I am sitting on the subway, pretending that I'm not crying because of a Lifehouse song. I just, um, have something caught in my eye. Something called desperate self-loathing.
I am damaged at best
Like you've already figured out
I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
No doubt some songwriting think tank was handsomely compensated to conjure that up, and yet it still manages to so perfectly encapsulate how I've felt for the last 6 months, 2 years, decade or so.
I'm hanging on for one more day
Just to see what you throw my way
OK, really, Lifehouse? Low blow. So you're really leaving me no choice but to furtively wipe away tears that at least have the courtesy to slide down the far side of my cheek so as not to be totally obvious. I really abhor public displays of blubbering, and the D train is the last place for emotional spectacles.
Occasionally, as I explained to Tom this afternoon, I have a bolt of clarity over what a wretched creature I can be. It's like all my mistakes and bad judgement and normally manageable regret gets crystallized all at once into a giant monolith of Flawed Character that I can only gaze at in terrified awe, like Kubrick's barely evolved primates. It seems so inescapable and overwhelming. I have dug myself such a hole, and sometimes everything seems lost.
"Why hate yourself?" Tom advised. "What not hate something more deserving - like Dickface."
I don't want to hate Dickface. I don't want to feel anything about him at all. As a matter of fact, I don't want to feel at all period. I'm so tired of this. I hate my own weakness and lack of self-control, and I hate that I'm reduced to something as pathetic as complaining to Tom about my bad mood. There's no way to win, really. Survey says: you're a loser. Number One answer.
I left the Stereophonics show early tonight, even despite the novelty of Adam Zindani of Casino on rhythm guitar and backing vocals. I had issues with the set list, it was hot and crowded, and my back was unhappy with 3 hours of standing. I tried to enjoy myself, but it was not to be. The monolith looms large, and there is no ignoring it at the moment.
I blame you, Lifehouse.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
If you want a hit, you gotta make it fit
This song came up on my iPod this morning as I sat on the train that whisks me toward my dubiously rewarding job in entertainment. It struck me as both funny and deeply sad that, 31 years after it was written, it's truer than ever.
And, much like in 1977, apparently high-waisted jeans are now back in fashion - something that is also deeply sad.
And, much like in 1977, apparently high-waisted jeans are now back in fashion - something that is also deeply sad.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Virtually reality
In my spare time, I'm reading a novel about the music industry.
Like most of the books I've read since college, my mother sent it to me. I don't read nearly as much as I once did. I really don't have the time - unless I'm trapped on airplane with 5 hours to kill and my movie choice is something involving Adam Sandler and/or talking animals - and the idea of sifting through the enormous stacks at Barnes & Noble exhausts me. So I rely on Bling Judy, who is an avid reader, to pass along books that she think might interest me. She tends to stick to things she knows I like, and most of the time she's not wrong - with the possible exception of the book she sent by the girl who lived in New York City, describing how she paid off her astronomical credit card debt by begging money off strangers on the internet. I mean, seriously - fuck her and her Gucci shoe habit. I feel sorry for her not at all.
This particular book, while intriguing on the surface, was a similar gamble. I almost never read fiction, first and foremost. So I'm already biased going in. And I haven't finished the book yet, so it's probably unfair of me to pass judgement. But if you want to step up and fictionalize my everyday experience, you're opening yourself up to a whole world of judgement.
It's not a novel in the traditional sense of having a linear storyline, only that it's made up. It's really a series of short stories focusing on one character, each of whom have a different perspective of the music business - the performer, the label drone, the fan. A critical blurb touts that it has "an insider's touch to its depiction of the music industry and its denizens." Hmm. OK. I noticed that the author was in a band. Not a band I had heard of, and I've heard of things that never see the light of day beyond, say, the lead singer's mom's stereo. So I was a little suspect as to how insider the touch was really going to be.
The first chapter is about a 26 year-old A&R rep, condemned by the back cover as "arrogantly hip." For the most part, I cringe at fictional depictions of the music business - especially things like A&R, which is often put on par with being Mick Jagger, and this was no exception. A&R is not a hard gig, but it's a cruel one. Your value rests solely on how much weight your opinion holds on any particular day. Job security there is not, and much of your time is spent in crappy rock clubs or being criminally insincere. On the other hand, it's not that I haven't encountered a fair share of people my own age who act especially entitled to their padded expense accounts and dubious clout by virtue of their American Apparel hoodies and having their picture taken at the right parties. But it's the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, I was in the Los Angeles office of Atlantic Records, who employed me at the time. It was my first time there, and I was making the rounds, putting faces to the people I communicated with on a daily basis. One of my last stops was the VP of A&R, who hadn't signed anything of real importance - most recently a band called Audiovent who's primary allure was that it contained the brothers of two of the guys in Incubus. But nevertheless he had a large office and unlimited supply of complimentary soft drinks, no doubt. Standing by his desk was a ruddy-faced kid, younger than me, probably about 19 or so. The department intern, I thought.
"Oh, have you met Kevin?" the VP asked.
"Hi," I said to the kid, extending my hand. "I work in the New York office." To be honest, I felt vaguely superior. I was only an executive assistant, but people knew me. After all, I had just walked into the office of the VP of A&R without knocking. While I had neither business cards nor any real influence, at least I didn't have to share a desk or spend my entire day stuffing padded envelopes.
"Kevin is our newest A&R rep," continued the VP. At this, Kevin smiled awkwardly and looked at his shoes. "He helped bring Audiovent to us."
This was the first time I realized that my very expensive college degree was no match for smoking weed with the brother of the guy from Incubus, as far as qualifications.
As I recall, Kevin was neither arrogant, nor especially hip. As the ideal demographic for pop music skews younger and the heavyweight executives get older, there occurs a frantic scrambling to latch onto anything or anyone who carried any semblance of relevance. So obscenely young and inexperienced people are hired, and their opinions are afforded an outrageous level of weight. Sometimes this goes to their head. But more often than not, they are shitcanned inside of a year when "restructuring" rolls around.
If anything, I'm a little amused to witness how an artist perceives the thoughts and motivations of those of us who work on this business side. Those of us who have to be somewhere every morning, sit at a desk and go through the motions of hawking art. Maybe we seem arrogant or self-important, incapable of understanding the artist since we must be analytical of mind and pretty much without a soul. We are, after all, agents of The Man.
Part of the artifice of the novel is how, on the surface, it's a series of independent vignettes about particular characters, the stories are all woven together in subtle ways. Central characters from one chapter pop up in the background of another as I read on, giving the whole thing a sort of loose structure. That's the one thing that I think rings true. This is a small world, this business - and a caste system in some ways. At the larger companies, unless you have a certain title, your usefulness is stripped down to whether or not you can be sent to Starbucks for lattes at 3PM. On the other hand, a person's overall clout is really nothing more than an illusion that can be crafted. It's all about getting your name out there, making sure everyone knows that you're a force to be reckoned with. I need to get better at this, I admit. My personal glory is never a concern, and I'm terrible at networking. My people will not be calling your people, and working a room gives me hives. But sometimes a reputation happens on its own.
Exhibit A: I was at a release part at the Hudson Hotel, thrown by Atlantic Records. It was a year or so after they had laid me off. Someone introduced me to Keith, who managed the Atlantic street teams. I had never had cause to deal with him while I worked there, but I had heard his name in passing. I shook his hand.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of you, " said Keith reverently. "They still talk about you. You wouldn't take shit from anyone."
There's also a healthy amount of self-loathing among almost all of the characters I've met so far in this book - the A&R guy is apathetic about his job, the rock star hates his fame, the label president feels like an inhuman dream-crusher, the sound engineer mourns the wife and children he left behind. I have to say, I have my moments of self-loathing, and they never have anything to do with my chosen line of work. Usually it's the result of stuff I do when I'm drunk. I mean, honestly - I've never met anyone who felt so resoundingly trapped in a gilded case littered with broken CD cases that they couldn't pack up and go work for a PR firm. This line of work is not as glamorous as it's often made out to be (we use a lot of Excel spreadsheets just like everyone else - sorry to disappoint), but I know that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. At this point, I'm not sure I'm really qualified to do anything else. Besides, I think I still have some remnants of my soul left.
What struck me this weekend, as I finished the chapter about the newly signed band member who struggles with the suicide of his ex-girlfriend (replete with shout-outs to Natalie Merchant, natch), is how utterly depressing the whole book felt. All of the characters seemed so painfully isolated. There is no mention of them having friends, and especially not friends within the business with whom they can commiserate or laugh about its inherent absurdity. This is the biggest fiction of all, at least given my own experience. The friends I've made over the course of my tenure in the music industry are my surrogate family, sometimes only because they can most acutely appreciate the singular experience of what we do. "It's like being in Vietnam," I sighed to my lawyer friend. "You can try to explain it to people who weren't there, but they can't really understand what it's like."
This all sounds quite romantic, I suddenly realize. How trite. That wasn't my intention. Every Tuesday at my office I have to take out the trash. There are certainly days when I question whether or not it wouldn't be better to move to Minnesota and work at a truck stop. At times I go home feeling like I had a productive day, but more often I find myself exhausted by the struggle of fighting against an industry where logic goes to die. It's like any job.
"You should write a book," Mike said to me once. More than once. We sat next to each other for three years, tortured in similar ways by the unglamorous and often ridiculous mechanics of selling music for a living. "You can't make this shit up."
Maybe I will write a book someday. Except it would be non-fiction. And it would be a comedy, I think. After all, it's only entertainment.
Like most of the books I've read since college, my mother sent it to me. I don't read nearly as much as I once did. I really don't have the time - unless I'm trapped on airplane with 5 hours to kill and my movie choice is something involving Adam Sandler and/or talking animals - and the idea of sifting through the enormous stacks at Barnes & Noble exhausts me. So I rely on Bling Judy, who is an avid reader, to pass along books that she think might interest me. She tends to stick to things she knows I like, and most of the time she's not wrong - with the possible exception of the book she sent by the girl who lived in New York City, describing how she paid off her astronomical credit card debt by begging money off strangers on the internet. I mean, seriously - fuck her and her Gucci shoe habit. I feel sorry for her not at all.
This particular book, while intriguing on the surface, was a similar gamble. I almost never read fiction, first and foremost. So I'm already biased going in. And I haven't finished the book yet, so it's probably unfair of me to pass judgement. But if you want to step up and fictionalize my everyday experience, you're opening yourself up to a whole world of judgement.
It's not a novel in the traditional sense of having a linear storyline, only that it's made up. It's really a series of short stories focusing on one character, each of whom have a different perspective of the music business - the performer, the label drone, the fan. A critical blurb touts that it has "an insider's touch to its depiction of the music industry and its denizens." Hmm. OK. I noticed that the author was in a band. Not a band I had heard of, and I've heard of things that never see the light of day beyond, say, the lead singer's mom's stereo. So I was a little suspect as to how insider the touch was really going to be.
