, but I would imagine that the band didn’t let up. I wish them the best a fan can as they approach what appears to finally be the end of the road, and I hope they don’t make the same mistake that others have. Shall we look closer?

The majority of music fans grow up in either one of three camps, the Beatles fans, the Stones fans, or the Elvis fans. These houses are not necessarily divided but more so well marked off. From an early age (Thanks Dad), I knew little about Elvis, I thought the Beatles were overall overrated, and the Stones catalogue was either hit or miss. For me, it didn’t get louder and rowdier that The Who. Daltrey, Townshend, Entwistle, and Moon; combined, they were synonymous with unfiltered aggression, maximum R&B. To this day, for my money, nobody has ever summed up teen angst in such a clear, single lyric: “Hope I die before I get old.”

With that line comes the bad news; the Who are old. I would love to sit here today and tell you like I usually do that I have given the band’s new album ‘Endless Wire’, their first in 23 years, a fair shot. The fact is that I have not. The angry young men of their heyday, at least those of which who are not dead, are now empowered, bitter old men. There is nothing they could say that hasn’t been said before. They’ve done more than one farewell tour and continue to remind that the new boss is the same as the old boss.

Then, of course, there is Phish, one my all-time favorite bands. I remember their indefinite hiatus looming in the fall of 2000; that summer they played a knockout two-night stint at Atlanta’s own HiFi Buys Amphitheatre, one of the greatest weekends I can remember. They were at the peak of their success, selling out tour after tour, putting on their very own summer festivals, and at the turn of the year had hosted the amazing New Years Eve spectacular on the Big Cypress Indian Reservation in Florida, culminating in the climatic 7-hour-plus set from midnight to sunrise. With their return from the two-year hiatus on New Years Eve of 2002, Phish fans, myself included were beyond excited about our heroes’ triumphant return. Yet, as I heard reports from fans in attendance and listened to circulating recordings of the shows, it was easy to tell that there was something a little off about things. This band was known for almost unhealthy amounts of practice, allowing unspoken musical communication to lead into mind-blowing jams. Why all of sudden did it sound sloppy? What I thought would be a rejuvenating break for Phish turned into a death rattle; they weren’t practicing anymore, and the tight-knit grooves were audibly frayed. It wasn’t long until guitarist and band spokesperson Trey Anastasio announced via the website that following a small summer tour in 2004, the band was officially hanging it up. It was the emotional equivalent of getting dumped by your girlfriend, followed by getting back together after realizing you were both lonely, only to realize that things had changed and it was time to move on. I have to admit, I emotionally wrecked that summer, knowing that I would never hear that band I heard in 2000 ever again.

At some point, we all reach the end of our own little era. For some it is as grand in their life as the fall of an empire, others, just a ritual shedding of the temporary skin they happened to be wearing in title or deed. We have to recognize when these endings approach, and react in a way that doesn’t leave any questions unanswered. For Robbie Robertson on the night of the Last Waltz, all there was left to say was, “Goodnight. Goodbye.” Like any good book, you want to remember the past, yet you are excited to read on; why dwell on that chapter alone?

In my life, as I dwell on the Thanksgiving holiday, I am thankful for the many numerous things that I have had the privilege of experiencing. I have hope that I will continue to experience more. As such, I want to be The Band, sent off on my next leg of life in a way that rejoices in both my past triumphs and tragedies, readily looking head-on into the unknown. I don’t want to be the Who, stuck in a nostalgic, albeit moneymaking, purgatory that mainly relies on all the great things I said years ago to emphasize my importance in the present time. As for Phish, I am torn. Reunion rumors abound, and still the flame flickered before it dwindled. Part of me goes back to those recordings and remembers when, which then leads to the numerous “what if” questions. In a sense, if I were in their shoes and had any thought to reuniting, I would only want to return again to the places that I have been if they remained as vital to me today as they did then. If Phish can maintain their integrity and artistic vitality (let’s be honest, the last two studio albums sucked), let us draw the curtain open once more.
For me, that is the stage that I try to take every day. I awake and the curtains open, revealing no regrets, no hard feelings, no boundaries, and pure thankfulness for the time I get to share with everyone who passes along the way.

'Riding the Gravy Train Until the Ladle is Licked Dry' or 'Record Companies Are Lousy Investors'

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 04:21:00 +0000

"The person who stands up and says, `This is stupid,' either is asked to `behave' or, worse, is greeted with a cheerful `Yes, we know! Isn't it terrific?' '' ~ Frank Zappa

August 22, 2006.

Mark this day down in the numerous dark days that will forever scar the palace walls in the history of American music and pop culture. The date itself will fade into the sunset, but, thanks to the fine folks at Warner Brothers Records, there will always be a reminder available for purchase on CD. Today, the debut album from notorious socialite Paris Hilton hit stores.

I don't have to hear it to know what to expect; Second-rate pop tunes featuring whatever third-rate rhyme schemes that Paris could come up with circulating around her feelings about guys, money, jealousy, and those dastardly evil spoiled kids of Hollywood, a group of kids that Paris Hilton apparently does not consider herself one of, although common sense tells us all that she is. The deepest that she may get will be sly hints at certain celebrities like Lindsey Lohan, Nicole Richie, Lionel Richie, the Pope, or whoever she happens to have "beef" with this week. Of course Warner hedged their bets a little; for safe measure and the certainty of respect from the older, mature audience, Paris throws in a cover of Rod Stewart's lowest low, "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?".

