The Strike

When I was a few years younger, a bit more idealistic, and substantially more naïve, footage of the WTO protests in Seattle set to a Rage Against The Machine score was enough to inspire my activism and led me to Summit of the Americas protest in Quebec City. Two years later, when my first real girlfriend broke up with me, I spent a lot of time blasting Rage’s self-titled album as I bounced around my room, heart pounding, fisticuffs flying, anger swelling, until the mental agony I was battling was replaced by a more manageable fury. A few months after I moved to LA, I watched Tom Morello lead Audioslave in “Killing In The Name Of” from the roof of the El Capitan Theatre as thousands of mosh-pitters broke through police barricades on Hollywood Blvd. and the riot police were called in order to restore order. And so it seemed fitting, that two days after I was laid off from a television job that I loved and cherished, (lead singer) Zack de la Rocha and (guitarist) Morello were once at the forefront of my pain and passion.

I worked, until this past Tuesday, as a writers’ assistant on one of television’s few quality sitcoms. I sat in a room full of some TV’s funniest writers, taking notes, doing research, editing scripts, and receiving the best education in the craft of sitcom writing one could ever hope to receive. On Tuesday, the Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike successfully resulted in the shutdown of our production and my immediate termination by the studio which employed me. I (along with every person I worked with) suddenly found myself without a job. It was terrifying.

For those unfamiliar with WGA strike, let me provide a brief (and moderately biased) synopsis: On Monday November 1st, after months of rumors, last-minute negotiations broke down between the WGA and the AMPTP (studios guild), and the writers officially went on strike. Despite what you may have heard, the most contentious issue is not DVD residuals (which the writers have been getting screwed on for years, currently getting about $.06 for every $20 DVD sold), but rather “new media.” As the Internet increasingly becomes the way in which entertainment content is delivered (iTunes, iPods, streaming video, Netflix downloads, etc.), the studios want to apply the same residual formula from DVD’s to the Internet and other new media. Residuals, payments writers, directors, and actors receive when their work is rebroadcast, currently accounts for about 30% of a writer’s total salary, but the studios hard-line on new media, means in the next ten years or so, writers will lose close to 1/3 of their current salaries. To make matters worse, studios currently (and increasingly) broadcast webisodes, mobisodes, deleted scenes and other bonus content, along with complete rebroadcasts of episodes on their websites, along with advertisements, and claim that they’re “promotion,” meaning writers/actors/directors get paid absolutely nothing. Obviously, if the studios are able to wear down the writers and strike a cheap deal with them, they stand to make billions of extra dollars from new media. So in a nutshell, the WGA strike is simply about writers trying to get paid for the work they do.

On Monday, even though I’m not a guild member, I joined the writers of my show on the picket line, refusing to go to work and demonstrating solidarity with them. The next day I was laid off by the studio. Actually, the studio claimed that since I failed to show up for work, I had effectively “quit” my job and would be unable to qualify for unemployment. As I tried to sort this out, I refrained from picketing, fearing it would further exacerbate the situation, but on Friday, I, along with some 3,500 other people rallied outside Fox Plaza on the Avenue of the Stars. It was a protest headlined by Family Guy’s Seth McFarlane, Jesse Jackson, and of course a two-song set by Zack de la Rocha and Tom Morello in the back of flatbed truck.

Writers are by nature, a neurotic bunch. Getting them to dance, sing, or cheer unironically, is seemingly more difficult than tackling a page one rewrite. Sadly, de la Rocha and Morello, outfitted with a miniscule sound-system, one which made lyrics barely audible, weren’t quite up to the task. Still, their presence at the rally, seemed to cement the WGA strike as part of some greater labor movement. Rage Against The Machine is a musical emblem of revolution. Calling on images of Che Guevara and burning monks, harnessing a raw and raucous sound, and shouting rebellious lyrics, their connection to the politically disenfranchised is a hallmark of the band.