The first chapter is about a 26 year-old A&R rep, condemned by the back cover as "arrogantly hip." For the most part, I cringe at fictional depictions of the music business - especially things like A&R, which is often put on par with being Mick Jagger, and this was no exception. A&R is not a hard gig, but it's a cruel one. Your value rests solely on how much weight your opinion holds on any particular day. Job security there is not, and much of your time is spent in crappy rock clubs or being criminally insincere. On the other hand, it's not that I haven't encountered a fair share of people my own age who act especially entitled to their padded expense accounts and dubious clout by virtue of their American Apparel hoodies and having their picture taken at the right parties. But it's the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, I was in the Los Angeles office of Atlantic Records, who employed me at the time. It was my first time there, and I was making the rounds, putting faces to the people I communicated with on a daily basis. One of my last stops was the VP of A&R, who hadn't signed anything of real importance - most recently a band called Audiovent who's primary allure was that it contained the brothers of two of the guys in Incubus. But nevertheless he had a large office and unlimited supply of complimentary soft drinks, no doubt. Standing by his desk was a ruddy-faced kid, younger than me, probably about 19 or so. The department intern, I thought.
"Oh, have you met Kevin?" the VP asked.
"Hi," I said to the kid, extending my hand. "I work in the New York office." To be honest, I felt vaguely superior. I was only an executive assistant, but people knew me. After all, I had just walked into the office of the VP of A&R without knocking. While I had neither business cards nor any real influence, at least I didn't have to share a desk or spend my entire day stuffing padded envelopes.
"Kevin is our newest A&R rep," continued the VP. At this, Kevin smiled awkwardly and looked at his shoes. "He helped bring Audiovent to us."
This was the first time I realized that my very expensive college degree was no match for smoking weed with the brother of the guy from Incubus, as far as qualifications.
As I recall, Kevin was neither arrogant, nor especially hip. As the ideal demographic for pop music skews younger and the heavyweight executives get older, there occurs a frantic scrambling to latch onto anything or anyone who carried any semblance of relevance. So obscenely young and inexperienced people are hired, and their opinions are afforded an outrageous level of weight. Sometimes this goes to their head. But more often than not, they are shitcanned inside of a year when "restructuring" rolls around.
If anything, I'm a little amused to witness how an artist perceives the thoughts and motivations of those of us who work on this business side. Those of us who have to be somewhere every morning, sit at a desk and go through the motions of hawking art. Maybe we seem arrogant or self-important, incapable of understanding the artist since we must be analytical of mind and pretty much without a soul. We are, after all, agents of The Man.
Part of the artifice of the novel is how, on the surface, it's a series of independent vignettes about particular characters, the stories are all woven together in subtle ways. Central characters from one chapter pop up in the background of another as I read on, giving the whole thing a sort of loose structure. That's the one thing that I think rings true. This is a small world, this business - and a caste system in some ways. At the larger companies, unless you have a certain title, your usefulness is stripped down to whether or not you can be sent to Starbucks for lattes at 3PM. On the other hand, a person's overall clout is really nothing more than an illusion that can be crafted. It's all about getting your name out there, making sure everyone knows that you're a force to be reckoned with. I need to get better at this, I admit. My personal glory is never a concern, and I'm terrible at networking. My people will not be calling your people, and working a room gives me hives. But sometimes a reputation happens on its own.
Exhibit A: I was at a release part at the Hudson Hotel, thrown by Atlantic Records. It was a year or so after they had laid me off. Someone introduced me to Keith, who managed the Atlantic street teams. I had never had cause to deal with him while I worked there, but I had heard his name in passing. I shook his hand.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of you, " said Keith reverently. "They still talk about you. You wouldn't take shit from anyone."
There's also a healthy amount of self-loathing among almost all of the characters I've met so far in this book - the A&R guy is apathetic about his job, the rock star hates his fame, the label president feels like an inhuman dream-crusher, the sound engineer mourns the wife and children he left behind. I have to say, I have my moments of self-loathing, and they never have anything to do with my chosen line of work. Usually it's the result of stuff I do when I'm drunk. I mean, honestly - I've never met anyone who felt so resoundingly trapped in a gilded case littered with broken CD cases that they couldn't pack up and go work for a PR firm. This line of work is not as glamorous as it's often made out to be (we use a lot of Excel spreadsheets just like everyone else - sorry to disappoint), but I know that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. At this point, I'm not sure I'm really qualified to do anything else. Besides, I think I still have some remnants of my soul left.
What struck me this weekend, as I finished the chapter about the newly signed band member who struggles with the suicide of his ex-girlfriend (replete with shout-outs to Natalie Merchant, natch), is how utterly depressing the whole book felt. All of the characters seemed so painfully isolated. There is no mention of them having friends, and especially not friends within the business with whom they can commiserate or laugh about its inherent absurdity. This is the biggest fiction of all, at least given my own experience. The friends I've made over the course of my tenure in the music industry are my surrogate family, sometimes only because they can most acutely appreciate the singular experience of what we do. "It's like being in Vietnam," I sighed to my lawyer friend. "You can try to explain it to people who weren't there, but they can't really understand what it's like."
This all sounds quite romantic, I suddenly realize. How trite. That wasn't my intention. Every Tuesday at my office I have to take out the trash. There are certainly days when I question whether or not it wouldn't be better to move to Minnesota and work at a truck stop. At times I go home feeling like I had a productive day, but more often I find myself exhausted by the struggle of fighting against an industry where logic goes to die. It's like any job.
"You should write a book," Mike said to me once. More than once. We sat next to each other for three years, tortured in similar ways by the unglamorous and often ridiculous mechanics of selling music for a living. "You can't make this shit up."
Maybe I will write a book someday. Except it would be non-fiction. And it would be a comedy, I think. After all, it's only entertainment.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sensitive White Guys
I admit it, I can't get enough.
Throw in the ol' conceptual video as a kicker and, sweet mother of Mary, I don't wanna be right.
Throw in the ol' conceptual video as a kicker and, sweet mother of Mary, I don't wanna be right.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Rock & roll time
"I could just go back to my office for another two hours." The girl in the sweater set was bitching to the security guy outside the club last night. "It says 8:30 on the ticket."
I was waiting to pick up my will-call tickets at the window. No list tonight. I was keeping it real, standing on line with the rest of the proletariat. No pass, no laminate, no call to the tour manager to be whisked onto the bus. For all outward appearances, there was nothing to set me apart from the sweater set girl and her friend who were causing a scene and demanding to see the club manager. Except that I understand how rock shows operate.
Because of the usual crew I hang with, I guess I take for granted that there really are people out there who don't understand the concept of "rock & roll time." Sure, there's the time that's printed on the ticket. It's a guideline, folks, not an absolute. If the advertised start time says 9:00PM, depending on the club, that could mean anything from 11:00PM to the following Tuesday. Once we had a showcase for a band at Piano's. They told us our set time would be 9:00PM, so we naturally figured that meant around 10:00PM. In fact, our set time was 9:45PM, and the band didn't go on until almost 11:00PM. We were not amused, but no one demanded to see the club's manager. Rock & roll time, it happens. The band's lawyer did almost get into a fist fight with the sound guy, but that's an entirely different story.
This seemed to be the situation last night: Sweater Set and her equally straitlaced friend were there to see the headliner, a guy named Ari Hest who is apparently signed to Columbia Records. She felt quite put out by the fact that there might be other music happening besides Ari Hest, thus his set wouldn't start until 10:30PM - maybe. Clearly it didn't occur to her that she might enjoy the other music being offered, hence where she continued shrieking to anyone who would listen that it was totally unfair that she had to wait in the club for two! whole! hours! Ari Hest must have really awesome pyro or something.
On the other hand, I couldn't really sympathize since I wasn't there to see Ari Hest.
The Damnwells were playing.
Occasionally people ask me if I'm friends with the Damnwells. I'm not, despite the amount of zealous hyping I do on their behalf. I've never even met anyone in the band, not even bumped elbows at the bar. It's been a while since I went to any show that didn't involve either people I know socially or where my presence was required by the nature of my job. Work shows are entirely a different vibe - even if I like the band, I can never really like them too much because of the unspoken code Thou shalt not enjoy that which thou commissions. There is also a lot of talking shop, bemoaning the quality of the mix or where in the set the band played the current single. The having of the fun is minimal at best.
But I have no stake in The Damnwells. They just make me happy. I know, that's really uncool, maybe less cool than secretly listening to bands we manage at my desk. But that's just how it is, and I've made peace with it. It makes me a little relieved that I haven't turned into one of those dead-eyed cogs in the machine who just shrugs everything off as "not horrible." There is something deeply hopefully about their songs, a clear-eyed realism tempered with the idea that somehow it will all be OK, if not quite how you planned it. These songs aren't cynical and yet not above a well-placed middle finger when needed. I always walk away from a Damnwells show feeling better than I did before I went - even the one at the Knitting Factory where there was no air conditioning and I was standing in a puddle of my own sweat. Or the one at Mercury Lounge that started two hours late. Even those were worth it.
"I got married a couple of weeks ago," Alex Dezen said between songs. A smattering of applause. "Actually...some of you were there." He used to live in Brooklyn. There were some guttural shouts, presumably from his groomsmen. Possibly the officiating minister.
"Right, well, I wrote this song after I met my wife. But before we were fucking."
This a large part of the reason why I adore this band.
They ended the set with "Sleepsinging" - as they often do, I guess since it was (in theory) the radio single from the album that Epic released and then mostly ignored. It used to seem odd to me that they would close a generally upbeat, energetic set with a song that seems to be about rejection and disillusionment.
"I will never change," Alex Dezen wailed. "No."
I couldn't tell if he was having a good night or a bad one. From the moment the band stepped onstage, he had been possessed of a furious energy that I don't think I've seen before at any of their shows. He seemed intent of giving the best goddamn performance ever, whether you liked it or not.
"Will you ever change...No."
Maybe it's not such a sad song. Maybe it's a happy song with a healthy dose of perspective. Sometimes clarity is about accepting that things are not always perfect, people will let you down, and life is hard. Choosing to be happy despite all of that goes a long way.
I'm not sure that I need to be friends with The Damnwells. They've done enough for me as it is.
I was waiting to pick up my will-call tickets at the window. No list tonight. I was keeping it real, standing on line with the rest of the proletariat. No pass, no laminate, no call to the tour manager to be whisked onto the bus. For all outward appearances, there was nothing to set me apart from the sweater set girl and her friend who were causing a scene and demanding to see the club manager. Except that I understand how rock shows operate.
Because of the usual crew I hang with, I guess I take for granted that there really are people out there who don't understand the concept of "rock & roll time." Sure, there's the time that's printed on the ticket. It's a guideline, folks, not an absolute. If the advertised start time says 9:00PM, depending on the club, that could mean anything from 11:00PM to the following Tuesday. Once we had a showcase for a band at Piano's. They told us our set time would be 9:00PM, so we naturally figured that meant around 10:00PM. In fact, our set time was 9:45PM, and the band didn't go on until almost 11:00PM. We were not amused, but no one demanded to see the club's manager. Rock & roll time, it happens. The band's lawyer did almost get into a fist fight with the sound guy, but that's an entirely different story.
This seemed to be the situation last night: Sweater Set and her equally straitlaced friend were there to see the headliner, a guy named Ari Hest who is apparently signed to Columbia Records. She felt quite put out by the fact that there might be other music happening besides Ari Hest, thus his set wouldn't start until 10:30PM - maybe. Clearly it didn't occur to her that she might enjoy the other music being offered, hence where she continued shrieking to anyone who would listen that it was totally unfair that she had to wait in the club for two! whole! hours! Ari Hest must have really awesome pyro or something.