That being said, let the rant begin...

Warner Brothers Records and their many off-shoots used to strike me as a big name player when it came to holding claim of important music artists. They signed Black Sabbath, Van Halen, ZZ Top, Neil Young and Crazy Horse, the Grateful Dead, Talking Heads, and the list goes on. All of the mentioned artists are now at legendary status, consisting of lengthy successful careers that led to longevity through influence on the younger rising acts.

Then, at the turn of the millenium, Alt-country heroes Wilco recorded 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot', an experimental album that didn't allow the band or the album to be pidgeonholed (record exec translation, easily marketed). In response, Reprise Records, Wilco's Warner-owned Record Label, asked that changes be made to the album; the band refused to change a thing and Reprise dropped them from the label. Wilco chose to take their album to the internet, posting it on their website. The album was considered a masterpiece by most critics and appeared on almost every end-of-the-year "best" list. A subsequent bidding war began between record companies to swipe up what would now be a possibly successful release (record exec translation, easily marketed). Wilco eventually inked a deal with Nonesuch Records. Warner Brothers is the distributor of Nonesuch as well as Reprise, so in fact, Wilco was dropped and picked up again by the same company. As the band's manager pointed out in Sam Jones' documentary 'I Am Trying to Break Your Heart', they got rid of an album they didn't like, then bought it back for three times the original cost.

At the time of the 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' Red Rover game, I figured that Warner was making a simple one-in-a-million mistake. Alas, this week's release from Paris Hilton has only proven one fact, Warner Brothers Records are not smart with their investing. You can't convince me that Warner Brothers execs see the longevity and integrity in Paris that they see in Neil Young. I have to believe that in the eyes of the idiots in charge, a debut album by a popular figure in the spotlight would surely be a quick, easy moneymaker. They banked on a catchy single, the UB40 rip-off "Stars are Blind", shot a sexy music video, sent Hilton out to meet the masses on TRL, sign a few CD's with instore appearances, and knew in the heart of hearts that the American public would be ready to swallow this up.

Well Warner Brothers, we all survived "Heartbeat" by Don Johnson. We faintly remember Bruce Willis singing "Respect Yourself". Apparently, nobody enjoys those memories very much. Sales figures show that the Paris Hilton album sold only 75,000 copies in its first week, with only a 30,000 projected to move in its second. At the end of the day we can at least still say we love 'Die Hard' and secretly tune in for 'Nash Bridges' re-runs. What else has Paris Hilton done that even gives off an essence of talent? NOTHING. Absolutely zilch. Did you see 'House of Wax'? The highlight of her acting was the final whimper she let out before the killer rammed a steel pipe through her head. Once again the moneymen were expecting their minions (the buying public) to gobble up whatever glittery, glammed-up, quick-cash sham of a pop doll they pushed out onto the airwaves.

And here's why I'm REALLY upset...

Who will be blamed for this? Will it be the obviously dumb exec who thought Paris Hilton would make a profitable recording artist? NO. The blame will be laid square on the shoulders of the buying public, with the brunt of the criticism aimed at the ever-so-popular file sharing sites. There will be the obligatory "piracy" song and dance; to some extent it may be appropriate, but at the end of the day, the consumers did not come through for the record company.

So what am I saying all this for?

Record companies are seeing loss due to the fact that they view every heavily-marketed release as a quick fix to years of bad investments out into lackluster artists and projects. Instead of quick fixes, what they need is a John Hammond or a Clive Davis. They need to invest in the artistic integrity once again, taking a chance on the next Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen that comes around with something to say. The voice of the generation will never be found in a song sung off-key by a barely legal socialite, signed for the sole use of a well-known name and face, marketing yet another product in a brand stretching a demographic spanning pre-teen to early-teen girls, whose innocence is nearly lost on soda pop ditties about puppy love in all its joyous, feux glory, painting pictures of one true love sealed with a kiss tasting of cherry lip gloss and glittery skin lotion, which can be purchased along with the CD either seperate or as a package deal at your local Target stores while supplies last. This too, like the heydays of Leif Garret, David Cassidy, and the Osmonds, shall pass. With any luck, Paris' shot at a recording career will become no more than the punchline of a late-night TV joke, or, better yet, a quirky comparison piece in future reviews written by David Fricke, who was also right about the Wilco record.

You're a Sad, Pitiful Excuse For a Man, Charlie Brown: The Follies in a So-Far Failed Love Life

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Sun, 20 Aug 2006 19:25:00 +0000

Ah, how much more can the single life be glorified? I think of "the old ball and chain" as an interestingly negative symbol for those in relationships, as if having a loving companion is equivalent to being chained down as a prisoner. Come to think of it, why don't we ask some guests of our nation's correctional facilities how their time in solitude compares to to the confines of loving arms?

That being said, let's talk about good old Charlie Brown. He has no respect from his peers, he has no hair, and his best friend is a dog. In the legendary Christmas special, Charlie was suffering from bouts of depression. I'm surprised he was never prescribed Zoloft. What stuck with me more in all these years of Peanuts comic strips and TV specials is his undying commitment as the football team's kicker. A few yards away, holding the ball, is Lucy, the girl that serves as Charlie's high-rate therapist and high-maintainance love interest. In classic fashion, she pulls the ball away right as Charlie takes the stride to kick it, sending him reeling. Lucy and the team laugh hysterically, as Charlie brushes himself off, ready to try again.