On the other hand, I couldn't really sympathize since I wasn't there to see Ari Hest.
The Damnwells were playing.
Occasionally people ask me if I'm friends with the Damnwells. I'm not, despite the amount of zealous hyping I do on their behalf. I've never even met anyone in the band, not even bumped elbows at the bar. It's been a while since I went to any show that didn't involve either people I know socially or where my presence was required by the nature of my job. Work shows are entirely a different vibe - even if I like the band, I can never really like them too much because of the unspoken code Thou shalt not enjoy that which thou commissions. There is also a lot of talking shop, bemoaning the quality of the mix or where in the set the band played the current single. The having of the fun is minimal at best.
But I have no stake in The Damnwells. They just make me happy. I know, that's really uncool, maybe less cool than secretly listening to bands we manage at my desk. But that's just how it is, and I've made peace with it. It makes me a little relieved that I haven't turned into one of those dead-eyed cogs in the machine who just shrugs everything off as "not horrible." There is something deeply hopefully about their songs, a clear-eyed realism tempered with the idea that somehow it will all be OK, if not quite how you planned it. These songs aren't cynical and yet not above a well-placed middle finger when needed. I always walk away from a Damnwells show feeling better than I did before I went - even the one at the Knitting Factory where there was no air conditioning and I was standing in a puddle of my own sweat. Or the one at Mercury Lounge that started two hours late. Even those were worth it.
"I got married a couple of weeks ago," Alex Dezen said between songs. A smattering of applause. "Actually...some of you were there." He used to live in Brooklyn. There were some guttural shouts, presumably from his groomsmen. Possibly the officiating minister.
"Right, well, I wrote this song after I met my wife. But before we were fucking."
This a large part of the reason why I adore this band.
They ended the set with "Sleepsinging" - as they often do, I guess since it was (in theory) the radio single from the album that Epic released and then mostly ignored. It used to seem odd to me that they would close a generally upbeat, energetic set with a song that seems to be about rejection and disillusionment.
"I will never change," Alex Dezen wailed. "No."
I couldn't tell if he was having a good night or a bad one. From the moment the band stepped onstage, he had been possessed of a furious energy that I don't think I've seen before at any of their shows. He seemed intent of giving the best goddamn performance ever, whether you liked it or not.
"Will you ever change...No."
Maybe it's not such a sad song. Maybe it's a happy song with a healthy dose of perspective. Sometimes clarity is about accepting that things are not always perfect, people will let you down, and life is hard. Choosing to be happy despite all of that goes a long way.
I'm not sure that I need to be friends with The Damnwells. They've done enough for me as it is.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Can we get some weed over here? STAT!
I make no secret of the fact that I'm a bit retarded for the Stereophonics.
I'm also strangely attracted to Kelly Jones, which I find surprising only because he's roughly the size of a 12 year-old girl. But when his hair is on point and he gets his strut on, he's pretty much like sexy from concentrate. And his casual whiskey-and-cigarettes habit seems to be working in his favor, much in the same way it did for Paul Weller. In fact, I would not be at all surprised to find that he was generated in a lab using some closely-guarded Weller DNA. Unlike Paul, though, KJ's vocal range is about as big as his waist measurement. But he's smart enough to only sing that which he knows he can make his bitch. Often without even breaking a sweat. Part of the reason why he's a little fox is the sheer effortlessness with which he, for instance, shows up the Black Crowes with their own song.
This is not to say that I will buy everything the Stereophonics machine tries to sell me. There is the unnecessary cover of the Rolling Stones' "Angie" - a song not even the dulcet rasp of Kelly Jones can endear to me. There is the hero worship of John Fogerty. Not to mention the song about the white trash wedding. But, much like his hair, when KJ is on point, he can make almost anything work.
My favorite Stereophonics album, as it turns out, was the one KJ wrote when they were all really, really high. As you do. It was full of dirrrty blues-rock about making out / breaking up with the laydeez. I loved every aspect of it - the hair, the wearing of scarves, the back-up singers. It was critically maligned across the board, although no one could deny that it spawned the "Maybe Tomorrow," the Best. Song. Ever.
I have 4 different versions of it. I never get tired of it. I love it acoustic, electric, solo, in a house, with a mouse. Really, the only thing that could make it better is if Kelly Clarkson covered it. It firmly cemented KJ as someone whom I would follow, if not blindly, than at least willingly enough to excuse the time he went onstage dressed like Hunter S. Thompson.
But then the next album came out, and there was an unfortunate dearth of back-up singers, keyboards and, apparently, marijuana. KJ was now all about leather jackets, wearing sunglasses onstage like a pocket-sized Bono, and one-word song titles. They made a bunch of wonky concept videos, one of which involved Jesus at a fashion show and KJ singing mostly in falsetto. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it was still not as great as I wanted it to be. I'm not even going to get into my distaste for "Doorman," which now seems to be a permanent fixture in the live set. Or the fact that someone I often point to as a gifted lyricist actually came up with "Suck my banana / Suck it with cream." Yeah. Let's not talk about that.
KJ now seems fairly determined to churn out a new release every year, reinventing the band in the process. So I was holding out a faint hope that the album that's due this fall would be somewhat of a return to him serving up some sex with that violence. Maybe a little more introspective, as opposed to punk songs directed at the bouncer who wouldn't let you into a club because doesn't he KNOW that you're Kelly Motherfucking Jones?
Apparently? Not so.
At this moment, I'm underwhelmed by "Bank Holiday Monday," which is evidently the first single in the UK. It's fast and shouty and seemingly devoid of any bump to go with its grind. I'm intrigued by the idea that "Daisy Lane" is a Beatles-esque track about a stabbing, so points there. They played "It Means Nothing" at the BBC's Radio 1 concert recently, and while I like the melody line, it seems to be a weak attempt at recapturing "Maybe Tomorrow." Except that it goes in circles and isn't half as lyrically interesting.
And did they really write a song about the war? Seriously? DO NOT WANT.
Come on, KJ. Be mama's little sex pixie again! Let me find your bong and pour you Crown Royale until you start dressing like Keith Richards and wailing about those bad, bad women who broke your heart.
But, if I'm going to be completely honest? I would listen to KJ read the Boise phone book while accompanied on the sitar by a drunk monkey. And so...I will buy the new album the day it hits iTunes, and I will learn all the words to the song about the stabbing. I will sing those words loud and proud when KJ and his cohorts, Big Rich and Javier The Happy Drummer, come back to the Bowery Ballroom to unleash their singular brand of slightly-less-sexy rock panache. Sans back-up singers, of course, but what can you do?
However I will be going to the bar during "Doorman."
I'm also strangely attracted to Kelly Jones, which I find surprising only because he's roughly the size of a 12 year-old girl. But when his hair is on point and he gets his strut on, he's pretty much like sexy from concentrate. And his casual whiskey-and-cigarettes habit seems to be working in his favor, much in the same way it did for Paul Weller. In fact, I would not be at all surprised to find that he was generated in a lab using some closely-guarded Weller DNA. Unlike Paul, though, KJ's vocal range is about as big as his waist measurement. But he's smart enough to only sing that which he knows he can make his bitch. Often without even breaking a sweat. Part of the reason why he's a little fox is the sheer effortlessness with which he, for instance, shows up the Black Crowes with their own song.
This is not to say that I will buy everything the Stereophonics machine tries to sell me. There is the unnecessary cover of the Rolling Stones' "Angie" - a song not even the dulcet rasp of Kelly Jones can endear to me. There is the hero worship of John Fogerty. Not to mention the song about the white trash wedding. But, much like his hair, when KJ is on point, he can make almost anything work.
My favorite Stereophonics album, as it turns out, was the one KJ wrote when they were all really, really high. As you do. It was full of dirrrty blues-rock about making out / breaking up with the laydeez. I loved every aspect of it - the hair, the wearing of scarves, the back-up singers. It was critically maligned across the board, although no one could deny that it spawned the "Maybe Tomorrow," the Best. Song. Ever.
I have 4 different versions of it. I never get tired of it. I love it acoustic, electric, solo, in a house, with a mouse. Really, the only thing that could make it better is if Kelly Clarkson covered it. It firmly cemented KJ as someone whom I would follow, if not blindly, than at least willingly enough to excuse the time he went onstage dressed like Hunter S. Thompson.
But then the next album came out, and there was an unfortunate dearth of back-up singers, keyboards and, apparently, marijuana. KJ was now all about leather jackets, wearing sunglasses onstage like a pocket-sized Bono, and one-word song titles. They made a bunch of wonky concept videos, one of which involved Jesus at a fashion show and KJ singing mostly in falsetto. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it was still not as great as I wanted it to be. I'm not even going to get into my distaste for "Doorman," which now seems to be a permanent fixture in the live set. Or the fact that someone I often point to as a gifted lyricist actually came up with "Suck my banana / Suck it with cream." Yeah. Let's not talk about that.
KJ now seems fairly determined to churn out a new release every year, reinventing the band in the process. So I was holding out a faint hope that the album that's due this fall would be somewhat of a return to him serving up some sex with that violence. Maybe a little more introspective, as opposed to punk songs directed at the bouncer who wouldn't let you into a club because doesn't he KNOW that you're Kelly Motherfucking Jones?
Apparently? Not so.
At this moment, I'm underwhelmed by "Bank Holiday Monday," which is evidently the first single in the UK. It's fast and shouty and seemingly devoid of any bump to go with its grind. I'm intrigued by the idea that "Daisy Lane" is a Beatles-esque track about a stabbing, so points there. They played "It Means Nothing" at the BBC's Radio 1 concert recently, and while I like the melody line, it seems to be a weak attempt at recapturing "Maybe Tomorrow." Except that it goes in circles and isn't half as lyrically interesting.
And did they really write a song about the war? Seriously? DO NOT WANT.
Come on, KJ. Be mama's little sex pixie again! Let me find your bong and pour you Crown Royale until you start dressing like Keith Richards and wailing about those bad, bad women who broke your heart.
But, if I'm going to be completely honest? I would listen to KJ read the Boise phone book while accompanied on the sitar by a drunk monkey. And so...I will buy the new album the day it hits iTunes, and I will learn all the words to the song about the stabbing. I will sing those words loud and proud when KJ and his cohorts, Big Rich and Javier The Happy Drummer, come back to the Bowery Ballroom to unleash their singular brand of slightly-less-sexy rock panache. Sans back-up singers, of course, but what can you do?
However I will be going to the bar during "Doorman."
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Just Saying: iTunes = 1, Logic = 0
Some thoughts on today's iTunes homepage:
The Staff Favorites section features Michael Bolton, ABBA and Barry Manilow. Maybe the irony train has finally pulled into that station, or maybe this goes a long way towards explaining why we can't get placement for any of our bands. They just don't like those dirty longhairs.
Lady Saw's new album features a track called "No Less Than A Woman (Infertility)." Everyone needs an anthem, I guess.
The Staff Favorites section features Michael Bolton, ABBA and Barry Manilow. Maybe the irony train has finally pulled into that station, or maybe this goes a long way towards explaining why we can't get placement for any of our bands. They just don't like those dirty longhairs.
Lady Saw's new album features a track called "No Less Than A Woman (Infertility)." Everyone needs an anthem, I guess.