As a kid, all I saw was a Charlie Brown falling down, and that element of physical comedy sparked laughter. Now, a little older and arguably wiser, I recognize that everytime the ball was snatched away, he fell, and then he got back up. Time and time again, he would retake his place, and run towards the ball, proving that if you define "insanity" as repeating the same tasks expecting different results, Charlie Brown was insane.

I know how that feels.

At 23, I have finally reached a point in my life where I look back upon an unhealthy relationship with an outsider's perspective. There was a beautiful girl in my life that served as a high-rate therapist and high-maintainance love interest. For nearly five years, I refused to believe that this girl, we'll call her Lucy, would really want to hurt me, and regardless of anything else, we were friends. We have not spoken in nearly 8 months. Of course, this time has passed faster with the help of long work hours, re-runs of 'Futurama', and time spent with my other close friends. While I've wondered at times what Lucy's been up to in life and where her journey has taken her, another part of me came to a saddening realization. Friendship is something that is not for lease. It should not be based on convenience. It is founded on mutual respect and love. In this sense, Lucy has not been my friend for a longer time than I thought.

There have been times since this realization that I wondered what Charlie Brown would do if he realized the same thing about his Lucy. Part of me likes to think he would stand his ground and give Lucy what she had coming all along, an accidentally misplaced kick to the face. In some instances, my family and friends feel I should get even, too. But it is here where if I was Charlie Brown, and he was me, we would both dust ourselves off, turn around and walk away from the wrecked games we were playing, muttering a final emotional "Good grief."

That being said, turning over a new leaf in my love life, hopefully not straying from the comfort in the funny pages, I hope that maybe I can regain my confidence again. I have always had a fear of rejection and now I have this fear of hurt, to boot. I hope that someday, I can find that courage to ask a girl out again. And maybe this time, at least I can see the pull-away coming before I hit the ground.

Jay Bennett, Your Country Needs You...to Save Wilco!

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 09:35:00 +0000

As a music geek, it is interesting to hear the effect of a line-up change in different groups. For some it seemed necessary.

- Bruce Dickenson joining Iron Maiden
- Joe Strummer joining the Clash
- Max Weinberg, Steven Van Zant, and Roy Bittan joining the E-Street Band
- Joe Walsh joining the Eagles

Such line-up changes in effect cemented the signature sound of the band that was birthed even before they arrived; their addition planted the loose ends firmly, turning an original idea and sound into the "immitated but never duplicated" variety. In most experimental bands, a line-up change can signal the birth of new direction and fresh ideas. Both, in this bloggers humble opinion, were the case with Wilco, the Chicago-based Americana wonderboys birthed by Jeff Tweedy after his split with the now legendary cult favorites, Uncle Tupelo.

Wilco's debut LP, simply titled 'AM', was a hearty extension of the alt-country swayings of Uncle Tupelo; in fact, the line-up of Wilco at that time was the same as Uncle Tupelo's final line-up, minus Jay Farrar who was heading up Son Volt. 'AM' was a strong first punch, the critics loved it, as did Tupelo fans; it was, in effect, a type of final chapter that closed the book on the Uncle Tupelo era.

Enter Jay Bennett, a dreadlocked, multi-instumental rocker, with a head full of ideas and a taste for experimentation. Going back into the studio for the follow-up sophmore release, Bennett became the McCartney to Tweedy's Lennon, opening the floodgates to the limitations of what music they could produce and what style they could create. The finished product is the double album 'Being There', arguably one of the best albums of the '90's and definitely, the creative spark that set Wilco apart from other alt-country acts. In this album you found pop ditties, beautiful folk songs, barroom rockers, crunchy noise-driven alternative, country, etc. The spark set to a fire with the release of 'summerteeth', followed by the 'Mermaid Avenue' project with Billy Bragg.

Then, there is 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot', the masterpiece that was produced on the bands terms, flat-out rejected by the record label, streamed on the Wilco website and released to rave reviews marking it one of the most important albums of the new century. This was where the 'Wilco sound' met and meshed perfectly with the new experimental deconstructed approach that the band had so embraced.

The sad side to it is that the tension between Jeff Tweedy and Jay Bennett came to a head during this nearly one-year time period, the result of which was Bennett's departure.

Now, the alt-country band I adored so much is missing. Certainly there is a band called Wilco, a now six-piece band so experimental that the sound that drew me in is muffled by static, feedback, and dead noise. The last studio effort was weak, almost wimpy.

So this my open plea to Wilco and Jay Bennett...

For the sake of the music you so successfully produced, please get back together. You need each other. Think of it like those KISS solo releases. Yeah, there was a nuggett of fun there, but the but the band as a whole was always better than individuals within. Don't believe me? Listen to the Loose Fur release, if you can, and then listen to 'Being There'. Remember how good it was to know your albums were important? C'mon guys; you don't have to act as if ego stroking isn't important in this business. I would imagine that a Wilco line-up with Bennett reinstalled would trigger a near-natural return to form, whatever you want to call it. And hey, who knows what Grammy's you could win? That's right, win a Grammy so the scenester kids will leave the rest of us alone. Thanks.