After considering the wide breadth of my musical taste, Just For You recommends that I might also like Lindsay Lohan, Teddy Geiger, and a techno reworking of "Walking In Memphis" - which, to be honest, is pretty outstanding.
Buy a Barbie pink iPod nano for your Mom! iPod - $149.00 (plus shipping). Engraving - free. Countless, maddening hours spent on the phone trying to explain to Mom how an iPod works - Priceless.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Five Albums You Should Have Liked All Along (A Cautionary Tale)
We've all been there. You're minding your own business, losing a little bit more of your soul to the corporate machine, when you hear the faint strains of quality music drifting over from the next cubicle. Suddenly the otherwise competent, saavy person next to you says, "Hey, I'm really getting into this Frou Frou album - have you heard it?"
At which point it is your right - nay, your very duty! - to laugh in their face or, at the very least, subject them to a withering eye roll. Not necessarily because you are lucky enough to have Captain Calamity on your side to hip you to this stuff 18 months before it gets its turn through the VH1 meat-grinder, making it safe for popular consumption. You must mock this person so they learn not only the important lesson of keeping up with decent music but that you never admit to anyone else that you just bought an album that came out 5 years ago. Denial is half the battle.
Friends don't let friends experience this kind of shame. Get with the program. I won't tell if you won't.
Duncan Sheik / Daylight (2002)
Kind of par for the course, really - Atlantic Records manages to completely mishandle the most commercial-sounding album the guy has ever made. Yes, even moreso than the one that spawned "Barely Breathing" and made it a veritable standard in dentist offices across the nation. I know a lot of people got forever turned off when that song reached ubiquitous levels because, yeah, we get it - you can't find the air. And even if you were able to avoid that, he started churning out that Buddhist-inspired weirdness and getting all tedious and low-fi and making Low look like balls-to-the-wall rock and rollers. But for one shining moment, he got his shit together and wrote some fantastic, unconventionally hooky songs about grown-up relationships, personal reinvention, conversations with Satan, and the strange experience of seeing someone you used to sleep with posing naked in a widely-distributed publication.
Ricky Warwick / Tattoos & Alibis (2003)
When you stop to consider that Ricky Warwick used to be the frontman for The Almighty and wrote songs called "Meathook" and "White Anger Comedown," it makes it all the more amazing that he released a solo album that's a) largely acoustic and b) capably articulates the sentiment of "Here's to your enemies / Be sure that you wish them all the best from me" without the benefit of crushing guitars or the slightest hint of irony. I only became aware of his existence because he was opening up amphitheater shows for Def Leppard...playing acoustic by himself, which is pretty ballsy in front of a crowd that's drunk on Miller Lite and waiting to rock out to "Pour Some Sugar On Me." The first time that I saw him, I had a good laugh over the fact that he started his set with a song called "Mysterioso." Because, seriously? The chorus was "This world is so mysterioso." The burly Irish metal guy was making up words. But I saw a lot of Def Leppard shows on that tour, and at some point that damn "Mysterioso" song got catchier and catchier. Made-up words aside, Ricky Warwick is an excellent lyricist for a man who wears a cut-off denim vest.
BT / Movement In Still Life (2000)
Sometimes it takes a really pretty white boy from Maryland to put some soul back into electronic music. At times, BT is sort of like Trent Reznor after a heavy dose of Zoloft and some excellent highlights. After spending a lot of time trying to make people dance (see also: "do ecstacy in a field") to Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos - often with mixed results, since college-girl angst + breakbeats = awkward - he released his own album and created a varied soundscape of hip-hop, trance and spoken word (M. Doughty loves those English girls with ghetto names, by the way). Ironically enough for a producer/DJ, it's best realized with his own vocals on the melancholy epic "Shame." Sometimes it doesn't have to be all about pigs and shit and fucking, eh, Trent? Just putting that out there. Sometimes the people just want to get funky. NB: I was kind of torn, to be honest, between this and the 2003 follow-up Emotional Technology. As a matter of fact, get both.
Mike Viola & The Candy Butchers / Falling Into Place (1999)
For those times when you find Fountains of Wayne too self-consciously irreverant and Elvis Costello too much of an asshole, Mike Viola has all your retro-influenced, tie-wearing indie-pop needs covered. As a matter of fact, he rocks a lot more than both of the aforementioned and injects a lot darker edge. Who doesn't enjoy a healthy dose of self-hating with their Wurlitzer? Then again I would probably hate myself a little too if my primary claim to fame was handling vocal duties on "That Thing You Do!"
Moke / Carnival (2001)
England, in general, rocks pretty hard.
Except when we're talking about Mika, in which case it swishes extravagantly and sings in falsetto.
This is not Mika.
At which point it is your right - nay, your very duty! - to laugh in their face or, at the very least, subject them to a withering eye roll. Not necessarily because you are lucky enough to have Captain Calamity on your side to hip you to this stuff 18 months before it gets its turn through the VH1 meat-grinder, making it safe for popular consumption. You must mock this person so they learn not only the important lesson of keeping up with decent music but that you never admit to anyone else that you just bought an album that came out 5 years ago. Denial is half the battle.
Friends don't let friends experience this kind of shame. Get with the program. I won't tell if you won't.
Duncan Sheik / Daylight (2002)Kind of par for the course, really - Atlantic Records manages to completely mishandle the most commercial-sounding album the guy has ever made. Yes, even moreso than the one that spawned "Barely Breathing" and made it a veritable standard in dentist offices across the nation. I know a lot of people got forever turned off when that song reached ubiquitous levels because, yeah, we get it - you can't find the air. And even if you were able to avoid that, he started churning out that Buddhist-inspired weirdness and getting all tedious and low-fi and making Low look like balls-to-the-wall rock and rollers. But for one shining moment, he got his shit together and wrote some fantastic, unconventionally hooky songs about grown-up relationships, personal reinvention, conversations with Satan, and the strange experience of seeing someone you used to sleep with posing naked in a widely-distributed publication.
Ricky Warwick / Tattoos & Alibis (2003)When you stop to consider that Ricky Warwick used to be the frontman for The Almighty and wrote songs called "Meathook" and "White Anger Comedown," it makes it all the more amazing that he released a solo album that's a) largely acoustic and b) capably articulates the sentiment of "Here's to your enemies / Be sure that you wish them all the best from me" without the benefit of crushing guitars or the slightest hint of irony. I only became aware of his existence because he was opening up amphitheater shows for Def Leppard...playing acoustic by himself, which is pretty ballsy in front of a crowd that's drunk on Miller Lite and waiting to rock out to "Pour Some Sugar On Me." The first time that I saw him, I had a good laugh over the fact that he started his set with a song called "Mysterioso." Because, seriously? The chorus was "This world is so mysterioso." The burly Irish metal guy was making up words. But I saw a lot of Def Leppard shows on that tour, and at some point that damn "Mysterioso" song got catchier and catchier. Made-up words aside, Ricky Warwick is an excellent lyricist for a man who wears a cut-off denim vest.
BT / Movement In Still Life (2000)Sometimes it takes a really pretty white boy from Maryland to put some soul back into electronic music. At times, BT is sort of like Trent Reznor after a heavy dose of Zoloft and some excellent highlights. After spending a lot of time trying to make people dance (see also: "do ecstacy in a field") to Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos - often with mixed results, since college-girl angst + breakbeats = awkward - he released his own album and created a varied soundscape of hip-hop, trance and spoken word (M. Doughty loves those English girls with ghetto names, by the way). Ironically enough for a producer/DJ, it's best realized with his own vocals on the melancholy epic "Shame." Sometimes it doesn't have to be all about pigs and shit and fucking, eh, Trent? Just putting that out there. Sometimes the people just want to get funky. NB: I was kind of torn, to be honest, between this and the 2003 follow-up Emotional Technology. As a matter of fact, get both.
Mike Viola & The Candy Butchers / Falling Into Place (1999)For those times when you find Fountains of Wayne too self-consciously irreverant and Elvis Costello too much of an asshole, Mike Viola has all your retro-influenced, tie-wearing indie-pop needs covered. As a matter of fact, he rocks a lot more than both of the aforementioned and injects a lot darker edge. Who doesn't enjoy a healthy dose of self-hating with their Wurlitzer? Then again I would probably hate myself a little too if my primary claim to fame was handling vocal duties on "That Thing You Do!"
Moke / Carnival (2001)England, in general, rocks pretty hard.
Except when we're talking about Mika, in which case it swishes extravagantly and sings in falsetto.
This is not Mika.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
How (Not) To Pre-Pay A Rental Car
As far as my job is concerned, the SXSW Music Festival in Austin is arguably the least important thing that happens every year. But it happens every year, and every year we scramble to have our bands accepted, get good slots at showcases that involve free beer and pulled meat, and someone usually takes his pants off in an airport. I don't know that we've ever gotten a band signed as a result of SXSW. Or that anyone from my office who goes actually remembers anything that happens. And every year something - often more than one thing - goes wrong. This year was no exception.
I should mention: I've been awake since 5:30AM this morning. So was Leslie. She had to organize a rally against the governor's proposed health care cuts. I had to go to the doctor. Leslie has a real job. I burn CDs and make sure the drummer will show up on time to his meet & greet at the go-cart track. Perspective is everything.
There were 4 missed calls on my cell phone when I finally got to work around 11:00AM. One of my bands was flying out to Austin this morning, and I had a suspicion that all would not be well. Because, well, I have travelled before. And because putting any band on a plane unattended by a tour manager, mother or other supervisory figure of some sort generally guarantees that it will be delayed, hijacked, diverted or run out of kosher vegan meals. No one in a band is equipped for these kind of crises, except maybe Henry Rollins. He seems resourceful.
Three of the missed calls were from Mark, my lead singer - he never leaves a message, which I find both irritating and a general indication that whatever he wants isn't that important. One was from Jenny, our online coordinator, who happened to be on the same flight as the band. She did leave the following message: "Hey, we're in San Antonio. They might be letting us off the plane. Call me back."
San Antonio was not on the itinerary. The flight was supposed to connect in Houston before going on to Austin. Simple. Mark's band had a gig tonight, which was why I put them on an ungodly early flight in the first place. But nevertheless, ATA had made the executive decision to divert the flight into San Antonio. Due to "low cloud cover." This sounds suspect, even to me, and I've had flights delayed for everything from "broken plane" to "missing flight attendant" to the Continental Airlines specialty "You're going to board like everything is fine and then sit on the tarmac for 3 hours."
"They might be letting us off here," Jenny told me. "Can you book us a rental car? I guess we can just drive to Austin."
Not a bad solution, considering. It's only about a 90 minute drive. The band would still make their 5:00PM gig, assuming they managed to collect all their gear off the flight in one piece and in a relatively timely manner. Yeah, I know, I said I'd travelled before, but bear with me. It was still early in the day. I reserved a mini-van on Expedia and emailed Jenny the confirmation.
Jenny called me back 15 minutes later. "Never mind. They say they can't let us off the plane. It would be illegal." Oh, ATA! You kidders! You certainly had us going there for a second! So it seemed they were all doomed to linger in the purgatory of San Antonio until the vicious assault of cumulus clouds abated. However long that might take.
Still holding out hope they might make their connecting Southwest flight in Houston, I called ATA Customer Service, which routed me (naturally) to India. India did not help me. India put me on hold for 3 to 5 minutes every time I asked a question. India was really not the right way to go at this point. Both India and Texas were slowly working their way off my list of places near and dear to my heart.
Next I called Southwest Customer Service, which connected me to a very nice woman who probably wasn't working in a windowless room in Asia Minor. I explained the situation and asked what was up with the weather in Texas. "That's really strange," she said. "I mean, we had some fog issues around 7:00AM this morning, but everything should be fine now." But Southwest wasn't going to hold the connecting flight. Clearly they're well aware of the general importance of SXSW to any of our bands' careers.
It was just after lunch. Jenny called. They had made it to Houston, but there were no flights available to Austin until 8:00PM that night. If they rented a car and hauled major ass, there was still a chance that Mark would make his gig. That is, if the band could find their gear. Which wasn't happening at that precise moment. ATA had apparently eaten some guitars and possibly a set of cymbals. It seemed par for the course. Maybe India has a racket going on "misplaced" band equipment. I made the reservation on Expedia for another mini-van, not thinking that someone who was physically in Houston was going to have to pay for it. This became an issue rather quickly.
At this point, it had become a little hard to contain that something is wrong and that I was having trouble fixing it. I have a corporate American Express card with an insane credit limit that is essentially useless to anyone in this situation. People in the office are yelling at me. The fundamental lesson that I learned from this entire episode is this: you cannot pre-pay a rental car as a third party. No way, no how. Unless your ass is physically sitting in the motherfucker in some capacity, you cannot pay for it. I tried. I almost cursed out the woman at Alamo. I even called our trusty travel agent to see if she knew any super-secret backdoor trickery that could be used (she didn't). It became clear that my only option was to somehow get money from me to Jenny, so she could pay for the rental car. This meant going to Gina.
Gina never wants to hear that you need money. Especially not emergency money.
"I need to transfer $850 into Jenny's bank account, right now," I explained, which - to the already beleaguered CFO of a small company - sounds sort of like "I want to set fire to your dog." She reacted accordingly.
The next thing I know, I am RUNNING IN THE RAIN up 6th Avenue to the closest Bank of America. It's very cinematic. Someone somewhere ought to be playing "Chariots of Fire." After barreling 2 blocks at full speed, I had an uncontrollable coughing fit during which I'm fairly certain I lost control of my bladder. Yes, I have pissed myself in the line of duty. I have had better days, to be sure. Bank of America, fortunately, was deserted and the very nice teller very pleasantly took $850 in cash off my hands without commenting on the fact that I looked quite deranged and couldn't breathe. I suppose had the transaction been reversed, it probably wouldn't have gone as smoothly.
Jenny called me 5 minutes after I got back to the office.
"Please tell me that you're in the car," I said.
"...can I get a strawberry margarita...?" she said to someone other than me. "Hey, hi. So let me start at the beginning and just tell you the whole thing." The beginning, as far as I was concerned at this point, was not a very good place to start. And yet. Previously on...Hipsters In Houston:
As it turns out, they missed their connection in Houston by all of 13 minutes, which is enough For the love of Christ! to be irritating but a long enough time not to conjure images a la Home Alone of a rag-tag bunch of New Yorkers tearing through the Houston Hobby airport on their way to the gate, only to left behind, dejected.
"And then Mark left his boarding pass and luggage claim stub on the plane," Jenny continued. Oh, of course. Mark is a lot of things. Excellent front man. Undercover metrosexual. Armenian. And not least of all sort of useless in times of stress. Which, I suppose, is where I come in. Or where I would come in, if I wasn't saddled with the black death and 1500 miles away.
As it turned out, Alamo didn't have any mini-vans at all, despite letting me make a reservation online. Oh, ha ha! Joke's on me! They did, however, have an SUV that Mark was able to rent and get the band on the road. Immediately after he found out that his gig was cancelled anyway. Jenny managed to negotiate her way onto another Southwest flight into Austin.
"So I'm just going to sit here and get drunk and wait for my flight at 6:00PM," Jenny concluded. "I'll get the car receipts from Mark tomorrow and give him cash for the car."
I would very much like to get very drunk as well - in triumph as well as in solidarity with my wards, who I doubt are going to know their own names in a few hours. But I'm still heavily medicated for another few days.
For the moment, though, all seems well on the SXSW front. Or at least as good as it's going to get.
As for me, I'm going to go home and change my pants.
I should mention: I've been awake since 5:30AM this morning. So was Leslie. She had to organize a rally against the governor's proposed health care cuts. I had to go to the doctor. Leslie has a real job. I burn CDs and make sure the drummer will show up on time to his meet & greet at the go-cart track. Perspective is everything.
There were 4 missed calls on my cell phone when I finally got to work around 11:00AM. One of my bands was flying out to Austin this morning, and I had a suspicion that all would not be well. Because, well, I have travelled before. And because putting any band on a plane unattended by a tour manager, mother or other supervisory figure of some sort generally guarantees that it will be delayed, hijacked, diverted or run out of kosher vegan meals. No one in a band is equipped for these kind of crises, except maybe Henry Rollins. He seems resourceful.
Three of the missed calls were from Mark, my lead singer - he never leaves a message, which I find both irritating and a general indication that whatever he wants isn't that important. One was from Jenny, our online coordinator, who happened to be on the same flight as the band. She did leave the following message: "Hey, we're in San Antonio. They might be letting us off the plane. Call me back."
San Antonio was not on the itinerary. The flight was supposed to connect in Houston before going on to Austin. Simple. Mark's band had a gig tonight, which was why I put them on an ungodly early flight in the first place. But nevertheless, ATA had made the executive decision to divert the flight into San Antonio. Due to "low cloud cover." This sounds suspect, even to me, and I've had flights delayed for everything from "broken plane" to "missing flight attendant" to the Continental Airlines specialty "You're going to board like everything is fine and then sit on the tarmac for 3 hours."
"They might be letting us off here," Jenny told me. "Can you book us a rental car? I guess we can just drive to Austin."
Not a bad solution, considering. It's only about a 90 minute drive. The band would still make their 5:00PM gig, assuming they managed to collect all their gear off the flight in one piece and in a relatively timely manner. Yeah, I know, I said I'd travelled before, but bear with me. It was still early in the day. I reserved a mini-van on Expedia and emailed Jenny the confirmation.
Jenny called me back 15 minutes later. "Never mind. They say they can't let us off the plane. It would be illegal." Oh, ATA! You kidders! You certainly had us going there for a second! So it seemed they were all doomed to linger in the purgatory of San Antonio until the vicious assault of cumulus clouds abated. However long that might take.
Still holding out hope they might make their connecting Southwest flight in Houston, I called ATA Customer Service, which routed me (naturally) to India. India did not help me. India put me on hold for 3 to 5 minutes every time I asked a question. India was really not the right way to go at this point. Both India and Texas were slowly working their way off my list of places near and dear to my heart.
Next I called Southwest Customer Service, which connected me to a very nice woman who probably wasn't working in a windowless room in Asia Minor. I explained the situation and asked what was up with the weather in Texas. "That's really strange," she said. "I mean, we had some fog issues around 7:00AM this morning, but everything should be fine now." But Southwest wasn't going to hold the connecting flight. Clearly they're well aware of the general importance of SXSW to any of our bands' careers.
It was just after lunch. Jenny called. They had made it to Houston, but there were no flights available to Austin until 8:00PM that night. If they rented a car and hauled major ass, there was still a chance that Mark would make his gig. That is, if the band could find their gear. Which wasn't happening at that precise moment. ATA had apparently eaten some guitars and possibly a set of cymbals. It seemed par for the course. Maybe India has a racket going on "misplaced" band equipment. I made the reservation on Expedia for another mini-van, not thinking that someone who was physically in Houston was going to have to pay for it. This became an issue rather quickly.
At this point, it had become a little hard to contain that something is wrong and that I was having trouble fixing it. I have a corporate American Express card with an insane credit limit that is essentially useless to anyone in this situation. People in the office are yelling at me. The fundamental lesson that I learned from this entire episode is this: you cannot pre-pay a rental car as a third party. No way, no how. Unless your ass is physically sitting in the motherfucker in some capacity, you cannot pay for it. I tried. I almost cursed out the woman at Alamo. I even called our trusty travel agent to see if she knew any super-secret backdoor trickery that could be used (she didn't). It became clear that my only option was to somehow get money from me to Jenny, so she could pay for the rental car. This meant going to Gina.
Gina never wants to hear that you need money. Especially not emergency money.
"I need to transfer $850 into Jenny's bank account, right now," I explained, which - to the already beleaguered CFO of a small company - sounds sort of like "I want to set fire to your dog." She reacted accordingly.
The next thing I know, I am RUNNING IN THE RAIN up 6th Avenue to the closest Bank of America. It's very cinematic. Someone somewhere ought to be playing "Chariots of Fire." After barreling 2 blocks at full speed, I had an uncontrollable coughing fit during which I'm fairly certain I lost control of my bladder. Yes, I have pissed myself in the line of duty. I have had better days, to be sure. Bank of America, fortunately, was deserted and the very nice teller very pleasantly took $850 in cash off my hands without commenting on the fact that I looked quite deranged and couldn't breathe. I suppose had the transaction been reversed, it probably wouldn't have gone as smoothly.
Jenny called me 5 minutes after I got back to the office.
"Please tell me that you're in the car," I said.
"...can I get a strawberry margarita...?" she said to someone other than me. "Hey, hi. So let me start at the beginning and just tell you the whole thing." The beginning, as far as I was concerned at this point, was not a very good place to start. And yet. Previously on...Hipsters In Houston:
As it turns out, they missed their connection in Houston by all of 13 minutes, which is enough For the love of Christ! to be irritating but a long enough time not to conjure images a la Home Alone of a rag-tag bunch of New Yorkers tearing through the Houston Hobby airport on their way to the gate, only to left behind, dejected.
"And then Mark left his boarding pass and luggage claim stub on the plane," Jenny continued. Oh, of course. Mark is a lot of things. Excellent front man. Undercover metrosexual. Armenian. And not least of all sort of useless in times of stress. Which, I suppose, is where I come in. Or where I would come in, if I wasn't saddled with the black death and 1500 miles away.
As it turned out, Alamo didn't have any mini-vans at all, despite letting me make a reservation online. Oh, ha ha! Joke's on me! They did, however, have an SUV that Mark was able to rent and get the band on the road. Immediately after he found out that his gig was cancelled anyway. Jenny managed to negotiate her way onto another Southwest flight into Austin.
"So I'm just going to sit here and get drunk and wait for my flight at 6:00PM," Jenny concluded. "I'll get the car receipts from Mark tomorrow and give him cash for the car."
I would very much like to get very drunk as well - in triumph as well as in solidarity with my wards, who I doubt are going to know their own names in a few hours. But I'm still heavily medicated for another few days.
For the moment, though, all seems well on the SXSW front. Or at least as good as it's going to get.
As for me, I'm going to go home and change my pants.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Great Moments In Music Licensing
Every time I watch the Oscars, I'm reminded of the fact that even had I not strayed away from the ordained path of film production after college, my chances of having the opportunity to thank God, the Academy, the Russian woman who does my waxing and the teachers of America were pretty slim. Not only was I was an outstandingly terrible director, but I wanted more than anything in the whole world to be a music supervisor. In the world of film school, that's like aspiring to be a key grip. No one thinks it's a real job and, even if it is, no one has any idea what it means other than it probably won't get you invited to Harvey Weinstein's after-party.