Oh yeah and sack Jim O'Rourke; he's not as good as you tell him he is.

'Truth is Stranger Than Fiction' or 'You Must Have Me Mistaken for A Scientologist'

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Tue, 23 May 2006 08:58:00 +0000

"Please - before you think about hurting someone over this trifle of a film, remember: even God has a sense of humor. Just look at the Platypus."

- Disclaimer preceeding the Kevin Smith film, 'Dogma'

The big-screen adaptation of Dan Brown's 'The Da Vinci Code' opened with the most successful box office opening of the year, and if it has a fraction of the long-running success that the novel experienced, then we are sure to have a big hit our hands for a while. And along with this new movie comes a plethora of press, ranging from the front cover of Newsweek a few months ago to the Us Weekly poll of whether or not Tom Hanks' long-haired look is good for him. Within this group you will find the Falwells and Robertsons tearing their robes and screaming "Blasphemy!"

Granted, the plot is thick with new conspiracy theories involving the divinity of Christ and the secrets that the church keeps, but I have always been quite fascinated how quickly artistic pieces are condemned by the church.

The first that comes to mind is the release of Martin Scorcese's 'The Last Temptation of Christ'. Based on the novel of the same name, the movie was a huge "what-if" tale of Jesus' life when he is persuaded to save himself from crucifixion and comes down off the cross. He marries Mary Magdelene, has some children, mourns as Mary dies, and on his deathbed, prays to God to be given the chance to be Messiah again after being spit upon and shunned by the twelve disciples. The church was appalled at this all-too-human persona that Scorcese gave to Jesus. Boycotts, pickets, and criticism persued, arguing that such ideas would lead to some kind of breakdown of the church.

In 1988, Salman Rushdie published the novel 'The Satanic Verses'. The novel, with its debating and topical talk about the wives of the Islamic prophet, Muhammad and the infallibility of the Islamic holy book, the Qu'ran, led to the Iranian Ayatollah Khomeini decreeing that Rushdie be killed, along with a cultural and diplomatic crisis between Britain and many countries in the Middle East.

Marilyn Manson was Public Enemy Number One following the tragic Columbine High School shooting in the '90's. After being reported that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were fans of Manson's music, debate over the influence of music, movies, and video games nearly overshadowed what should have been at the heart of media coverage and critique, strictly-enforced gun control reform.

And now, the new zealot bandwagon across the board appears to be Da Vinci damage control in the form of TBN and local TV church specials relentlessly decreeing the movie to be full of false fact. Fearing a worldwide church shake -up and concerned that the movie will shake the faith of the devout.

So here's my problem with this urgency within the church to squash this movie and book....

The book is sold in the Fiction section and the movie is not billed as a Documentary.

Certainly, there would be cause for outrage if you could easily pick up the book on the same aisle of the store as Bill Clinton's autobiography or, even better, a King James Bible. Dan Brown is using a religious basis for a murder mystery. Didn't George Lucas and Steven Spielberg do the same thing for two out of three of the Indiana Jones films? And those flicks are considered 'classics'.

There is no such thing as bad publicity, unless of course, you are a Televangelist

The more Pat Robertson, Paul Crouch, and Jerry Falwell pick a fight with a movie, the more a believing public will be intrigued to decide for themselves whether or not the movie is good. It works in the same way it helped Marilyn Manson sell millions, regardless of the controversy. If I were pointing fingers, I'd also want to make totally sure that there is no dirt on me. Ask Jimmy Swaggart.

If it shakes anyone's faith. it is not a problem with the movie.

I like to think that my faith is strong. I believe in the one true God. I have accepted Christ as my savior. I am well aware of His workings in my life. A movie is not going to change that, and if any movie did stir doubt, then what faith did I have to begin with? It's all entertainment, folks, like it or not.

So I decided that now I grasp Scientology. Maybe they are on to something; build a religion upon the writings of a sscience fiction novelist, and therefore the fact is already fiction and no debate is necessary. Note how we don't see any Scientology televangelists, although Tom Cruise seems to like the idea. But did anyone get in a hubbub about 'Battlefield Earth' being based on L. Ron Hubbard's novel? Well, only from me, because I demanded a refund.

Let's go to the movies!

The New Youth Generation: Touring Jurassic Park or Waking Up the Dinosaurs

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Wed, 21 Dec 2005 16:07:00 +0000

I have been in the same youth room for right at 10 years of my life now. Certainly, the room itself has come a long way in a decade. Long gone is the bulky 1978 Momo soundboard with three out of six channels working, and the Orange, Yellow and Dark Blue walls. We've torn down the autographed Ken Holloway poster along with the DC Talk 'Free at Last' promo tour print. It has been years since we have been sat in front of a 'Time 2' video featuring Carman. Come to think of it, we have not mentioned Carman in anything but a punchline or two in a long while. There is new carpet on the floor, new paint on the walls, and most importantly, in regards to this little nuggett of thought, a new generation of teenagers with a Christian worldview that is alien to most in the church. I have become more aware of this recently through a thought-provoking observation.