The argument could be made that giving out Oscars for music supervision is akin to giving Grammys to DJs. Although, to be fair, P. Diddy won a Grammy for essentially re-purposing The Police. So let's not get on our high horse, entertainment industry. On the other hand, I can understand the backlash. Movie soundtracks have largely become marketing tools that are littered with throwaway tracks from the distributing label's roster or exercises in bargain bin licensing, having nothing to do with the movie at all (maybe some current single gets a shout-out in the closing credits). And then "The O.C." slinks into popular consciousness, plays a different Spoon song over every Important Scene, and huzzah! Music supervision is the cool with the kids! (Don't get me started on Garden State because I might roll my eyes so hard that I'll do permanent damage.)
When I was 14 and largely unconcerned with my future beyond the next issue of TV Guide, I remember watching the mini-series adaptation of Stephen King's The Stand and being deeply effected by a single scene involving the music of Crowded House. I made the decision right then that if picking music that went in movies was an actual job, then that was the job for me. My parents thought this was as viable a career choice as when I had announced I was going to join the Thundercats when I grew up.
And still, despite awards for Best Assistant Director (retired in 1937, to the outrage of coffee-fetchers everywhere) and Best Original Song By Randy Newman, the Academy is still unwilling to recognize that music supervision done right is an art. Maybe it will happen someday, through lobbying or Graeme Ravell holding a member of the Academy hostage. Maybe they'll call it the Zach Braff Memorial Award For Excellence In Making An iMix For A Motion Picture. Who knows. But in the meantime I’d like to share a few of my favorite moments in music supervision, since these strokes of genius are unlikely to receive any formal recognition anytime soon. Naturally, I'll begin at the beginning.
"Don't Dream It's Over" / The Stand
I had just finished plowing through all 1000+ pages of the novel a month or so before this aired. For those unaware, The Stand asks what would happen if all but 5% of the world's population were wiped out in a matter of days by a highly contagious disease. And then Satan showed up. I'm disappointed that I couldn't find the clip of the way the song was actually used in the movie - underscoring a montage of shots of empty streets, bodies left where they fell, the few survivors mourning their loves ones while fleeing The Evil. A haunting portrait of a realistic apocalypse. I challenge you to find anything half as effective involving any combination of Mischa Barton and Death Cab For Cutie.
"Down With The Sickness" / Dawn of the Dead
Pure genius, especially given that it's a movie about zombies. When I saw this in the theater, I actually clapped. And no one does that anymore, except maybe if Jeremy Piven gets punched in the face because who doesn't want to punch Jeremy Piven? At this point in the film, Ving Rhames, et al have set up shop quite comfortably in a suburban mall and are making the best of it, despite the frenzied mob of brain-eating undead that's amassed in the parking lot. It's an excellent exercise in irony on several levels, not least of which is using Richard Cheese's version of a laughably over dramatic Disturbed song. I’d like to point out that I spent some time on IMDB, trying to find and credit the music supervisor (who also had the stroke of good taste to use the Stereophonics’ “Have A Nice Day” during the opening credits), but no such luck. They have a credit for the “third assistant accountant,” though. Just saying.
"Wise Up" / Magnolia
Generally I dislike Magnolia for being an overlong, indulgent, meandering mess (although it did paint a believable portrait of Tom Cruise as an insane cult leader - synergy!). However, I have to give Paul Thomas Anderson credit for the following: writing a screenplay inspired largely by the Aimee Mann songs he went on to use in the film and having the insane vision to employ this much-maligned technique of breaking the 4th wall. Just enough to emphasize the spectacularly relevant lyrics and connect each of the characters at a similar point in their individual downward spirals. I remember very few specifics from the film, but I've always thought of this scene as groundbreaking and a less than subtle example of what good supervision is supposed to achieve.
Opening Credits / Inside Man
I have an affection for Inside Man for two simple reasons: Clive Owen (who is hot) and the fact that it was both set and filmed two blocks from my apartment. The building that was used as Manhattan Trust Bank is now something called "Beaver Bar" - I don't even want to know - with a large yellow banner and a wry-looking cartoon beaver, enticing passers-by to "Come on in." I'll take a pass, thanks. But, really, one of the most excellent moments in the film happens in the first few frames: the remixed version of "Chaiyya Chaiyya" that plays over the opening credits captures both the uneasy multiculturalism of New York City as well as the impending cat-and-mouse between crook and cop. I half expected Spike to trot out some tired jam by Public Enemy. Happy surprises all around. And Clive Owen? Hot.
The argument could be made that giving out Oscars for music supervision is akin to giving Grammys to DJs. Although, to be fair, P. Diddy won a Grammy for essentially re-purposing The Police. So let's not get on our high horse, entertainment industry. On the other hand, I can understand the backlash. Movie soundtracks have largely become marketing tools that are littered with throwaway tracks from the distributing label's roster or exercises in bargain bin licensing, having nothing to do with the movie at all (maybe some current single gets a shout-out in the closing credits). And then "The O.C." slinks into popular consciousness, plays a different Spoon song over every Important Scene, and huzzah! Music supervision is the cool with the kids! (Don't get me started on Garden State because I might roll my eyes so hard that I'll do permanent damage.)
When I was 14 and largely unconcerned with my future beyond the next issue of TV Guide, I remember watching the mini-series adaptation of Stephen King's The Stand and being deeply effected by a single scene involving the music of Crowded House. I made the decision right then that if picking music that went in movies was an actual job, then that was the job for me. My parents thought this was as viable a career choice as when I had announced I was going to join the Thundercats when I grew up.
And still, despite awards for Best Assistant Director (retired in 1937, to the outrage of coffee-fetchers everywhere) and Best Original Song By Randy Newman, the Academy is still unwilling to recognize that music supervision done right is an art. Maybe it will happen someday, through lobbying or Graeme Ravell holding a member of the Academy hostage. Maybe they'll call it the Zach Braff Memorial Award For Excellence In Making An iMix For A Motion Picture. Who knows. But in the meantime I’d like to share a few of my favorite moments in music supervision, since these strokes of genius are unlikely to receive any formal recognition anytime soon. Naturally, I'll begin at the beginning.
"Don't Dream It's Over" / The Stand
I had just finished plowing through all 1000+ pages of the novel a month or so before this aired. For those unaware, The Stand asks what would happen if all but 5% of the world's population were wiped out in a matter of days by a highly contagious disease. And then Satan showed up. I'm disappointed that I couldn't find the clip of the way the song was actually used in the movie - underscoring a montage of shots of empty streets, bodies left where they fell, the few survivors mourning their loves ones while fleeing The Evil. A haunting portrait of a realistic apocalypse. I challenge you to find anything half as effective involving any combination of Mischa Barton and Death Cab For Cutie.
"Down With The Sickness" / Dawn of the Dead
Pure genius, especially given that it's a movie about zombies. When I saw this in the theater, I actually clapped. And no one does that anymore, except maybe if Jeremy Piven gets punched in the face because who doesn't want to punch Jeremy Piven? At this point in the film, Ving Rhames, et al have set up shop quite comfortably in a suburban mall and are making the best of it, despite the frenzied mob of brain-eating undead that's amassed in the parking lot. It's an excellent exercise in irony on several levels, not least of which is using Richard Cheese's version of a laughably over dramatic Disturbed song. I’d like to point out that I spent some time on IMDB, trying to find and credit the music supervisor (who also had the stroke of good taste to use the Stereophonics’ “Have A Nice Day” during the opening credits), but no such luck. They have a credit for the “third assistant accountant,” though. Just saying.
"Wise Up" / Magnolia
Generally I dislike Magnolia for being an overlong, indulgent, meandering mess (although it did paint a believable portrait of Tom Cruise as an insane cult leader - synergy!). However, I have to give Paul Thomas Anderson credit for the following: writing a screenplay inspired largely by the Aimee Mann songs he went on to use in the film and having the insane vision to employ this much-maligned technique of breaking the 4th wall. Just enough to emphasize the spectacularly relevant lyrics and connect each of the characters at a similar point in their individual downward spirals. I remember very few specifics from the film, but I've always thought of this scene as groundbreaking and a less than subtle example of what good supervision is supposed to achieve.
Opening Credits / Inside Man
I have an affection for Inside Man for two simple reasons: Clive Owen (who is hot) and the fact that it was both set and filmed two blocks from my apartment. The building that was used as Manhattan Trust Bank is now something called "Beaver Bar" - I don't even want to know - with a large yellow banner and a wry-looking cartoon beaver, enticing passers-by to "Come on in." I'll take a pass, thanks. But, really, one of the most excellent moments in the film happens in the first few frames: the remixed version of "Chaiyya Chaiyya" that plays over the opening credits captures both the uneasy multiculturalism of New York City as well as the impending cat-and-mouse between crook and cop. I half expected Spike to trot out some tired jam by Public Enemy. Happy surprises all around. And Clive Owen? Hot.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Just Saying: Geek Rock Edition
The new Fall Out Boy video was on VH1 this morning.
Hey, guys?
Barenaked Ladies called. They want their schtick back.
But you can keep the eyeliner.
Hey, guys?
Barenaked Ladies called. They want their schtick back.
But you can keep the eyeliner.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The song remains the same
There are two things that keep me sane when it all seems to have gone wrong (again): Annie Lennox and writing it all down. The latter isn't terribly practical, at least not in a public forum. Who wants to be one of those people of dubious mental stability on the subway, scribbling in a little notebooks and looking balefully at their fellow passengers? I try to keep my level of overt instability down to a shout when possible. So in addition to being the more discreet and portable option for sanity maintenance, Annie Lennox is more eloquent than I am in matters of emotional exposition. And Scottish, which also counts for a lot.
Last night, as I was shuffling along yet another street on another night, surfing another wave of familiar melancholy, "Cold" came up on the playlist, the one I specifically engineered for walks such as this. Not exactly the Walk of Shame, more the Dramatic Stride of Pretending This Is Your Montage Sequence. It is very cold and I am sick and I felt well entitled to my flagrant wallowing.
This playlist which has so often gloriously exacerbated my dark moods has its genesis in a mix CD that I first made during my last year of high school. At first it was one volume and then two. I wore it out, I had to remake it. Sometimes a few of the selections changed, most made the transition. When I got my first iPod - the one that weighed 4 lbs and only had 15 minutes of battery life on a good day - the first playlist I made was comprised of those songs I felt were in it for the long haul. It even kept the same title as it's predecessor.
Quite obviously, the main advantage of a playlist over the mixtapes of yore is that playlists are infinitely fluid, adaptable. You can add and delete at your leisure without sacrificing $20 worth of blank CDs. Your number of tracks is limitless. Gone are the limitations of physical media! Nevertheless, this was one playlist to which I gave strict guidelines. It would be serving a highly specialized purpose, as it had in its original incarnation. It was the Navy SEALs of playlists. I've added things to it, but only after careful consideration - "How much this really make me want to cry deep, wrenching sobs of despair?" In reality, though, the same songs that I painstakingly burned on that mix CD almost a decade ago have served me well all this time.
But last night a strange thing happened as I began my shuffle of impending montage. Instead of settling into the comforting sit bath of self-imposed depression, I had a startling jolt of clarity. I had walked down a different street on a different night, surfing a different wave of righteous self-pity over a different mess. I listen to this same playlist each time that I go screeching into the brick wall of reality and begin to think that my best option is to hurl myself in front of the M6 bus, hope that reincarnation is real, and start over again. Hopefully not as a spider monkey or an Arquette.
Last night, the playlist got a little fed up with me.
"Don't be a silly twat," said Annie Lennox in her dulcet tones. "This too shall pass."
I'm not going to mess with Annie Lennox. She hasn't done me wrong yet.
Last night, as I was shuffling along yet another street on another night, surfing another wave of familiar melancholy, "Cold" came up on the playlist, the one I specifically engineered for walks such as this. Not exactly the Walk of Shame, more the Dramatic Stride of Pretending This Is Your Montage Sequence. It is very cold and I am sick and I felt well entitled to my flagrant wallowing.
This playlist which has so often gloriously exacerbated my dark moods has its genesis in a mix CD that I first made during my last year of high school. At first it was one volume and then two. I wore it out, I had to remake it. Sometimes a few of the selections changed, most made the transition. When I got my first iPod - the one that weighed 4 lbs and only had 15 minutes of battery life on a good day - the first playlist I made was comprised of those songs I felt were in it for the long haul. It even kept the same title as it's predecessor.
Quite obviously, the main advantage of a playlist over the mixtapes of yore is that playlists are infinitely fluid, adaptable. You can add and delete at your leisure without sacrificing $20 worth of blank CDs. Your number of tracks is limitless. Gone are the limitations of physical media! Nevertheless, this was one playlist to which I gave strict guidelines. It would be serving a highly specialized purpose, as it had in its original incarnation. It was the Navy SEALs of playlists. I've added things to it, but only after careful consideration - "How much this really make me want to cry deep, wrenching sobs of despair?" In reality, though, the same songs that I painstakingly burned on that mix CD almost a decade ago have served me well all this time.
But last night a strange thing happened as I began my shuffle of impending montage. Instead of settling into the comforting sit bath of self-imposed depression, I had a startling jolt of clarity. I had walked down a different street on a different night, surfing a different wave of righteous self-pity over a different mess. I listen to this same playlist each time that I go screeching into the brick wall of reality and begin to think that my best option is to hurl myself in front of the M6 bus, hope that reincarnation is real, and start over again. Hopefully not as a spider monkey or an Arquette.
Last night, the playlist got a little fed up with me.
"Don't be a silly twat," said Annie Lennox in her dulcet tones. "This too shall pass."
I'm not going to mess with Annie Lennox. She hasn't done me wrong yet.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Hi, I'm Paul Weller
Are you in a band? You might as well quit now.
No, I mean it. Just give it up, you're embarrassing yourself. I'm telling you this for your own good.
By the way, anyone got a fag?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Smash! Hit!
A couple of people asked me if I've watched American Idol while it's still wallowing in its audition stage. Apparently there was a guy who sang several songs, spanning diverse genres, in the classical style of one, Brett Scallion. I'm sure it was painful and embarrassing for all parties involved, but no more so than your mom insisting on telling your friends that one joke about
the rabbi and the parakeet that she can't ever really remember. But that's at least a private shame. The point-and-look fascination that people have with this spectacle of the untalented year after year is a little beyond me.
Do they not have a karaoke bar in your town where you can witness this kind of thing first hand? Because let me tell you, after a few red devils at Tracy J's, coercing someone with an outrageously bad voice into singing isn't all that difficult. Not only will the previously reluctant decide that belting out "Sweet Child O' Mine" in that time-honored tuneless, shouty fashion is an excellent idea, but they "will totally kill it, dude." Certain people approach karaoke (often stumbling) with the unwavering confidence of the musically ignorant. More often than not, you have no idea how hard certain songs, not matter how hackneyed, are to sing until you try to do it even passably well - it took 12 takes and an act of God for me to even hit the correct notes on the first line of "Do They Know It's Christmas?"
Maybe I'm in an uniquely qualified position to appreciate this, but there's a lot of untalented people out there. Music is harder than it looks, my friends. Even thunderously average music requires a certain level of Neanderthal brilliance. (So easy even Chad Kroeger can do it!) It's not like just anyone can sit down and bang out a trite, derivative yet commercially viable radio hook. That kind of highly-valued mediocrity is created in labs from call-out research and survey groups and probably some kind of ancient voodoo ritual. Nevertheless there's a lot of average floating around - some halfway decent average, some bad average, some boring average. Some average that sells millions, some average that couldn't get its mom to come to a gig.
However.
When the needle slips below the very generous purgatory of the average or even of "not horrible," we enter the murky water of things that are bad. Lots of things are bad, but certain things are so overwhelming, spectacularly terrible that they take on a certain aura that can best be described as "Oh my fucking God - seriously?"
It takes a magical blend of sheer ineptitude and lack of shame to create what's I've come to be term The Smash Hit. Let's be clear: there's a razor thin line of difference between bad and awesomely bad. Often what sets the awesomely bad apart is the pure, clear-eyed belief in their talent. Come to think of it, this is probably the ultimate appeal of the American Idol train wrecks: being truly, blissfully unaware of how terrible you are really is a thing of beauty. Even in the face of cold hard reality, they persist. Even to the point of putting themselves on national television. Or, in my particular experience, asking to be signed to a major record label. My friends Rob, Kodi and Nick took it upon themselves, toiling mightily in the A&R department and slogging through the dirge known as "unsolicited submissions," to put together several compilations of Smash Hits. It became legendary in our office. We even held release parties of sorts, each one more eagerly anticipated than the last. Each Smash Hit had that sublime quality of not only being unequivocally bad but also hilariously unaware of how bad it really was. It was beautiful.
So if nothing else, maybe we should celebrate the American Idol auditions for keeping the well of potential Smash Hits deep and dark and full of fresh horrors. Because as long as there is someone out there willing to record an off-key cover of "The Rose" or actually pen the lyrics "Evelyn / You are very small / You hold the ball," there will always be a little bit of magic in this world.
the rabbi and the parakeet that she can't ever really remember. But that's at least a private shame. The point-and-look fascination that people have with this spectacle of the untalented year after year is a little beyond me.
Do they not have a karaoke bar in your town where you can witness this kind of thing first hand? Because let me tell you, after a few red devils at Tracy J's, coercing someone with an outrageously bad voice into singing isn't all that difficult. Not only will the previously reluctant decide that belting out "Sweet Child O' Mine" in that time-honored tuneless, shouty fashion is an excellent idea, but they "will totally kill it, dude." Certain people approach karaoke (often stumbling) with the unwavering confidence of the musically ignorant. More often than not, you have no idea how hard certain songs, not matter how hackneyed, are to sing until you try to do it even passably well - it took 12 takes and an act of God for me to even hit the correct notes on the first line of "Do They Know It's Christmas?"
Maybe I'm in an uniquely qualified position to appreciate this, but there's a lot of untalented people out there. Music is harder than it looks, my friends. Even thunderously average music requires a certain level of Neanderthal brilliance. (So easy even Chad Kroeger can do it!) It's not like just anyone can sit down and bang out a trite, derivative yet commercially viable radio hook. That kind of highly-valued mediocrity is created in labs from call-out research and survey groups and probably some kind of ancient voodoo ritual. Nevertheless there's a lot of average floating around - some halfway decent average, some bad average, some boring average. Some average that sells millions, some average that couldn't get its mom to come to a gig.
However.
When the needle slips below the very generous purgatory of the average or even of "not horrible," we enter the murky water of things that are bad. Lots of things are bad, but certain things are so overwhelming, spectacularly terrible that they take on a certain aura that can best be described as "Oh my fucking God - seriously?"
It takes a magical blend of sheer ineptitude and lack of shame to create what's I've come to be term The Smash Hit. Let's be clear: there's a razor thin line of difference between bad and awesomely bad. Often what sets the awesomely bad apart is the pure, clear-eyed belief in their talent. Come to think of it, this is probably the ultimate appeal of the American Idol train wrecks: being truly, blissfully unaware of how terrible you are really is a thing of beauty. Even in the face of cold hard reality, they persist. Even to the point of putting themselves on national television. Or, in my particular experience, asking to be signed to a major record label. My friends Rob, Kodi and Nick took it upon themselves, toiling mightily in the A&R department and slogging through the dirge known as "unsolicited submissions," to put together several compilations of Smash Hits. It became legendary in our office. We even held release parties of sorts, each one more eagerly anticipated than the last. Each Smash Hit had that sublime quality of not only being unequivocally bad but also hilariously unaware of how bad it really was. It was beautiful.
So if nothing else, maybe we should celebrate the American Idol auditions for keeping the well of potential Smash Hits deep and dark and full of fresh horrors. Because as long as there is someone out there willing to record an off-key cover of "The Rose" or actually pen the lyrics "Evelyn / You are very small / You hold the ball," there will always be a little bit of magic in this world.
Friday, November 17, 2006
When A Woman Doesn't Want You
Oh, Gary Lightbody. It's true. You have so much working against you: you're saddled with a visage that's best described as the goofier Zach Braff. No one can really tell where in the hell you're actually from- NotQuiteEnglandistan? You're a bit of tweaker onstage. VH1 is going to make all of us want to commit suicide rather than hear "Chasing Cars" one more time, which is a shame.
And yet. There is also much to love. Remember a few years ago, at the Bowery Ballroom, when you told that very cute story about shopping for sneakers? The crowd banter at the 9:30 Club? So charming. You can actually sing your songs live. You write delightfully endearing updates on your blog. You are tall! Which is why I've yet to understand your painfully intense crush on Martha Wainwright.
Not only did you write this song specifically so she could sing on it, but we have to suffer through your panting, boot-kissing introduction of her every time you perform it live. Maybe it's me - she never seems to be that excited to be there. I'm just saying. But fair enough, let's have at this before you turn into a puddle of puppy love right here and now.
And then it comes (at 2:05 for those playing along at home): Martha busts out The Sprinkler. If you missed it - which, really, you can't miss something as completely ludicrous as The Sprinkler - she does it again. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.
Gary. Seriously. I don't always agree with people's romantic choices - I mean, shit, I generally don't agree with my own - but The Sprinkler? Nothing about this song calls for this sort of behavior. This is a sad, sad, sad love song about a bond struggling to survive 16-months of touring. The "Faithfully" of its time, if you will. Loving a music man is not always what it's supposed to be! And Martha goes and mocks it with her spastic Hunch of Indie Cred.
This is not the woman for you, Gary, no matter how much you want it to be so. I'm telling you this for your own good. You can shove her in a gear case (I'm sure she fits) and trot her out at every stop for as long as you want, but she will never love you. Let her go. Call me.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Resistance is futile
There came a point in my life where I made the decision against subscribing to a regular schedule of prime time network TV; I chose the path of catch as catch can with my entertainment. It's pretty liberating, and yet there are occasional repercussions. One of these is that I became frighteningly well versed in the extensive catalogue of rare genetic diseases via the Discovery Health Channel. Another is that I found myself watching the Country Music Awards.