Before I go any further, let me throw out this disclaimer. I am not stating this stuff as a truth that can't be argued. If by any chance this little entry causes conversation and debate, great. These are my observations, and of course everyone else should have some as well, that is unless they are truly dinosaurs. In which case, they can't observe anything; they are extinct.

Through work with our amazing youth band at Gateway, I have found that a common musical preference runs throughout the majority of these kids, pop-punk pioneers and latter-day political-message mavericks, Green Day. This struck such a nerve with me as I figured out why the kids wanted me to teach them Green Day riffs on the guitar. I was in sixth grade when 'Dookie', Green Day's Reprise Records debut, was released. I remember vividly how important that album was to me at that time in my life, and I remember how emotionally, that album connected with me and my confusion in a simple teenage life. And here I find myself, 10 years after the fact and Green Day is 10 years older along with me. Yet, of all the bands that I heard in 1995, I would have been the last to think that Green Day would still remain relevant. That's what I get for assuming. Last year, they released 'American Idiot', a rock opera of sorts painting the picture of our post-9/11 America as it could be viewed from the kid on the street, untrusting of authority, confused, hurt, and betrayed by the powers that be. As I see now through a good listen through the album, Green Day resonate still with that same adolescent demographic. They pull no punches and that type of truth is what solace those kids are looking for, no roses and sunshine, only a look at what life is like when nobody is listening. Still, the album effectively works at telling the listener, "We can't answer your questions, but maybe we can ask them together." Not to mention, the album rocks regardless of message, and the sound itself draws the listener in.

I think of this and shake my head at the possibility of a Southern Gospel group being one of the big-name talents to grace the headlining slot of an upcoming regional youth convention. There is no way you can convince me that these kids who listen to bands like Green Day will give a trusting ear to the sound of Southern Gospel. For anyone who has heard one Southern Gospel tune, you can place a safe bet you've heard the basics of them all, four-part-harmony, piano-led, heavy on twang, hence the "Southern" label, and all-around snore-fests for your punk-rocker type.

I then flash back again to the numerous times I saw Carman, post-R.I.O.T. busting out the same Dance, rap-talk routine with overblown, over-produced musical crap such as "The Champion" and "America Again". Only Meat Loaf can get away with overblown, over-produced musical crap. I remember hearing DC Talk's 'Jesus Freak' album for the first time right after I got saved, thinking, "Wow, I get this." Now, when I pop in 'Jesus Freak', sure, the message is there, but will any kid out there at age 13 or 14 really give it a listen? It sounds outdated. Contemporary Christian Music's underground rock scene is taking strides faster than the heads of the church can even keep up with, if they keep up with it at all.

THAT'S WHAT FRIGHTENS ME.

Are these folks in charge paying any attention to what they are in charge of? Certainly, there is a message and maturity within that they are there to make sure is nurtured, but dare I say any of these 40-to-50-year-old's have listened closely to the concerns voiced by bands like Switchfoot, who bring up some really good points and insight on the 'Nothing is Sound' album. Do they here the longing and observations of David Crowder's 'A Collision' album, the first Christian concept album in my opinion.

Do they think the kids will roll with whatever is tossed in front of them? I think not, because I've listened to these kids, and I still listen to their music. If there is an "American Idiot" in this equation, it isn't the young age that shows it. Perhaps that is what these teens want from us, a world and what it's like when we do listen.

I feel it is necessary in our ministry to connect with these kids, and you can't do it with a guess-and-check method. If so, you can end up losing this youth generation to the phrase that helped Green Day say it best...

"I don't care if you don't"

A Reese Witherspoon Movie That Even I Enjoyed

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Mon, 21 Nov 2005 21:42:00 +0000

"My favorite book of all time is Johnny Cash's autobiography 'Cash' by Johnny Cash." - Rob Gordon, 'High Fidelity'

Last night I went out the door of the local Ted's Montana Grille with Bison on the brain and Johnny Cash on my T-shirt. Anyone who has ever had the priveledge of witnessing me eat a meal while talking knows that it is usually the other way around; my natural build has blessed me with a cushioned bib for a chest. I had met several friends for a surprise birthday party for Gateway International's Young Adult Pastor, Charley Farmer. Earlier in the evening, I had made up my mind to see 'Walk the Line', the much-anticipated biopic on the one and only Johnny Cash. As only a music geek could, I walked into the theater with five other friends with the cover of 'Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison' printed across my shirt. My first thought was how young the crowd in attendance was. Needless to say it surprised me; I'm not bragging or boasting, but far be it for me to think it possible that anyone under the age of 21 would have any interest in Johnny Cash thanks to a popularized, tightly-run top-40 radio market (see previous rants).

From the moments of the opening credits, as the thunderous sound of the Folsom prison inmates clapped and stomped along to the simple, steady rhythm of the Tennesee Three, I was sucked in. I was in a way witness to an American legend in its definitive form. Of course, the movie tricked me into watching another story take place. Beneath the fine portraits and landscapes of the classic Cash tunes was the interesting, expansive story of Johnny and his true love, June Carter of the legendary Carter family.

As Johnny's autobiography and the film both illustrated, his interest in June was sparked from his childhood days, hearing her sing on the radio. By the time they finally met, he was married with two children and she was newly divorced with two children as well. Those times that were truly theirs were on stage, singing together. That was intimacy; that was passion. It just happened to take another decade or so for time to catch up with what seemed destined.

The movie as a whole was a revelation in the same way that Cash's video for "Hurt" was no more than two years ago. "Hurt" found Johnny confronting the reality of his mortality, and the harsh truth within that brought much attention and respect from a crowd. Needless to say, I shouldn't have been shocked at all to see so many young folks at this movie. They were looking for the other side of the story; perhaps they could find where his strength to face that mortality came from. My answer was only confirmed when I came home and went straight to his last album before he passed, 'American IV: The Man Comes Around'. Within the liner notes, Johnny summed it up best:

I am persuaded that nothing can seperate me from the love of my God, my wife, and, my music. Life is rich when I can come home, after hours in the studio, feeling as frayed as a hundred Big G strings, and curl up to June Carter. She's a soft, fluffy Mama Bear. That's when I give God a "Thanks a lot, Chief."

The Experience of the Rock Show

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Wed, 02 Nov 2005 21:44:00 +0000

It was a heavy, humid Sunday afternoon in May of 2003, one of those days where the heat hangs heavy and weighted like a burden you can't lift. Most sane folks would spend this day in air conditioned or shaded spaces, comfortably letting the day let loose to the temperate, clear spring evening. Afterall, this time of year, there is little to do, that is, unless, you were at Music Midtown. My family and I braved the unshaded streets of Downtown Atlanta with an open schedule of great tunes and assorted music-related adventures. As the weeks had approached to Music Midtown, we all began working out our show schedules, and early on, my Sunday consisted of meeting my friend Nathan to see Aimee Mann, and then meet up with the folks for South Side Johnny, Bob Weir and Ratdog, & the finale set from Gov't Mule. Just two weeks before the date, a last minute addition to the Music Midtown roster had my Dad more excited than most, a little band out of Athens known as the Drive-By Truckers. Of course, this had no real effect on me at the time; they were playing at the same time as the talented Aimee Mann. So that Sunday afternoon, I met up with Nathan in front of the Fox 5 stage to get a good spot for Aimee while the rest of my family headed off to see these Trucker fellows. As 4:10 neared, they made an announcement from the Fox 5 stage that Aimee Mann had not made it to the festival site yet, but was en route. She finally took the stage around 4:35, leaving me just about 30 minutes before I had to get to the Z93 stage for Southside Johnny; I have a habit for trying to get as close as possible (see picture). Aimee was alright, though not really as impressive on stage as her albums would have let on. Around the beginning of the next hour, I parted ways with Miss Mann and high-tailed it to see Johnny in all his Asbury Juke glory. Following their set, I met up with my dad and my brother Nick, whose faces sparkled with a rejuvenating glow that I can only expect would come from meeting Elvis, Jesus, or Bruce Springsteen. "You don't know what you've missed," my dad said with a grin. When I asked my brother what he meant, all he could say was, "You just don't understand." In the matter of an hour, there was now only one band that mattered in the mind of my dad and Nick, the Drive-By Truckers. It was a rock and roll testimonial, similar to that of talking to an excited Christian on the night they were born again. There were no words for the experience, only the certainty that the event happened.

This is the experience that I missed, the party I wasn't invited to, the joke I didn't get. Why did this unknown band from Athens have the effect on my family that Nirvana had on me at the age 9? How could a rock band so powerful be so hidden? I ccouldn't wrap my self around it at the time. Consider it mixed priorities musically, or perhaps just supidity, but needless to say, Aimee Mann became an unlikely butt to the unending joke that "Jon skipped out on the Truckers to see Aimee Mann."

Needless to say, I was interested. I wanted this same experience. I didn't get it completely, but I was trying, because musically speaking, my dad had a sick sense for what was good, bad, and awesome. If my dad loved them, there was no way I wouldn't. It's a genetic science of sorts; a strand in my DNA picks up on good taste only in the way that my dad does, only weakened of course. I went out in the following weeks on a hunt for some Truckers tunes so maybe I could hear on speakers, what it was that was felt at Music Midtown. While doing my usual casual shopping at CD Warehouse, I happened upon an early-promo-release copy of the Truckers' New West Records debut Decoration Day. I took to my car and urgwently slid it into the player, with the curiosity and wonder only felt when you gamble. You could win, but there's just as big of a chance that you could lose. The first thing I heard was the raspy, slightly off-key voice of frontman Patterson Hood singing these words a cappella:

By the time you were born,
There were four other siblings
With your momma awaitin'
Your daddy in jail
And your oldest brother was away at a home
And you didn't meet until you were 19 years old.

So started what stands as a somewhat timid introduction to the Drive-By Truckers. On album, sure the songs were strong and from the heart, but it felt much more tame than this band my dad described. Certainly this collection of songs about suicide, death, and economic strife was not the extent of which this band had influence. I still couldn't understand. It was good, but was it that good? Was it?

The month of July moved out with storms and rain, along with the announcement of a one-night-only stay at the 40-watt Club in Athens, Georgia with the Drive-By Truckers, in celebration of the release of Decoration Day. After some quick consideration, the whole family planned on a weekend stay in Athens, as to witness this monster of a rock band within their natural lair, the 40-Watt Club, a legend in its own rite. The weeks led up with nothing but anticipation. For my dad and Nick, it was another dose of their newest flavor of choice, and for me, it was to be the deciding factor. Part of me was worried that this would be the next Aimee Mann moment. Surely these questions about this band would be answered soon enough.