Much about the culture of country music confuses me. On one hand, it's painstakingly manufactured right down to those fabulous bedazzled blazers, and yet it's probably the one genre of popular music where you're really forced to sing live. This was probably the thing that impressed me most about the performances at the CMAs - the mix was utterly horrendous, but everyone with a microphone was definitely holding it down in the real. Most times to their detriment. Yes, we're looking at you, Martina McBride. I guess when really the only thing you're bringing to the table is a passable singing ability, you might as well have to actually do it. Country music singers are generally a single threat. This goes without saying: those people cannot dance - all boot-scootin' aside. Their very sense of rhythm is often questionable. And you really don't have to be terribly attractive either, although as with most professional whoring, it helps. All of this is doubly-true for men (we're looking at you, Big & Rich), since country music likes its fellas hearty and overwhelmingly male. Not a lot of dancing there, THANK GOD, just a lot of standing (perhaps some walking) and looking deeply earnest about...something. His lady. His truck. Fishing. The whole thing is alien and off-putting, and yet. I can't look away.
Let me first admit: I'm half genuine Irish redneck. I have been to a dirt-track race and eaten unshelled peanuts out of a plastic bag. I know what a fish camp is. None of my cowboy boots are from Urban Outfitters. My daddy owns a very large pick-up truck and a lot of NASCAR caps. I am not fronting, my friends.
As it turned out, Dad was solely responsible for my musical taste until I was about 13, so I listened to both kinds: country and western. But he was kind of a purist in that regard - Randy Travis and Alabama were OK, but Leann Rimes was a harpy. I didn't question this. Actually one of my favorite songs used to be "If The South Woulda Won" by Hank Williams Jr.
Regardless of what may have happened in my formative years, in practice I'm squarely a big stinking Yankee. I do not know my way around any weaponry, which is a major blow to my redneck cred. I abhor Budweiser products. Until very recently the concept of pulled meat was unappealing and vaguely frightening. I don't have any friends named Skillet. But none of this was really a problem. Until.
My equally Yankee, New York-bred mother moved to a suburb of Nashville. After about a year of bemoaning the withdrawal from normal pizza and Macy's, something disturbing happened. She admitted to not only knowing who Keith Urban was but liking the Sugarland album. These things always start small. When I came down to visit, she strongarmed me into a walking tour of the Country Music Hall of Fame (for the concerned: the stage costumes of both Judds are being well-preserved for posterity). I'm not sure what I did to deserve any of this besides show up. However, the assimilation is officially complete at this point: any time I call Mom's cell phone, I'm treated to Larry The Cable Guy telling me he's going to git'er done. All hope is lost.
So I'm a little concerned. This is much more serious than the high cholesterol, the other thing my genetics were kind enough to gift me. Country music will eat your soul. Any day now I expect to be shopping out of the Shepler's catalogue and naming my children Walker and Texas Ranger.
Much about the culture of country music confuses me. On one hand, it's painstakingly manufactured right down to those fabulous bedazzled blazers, and yet it's probably the one genre of popular music where you're really forced to sing live. This was probably the thing that impressed me most about the performances at the CMAs - the mix was utterly horrendous, but everyone with a microphone was definitely holding it down in the real. Most times to their detriment. Yes, we're looking at you, Martina McBride. I guess when really the only thing you're bringing to the table is a passable singing ability, you might as well have to actually do it. Country music singers are generally a single threat. This goes without saying: those people cannot dance - all boot-scootin' aside. Their very sense of rhythm is often questionable. And you really don't have to be terribly attractive either, although as with most professional whoring, it helps. All of this is doubly-true for men (we're looking at you, Big & Rich), since country music likes its fellas hearty and overwhelmingly male. Not a lot of dancing there, THANK GOD, just a lot of standing (perhaps some walking) and looking deeply earnest about...something. His lady. His truck. Fishing. The whole thing is alien and off-putting, and yet. I can't look away.
Let me first admit: I'm half genuine Irish redneck. I have been to a dirt-track race and eaten unshelled peanuts out of a plastic bag. I know what a fish camp is. None of my cowboy boots are from Urban Outfitters. My daddy owns a very large pick-up truck and a lot of NASCAR caps. I am not fronting, my friends.
As it turned out, Dad was solely responsible for my musical taste until I was about 13, so I listened to both kinds: country and western. But he was kind of a purist in that regard - Randy Travis and Alabama were OK, but Leann Rimes was a harpy. I didn't question this. Actually one of my favorite songs used to be "If The South Woulda Won" by Hank Williams Jr.
I'd make my Supreme Court down in Texas,
And we wouldn't have no killers gettin’off free.
If they were proven guilty, then they would swing quickly,
Instead of writin’ books and smilin’ on T.V.
It was very much the "America, Fuck Yeah" of it's time. Why Hank never ran for political office as opposed to becoming Kid Rock's towel boy is beyond me, really.Regardless of what may have happened in my formative years, in practice I'm squarely a big stinking Yankee. I do not know my way around any weaponry, which is a major blow to my redneck cred. I abhor Budweiser products. Until very recently the concept of pulled meat was unappealing and vaguely frightening. I don't have any friends named Skillet. But none of this was really a problem. Until.
My equally Yankee, New York-bred mother moved to a suburb of Nashville. After about a year of bemoaning the withdrawal from normal pizza and Macy's, something disturbing happened. She admitted to not only knowing who Keith Urban was but liking the Sugarland album. These things always start small. When I came down to visit, she strongarmed me into a walking tour of the Country Music Hall of Fame (for the concerned: the stage costumes of both Judds are being well-preserved for posterity). I'm not sure what I did to deserve any of this besides show up. However, the assimilation is officially complete at this point: any time I call Mom's cell phone, I'm treated to Larry The Cable Guy telling me he's going to git'er done. All hope is lost.
So I'm a little concerned. This is much more serious than the high cholesterol, the other thing my genetics were kind enough to gift me. Country music will eat your soul. Any day now I expect to be shopping out of the Shepler's catalogue and naming my children Walker and Texas Ranger.
Friday, October 20, 2006
All the good ideas are taken
You might be asking yourself what I do on Saturday nights. This is, after all, the town where anything can happen. After Sex & The City starting showing in syndication, my mother made the hilarious comment, "I imagine that's kind of what your life is like." My life involves a lot more enduring rock bands at Piano's, not as much time spent at brunch. Generally speaking, I spend my weekends recovering from whatever late nights I've had during the week, and often nachos are involved. Do you know what goes well with nachos? Headbanger's Ball.
I'm not particularly Metal!, by most standards. In fact, I find the majority of what's commonly considered heavy metal pretty ridiculous. My tastes - while more generous than, say, the writers at Pitchfork - tend to run along the lines of Bands From The UK and Music Made By People Who Could Conceivably Have Had Sex At Least Once, preferably both. With a few exceptions, there just isn't a place in my life soundtrack for RWWAAAAARRR and machine-gun drumming. As Leslie once pointed out, "I'm just not that angry."It's really true. Withering disdain is highly effective and much less taxing than outright hate.
Part of the reason that I make a point to watch Headbanger's Ball is because it's one of the few times MTV2 even shows videos anymore. (Not that Real World vs. Road Rules isn't a spectacularly good use of airtime - I fully support any endeavor that allows those people to avoid getting regular jobs in lieu of mud wrestling and talking shit about each other.) But beyond that, it seems like these are videos were never really meant to see the light of day in a forum larger than the people on band's mailing list. So more often than not they're pretty interesting, whether because of painfully low production value or totally bizarre overall concept. I especially liked the one with the Japanese schoolchildren who were eating and then throwing up lots of cereal. So while I'm not going to run out and buy the new Bury Your Dead album (definitely not for lack of advertising on their part, though), I'm glad there's an outlet for videos other than those that suggest a guy pulled up with a semi and asked, "Did anyone order a rock video?"
When I made the snap decision to go to film school, it was mainly because I'm bad at math and that seemed the easier way to assure a Calculus-free couple of years. Hey, I was 17, what did I know? On the other hand, I always had a secret desire to be a music video director. It became even more secret when I discovered that directing videos was one rung below making kiddie porn on the Ladder of Cred at NYU. This was, of course, back before we were all encouraged to sell our souls at the altar of pop culture - in the most ironic fashion, of course. Selling out is the new artistic integrity! It's probably all for the best since it became evident rather quickly that I was a terrible director. Of anything. There's a lot more math involved in the process than one would think.
In the last couple of years, as we began the steady decline into unabashed mediocrity - I've given up hope of basic standards for entertainment ever being raised higher than "not horrible" - I wonder if there would ever be a place for the kind of videos I wanted to make. Sometimes there are Bands From The UK That Have Likely Had Sex who step up, but generally speaking, we like the guy with the semi to handle things. Someone find an empty warehouse and some stools! Back light that son of a bitch, and we're good! So thank you, Headbanger's Ball. Thank you for showing me that a bass player in a monkey suit could make me believe in dreams again.
I'm not particularly Metal!, by most standards. In fact, I find the majority of what's commonly considered heavy metal pretty ridiculous. My tastes - while more generous than, say, the writers at Pitchfork - tend to run along the lines of Bands From The UK and Music Made By People Who Could Conceivably Have Had Sex At Least Once, preferably both. With a few exceptions, there just isn't a place in my life soundtrack for RWWAAAAARRR and machine-gun drumming. As Leslie once pointed out, "I'm just not that angry."It's really true. Withering disdain is highly effective and much less taxing than outright hate.
Part of the reason that I make a point to watch Headbanger's Ball is because it's one of the few times MTV2 even shows videos anymore. (Not that Real World vs. Road Rules isn't a spectacularly good use of airtime - I fully support any endeavor that allows those people to avoid getting regular jobs in lieu of mud wrestling and talking shit about each other.) But beyond that, it seems like these are videos were never really meant to see the light of day in a forum larger than the people on band's mailing list. So more often than not they're pretty interesting, whether because of painfully low production value or totally bizarre overall concept. I especially liked the one with the Japanese schoolchildren who were eating and then throwing up lots of cereal. So while I'm not going to run out and buy the new Bury Your Dead album (definitely not for lack of advertising on their part, though), I'm glad there's an outlet for videos other than those that suggest a guy pulled up with a semi and asked, "Did anyone order a rock video?"
When I made the snap decision to go to film school, it was mainly because I'm bad at math and that seemed the easier way to assure a Calculus-free couple of years. Hey, I was 17, what did I know? On the other hand, I always had a secret desire to be a music video director. It became even more secret when I discovered that directing videos was one rung below making kiddie porn on the Ladder of Cred at NYU. This was, of course, back before we were all encouraged to sell our souls at the altar of pop culture - in the most ironic fashion, of course. Selling out is the new artistic integrity! It's probably all for the best since it became evident rather quickly that I was a terrible director. Of anything. There's a lot more math involved in the process than one would think.
In the last couple of years, as we began the steady decline into unabashed mediocrity - I've given up hope of basic standards for entertainment ever being raised higher than "not horrible" - I wonder if there would ever be a place for the kind of videos I wanted to make. Sometimes there are Bands From The UK That Have Likely Had Sex who step up, but generally speaking, we like the guy with the semi to handle things. Someone find an empty warehouse and some stools! Back light that son of a bitch, and we're good! So thank you, Headbanger's Ball. Thank you for showing me that a bass player in a monkey suit could make me believe in dreams again.
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