From the get-go, Lester Bangs' mold of the ridiculous, egostical monster of the rock and roll star was shattered. After an afternoon of lunch and shenanigans in downtown Athens, we drove towards the old Days Inn, roughly a block from the club. We decided at the last minute to stop off at the little record shop next to the 40-Watt. While browsing through the store, a recognizable face walks out the 40-Watt's front door. He was a tall, scruffy fellow in a green trucker hat. It was Patterson Hood himself. He was walking towards the van to retrieve some extra chords. As he walked back by the other way, I figured I'd grab his attention with something to say to a rock star in passing. The only thing that came out was, "I love the album, Patterson." He stopped, turned around, and with a smile shook my hand and said, "Thank you so much, man. We'll see you at the rock show." Certainly, this was much different from the gritty, cold southern man that permeated the albums I had heard. This was only further reealized a few minutes later when Patterson's partner in crime, "The Stroker Ace" Mike Cooley, came waltzing out with a bag in hand, ready for a quick meal before showtime. As he appeared, my dad, who through the website was more knowledgable on the band's happenings than I was, congratulated Cooley on his new baby boy. Certainly the way he reacted was that of any other working man with a new son, so proud and happy to be raising his new family. He then took time to take a quick picture with me and Dustin. Shortly thereafter, Mom and Dustin headed out and about while Nick, Dad, and I waited at the front of the small line forming at the door. Bassist Earl Hicks actually came out and chatted with us for nearly 15 minutes, giving my Dad helpful hints on the correct way to play bass. I had never been to a show before where the band was so in touch with their crowd, even before the show. They opted to do tthier own thing instead of being the reclusive poet in the back of the bar. They had no hesitation about them; they were playing to their people, and they knew it from before the show even started.

Skip forward to the end of opening act David Barbe's set. By this time, the essence of the 40-Watt club captivated all the senses. The sheer volume of bodies in this small space had you sweating heavily while standingin one place. Circling over the crowd was the musty smell of the smokes in nearly every hand. It was a baptism by fire and you could only breathe nicotine. Led Zepplin's newly released live collection 'How the West Was Won' roared through the house; Robert Plant screaming out in agony and glory as if to say "Turn back if ye are faint at heart." Not me. I was camp out on the railing by the stage right at the feet of Mike Cooley's pedal rig. I could feel some energy I can't even describe now. Most concerts I have gone to knowing the band fairly well, and here I was at the edge of an answer to the uncertain question. There were no promises with this, only anticipation.

The band finally hit the stage at 10:30 and did a quick tune-up as the hometown crowd cheered the soon-to-be-heroes like a hillbilly pep rally. With the swoop of three guitars, bass, and drums, the band hit a united open D chord. All in this one unspecified minute was the answer to the puzzle, this was the rock show. THE ROCK SHOW! Made more evident as through the feedback, Patterson kicked into "Lookout Mountain", a song written about a friend who met a tragic end in Chattanooga. In this song was the soul of Neil Young, the mouth of Joe Strummer, the heart of Bruce Springsteen, the snarl of the Replacements, and the spirit of Ronnie Van Zant. All I could do was stare blank at this monster of rock on stage. Finally understanding, the infused influences of the music created a whole new original sound through this, the greatest rock band around.

"...and the rest as they say is history."

I am looking forward to November 26th, as I will be celebrating the Thanksgiving weekend with my 7th Truckers show in two years time.

Optimism as a Revolutionary Act

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Fri, 28 Oct 2005 20:12:00 +0000

"I wanna get hurt!" -Lloyd Dobler

Cameron Crowe wrote and directed Say Anything in 1989. It still stands out as one of the best romantic comedies ever and certainly in a tie for first with High Fidelity as the best John Cusack movie ever. The story of the movie in mega-Reader's Digest form is this. John Cusack plays underachiever and eternal optimist Lloyd Dobler. Lloyd has a thing for the unattainable goody-two-shoes valedictorian Diane Court, played by Ione Skye. Caving to his charming , nervious swagger, over the course of the summer after graduation, Diane falls for Lloyd amidst the watchful eyes of a clingy disapproving father. This is all I can say, because if you have not seen this film, you must! It has all the right stuff.

While watching the DVD with Audio Commentary by Cameron Crowe, he continually hit on the idea that the character of Lloyd Dobler was the personification of "optimism as a revolutionary act". While I can't quote his talk about this verbatim, but in so many words here it is.

There are people out there who are so idealistic and caught up in the idea that everything is fine, that they ignore the problems of the world and refuse to be anything but optimistic as an effect of that. The difference between these folks and the character of a Lloyd Dobler person is that Lloyd is fully aware of the dark shadows that loom over life, in fact he has experience in them. There is no idealistic approach in the manner in which Lloyd reveals his character. Instead, it is a choice made to remain sure and hopeful in the face of defeat, and stand smiling in the acknowledgement of the trials that come. That is truly optimism as a revolutionary act, to be going against the odds to not see the light, but to find the light when it can't be seen.

This is what I strive to do; sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Then again, it seems to be about the trying that makes it happen. It takes a longing like that of love to bring someone that far.

Could Video kill the Radio Star if the Radio Star was Already Dead?

la_supercysta@yahoo.com (Jon) — Mon, 24 Oct 2005 20:44:00 +0000

Needless to say, I am a music nerd-slash-snob. Music and all that it implies is truly the only thing that I can argue beyond a shadow of a doubt, that and how the Fair Tax plan will save our dying economic security. As a kid, like most every other kid, my first encounter with music in a consumable form was my dad's enormous collection, MTV, and the radio. My father's taste in music was so unique and expansive that it was a stand-alone monster of an influence. You couldn't here Graham Parker, Jason and the Scorchers, R.E.M., Mojo Nixon*, King Crimson or Frank Zappa** on the radio or MTV in those days. In 1983-86, the radio was reserved for the Go-Go's, post-'The River' Springsteen***, Journey, Pat Benetar, WHAM!, Duran Duran, Madonna, and the long running list of classic 80's tracks now available on the Time-Life 'Totally 80's' collection.

That being said, let me dive into this a bit deeper.

In 1977, the fledgling Saturday Night Live invited Elvis Costello and his newly formed band the Attractions to play two tunes off of his debut album, 'My Aim is True'. This being network television, the story goes that NBC basically allowed Costello to play the single and one album track of the producers choice, The producers chose the less-than-enthusiastic "Less Than Zero". Coming back live the night of the show, the announcer says, "Once again, here's Elvis Costello."The band launches into an adrenalized working of "Less Than Zero" and all seems well. Halfway through the second line of the first verse, Elvis shouts out "Stop, stop," and the band abruptly ends the song unfinished. Apologizing to the crowd for the sudden halt in the program, Costello turns to the band and they crank out the now classic performance of "Radio, Radio", a non-album single that openly bashed the radio format with lyrics such as:

You either shut up or get cut out

They don't wanna hear about it

It's only inches on the reel to reel

The radio is in the hands of such a bunch of fools

Tryin to anesthetize the way that you feel.

In 1981, with a rocket launch and a flag set firmly into place infront of a lunar backdrop, the curly-haired everyman Mark Goodman welcomed the world to the new format known as MTV, all music, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. After some brief introductions to the other newly-dubbed "VJ's", they launched right into the first video, The Buggles' one and only hit, "Video Killed the Radio Star".

They took the credit for your second symphony.

Rewritten by machine and new technology,

and now I understand the problems you can see.

Certainly a fitting way to start up a station which was simultaneously lauded and criticized for it's use of image and buzz words to decide the fate of popular music. Needless to say in order to keep up with MTV's stamina, the radio began to cave to the likings of the post-punk MTV generation as they hailed in the synthesized New Wave music from across the pond. I for one like to forget that it was their fault that we, as a nation, had to fight off A Flock of Seagulls, but when you put that against their more recent crimes against humanity, TRL, Room Raiders, My Super Sweet 16, etc. it was a small price to pay. Besides, we got Martha Quinn out of the deal.

Let's jump forward in time to 2004-2005. There was a time when the radio in atlanta was a simple collection of easily digestable formats:

92.9 FM - Classic Rock
94.1 FM- Top Forty
94.9 FM - Light, Easy Listening
96.1 FM - Rock
97.1 FM - Oldies
97.5 FM - Hip Hop...etc. etc.

What followed in the 2004-2005 period was a massive reformating to compete for listeners, which did nothing but split the Atlanta audience every which way.

- We lost an oldies station
- We have two new rock stations...both with comparable playlists
- We have two top 40 stations...both with nearly duplicate playlists
- We have two major country stations...both with comparable playlists
- We have a sub-par classic rock station...with a playlist of what appears to be 20 songs
- We have two Contemporary Christian stations
- All of them spend more time on average with commercials than they do programming

The fact as it appears to me is what was evident before MTV came around. Radio makes money and they drag us along with whatever songs they think we would like. There is no real new voice anymore. Oldies are played for nostalgia, and new rock is played for sales. And the big bad Clear Channel wonders why folks are flocking to Satellite radio, and the record companies wonder why sales are down. Check out the radio in ATL and it is clear as day.
Folks should listen to what they like, but I've talked music with enough folks in my time to know that all too often, myself included, we rely on the radio to play it for us. Somewhere we have to decide as listeners, and at the end of the day consumers, that we are going to support the artists we enjoy. As long as there are folks who listen in everytime 96 Rock plays Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama" although just about everybody has that tune somewhere in their collection, 96 Rock will neglect other artists from that time period, such as Little Feat, Johnny Winter, and Neil Young. DaveFM on 92.9 has it down to an art, play what we like and what the people seem to dig. They actually listen to their listeners. It takes a lone misfit to stop the music suddenly, and abruptly change direction. Hopefully, other folks will follow along as they did years ago, and the voice on the end of the reciever will be ours once again.

*Mojo Nixon ended up doing MTV promo spots later in the 1980's as well as becoming a radio drive time DJ, now hosting a station on the Sirius Satellite Network
**Frank Zappa did a concert performance for MTV's 1st annual Halloween bash, however his only real brush with radio success came in the form of "Valley Girl", sung by his daughter Moon Unit
***Bruce Springsteen's first top 40 radio hit was "Hungry Heart" off of 1980's 'The River', but his first mega-hit was "Dancing in the Dark" nearly four years later.