So as I struggled to make out the lyrics of “Bulls on Parade,” I couldn’t help but reflect on everything that had taken place in the previous week. Despite losing my job, I was oddly satisfied. The WGA strike may result in me losing a few thousand dollars over the next couple of months, but will ultimately benefit me as an aspiring writer in years to come. My lost job and my sacrifice is nothing compared to what the writers are giving up in the short term and what they’re giving me in the long run. Plus, in the mean time, I suddenly have a lot more time to go to shows.

Beirut @ The Avalon

A quick note: Sorry for the lack of posts recently. Work has been hectic. It's weird though, I've been listening to a ton of new music and if we've talked on the phone, I'm sure I've mentioned my obsession with Neutral Milk Hotel's "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea." I guess after listening to that album compulsively for the past month or so, and being so blown away, it's been hard for me to find words to properly do the album justice. I spent so much time thinking about the album and yet I couldn't find anything to write. So I've moved on. Not from the album, but from trying to write about it.

Oh, I should also mention that I'll be posting from time to time on 52 Shows. I think this post will appear there.


I never know what to do with my body at indie rock shows. Usually I just stand around and kind of nod my head along to the music. My arms desperately wish they could find shelter in my pockets, along with my hands. I tap out the beat with my right foot, but half-way through a set my legs start to cramp up. It’s a constant problem. Turn your noses up at “jam bands” (and their concert-goers) if you wish, but all that crazy drug-induced spinning and grooving seems much more natural than the stiff swaying you’ll find at a typical indie rock show.

Fortunately, Beirut is not your typical indie rock band. Think Neutral Milk Hotel with Rufus Wainwright on vocals, playing Balkan gypsy music. Currently, an eight piece band consisting of several horns, ukuleles, a few mandolins, a cello, drums, an accordion, piano, viola, guitar, violin, clarinet, upright bass, and a glockenspiel, all switching hands from song to song—Beirut could easily be cacophonous. With twenty-one-year-old Zach Condon at the helm, they’re nothing short of harmonious.

I was fortunate to catch them on the last night of their North American Tour, at The Avalon in Hollywood. It was the perfect venue. Despite seating close to 1,500 people, the two floored room with a variety of risers, couches, balconies, bars, overhangs, and interesting little nooks and crannies, seemed to have the intimacy of a room a third of its size. Before Colleen, the second opening band played, one of the members of Beirut came on stage and requested the entire audience sit down in order to hear her (Andrew Bird-like effect sampling of the viola and clarinet) better, and sure enough, everyone in the house took a seat. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen at general admission shows with a thousand or so people in attendance.

So it was fitting that the show started with Condon walking on stage by himself with nothing but a ukulele. After some raucous cheers, Condon began strumming some happy little chords on his uke. It was the kind of personal touch that made connecting with him so easy. A minute or so later, he was joined on stage by the remainder of his band and they got down to business. Condon’s sweet crooning instantly meshed perfectly with the strings and horns that dominated his band, but it wasn’t until he unleashed the first few blaring notes from his flugelhorn that the band and crowd really settled in.

I began slowly nodding my head and tapping my feet, as is my custom. After a song or two, and much to my surprise, I noticed my hands had snuck out of my pockets and my arms were moving a bit to the music. Glancing around the crowd, everyone seemed to be in tune with the band, particularly one exuberant group near the front, dancing, jumping, swinging, and bouncing along to the music in obvious delight. In front of me, my girlfriend, as rhythmically challenged as I, was also getting down.

The sound was simply infectious. So many pieces all working together: Condon’s voice, soaring, far too mature for his age and physical appearance, horns blaring, drums pounding, strings wailing, and everyone in the house soaking it in. On songs like “Bandenburg” and “Mount Wroclai” the band’s chemistry and comfort were readily on display. Condon waving his arms, directing the band, everyone on stage and in the crowd seemingly following his commands.

The girls behind me, perhaps as impressed with Condon’s boyish good-looks as his musical abilities, kept discussing how badly they wanted to marry him and how powerful the Vicodin they took was. One of them tapped me on the back and pointed out that the tag on my shirt was sticking out. Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What the fuck were my arms doing? Was I dancing or having a seizure? Unsure what to do, I put my arms around my girlfriend and allowed her to dictate my movements. She, usually self-conscious about dancing anywhere besides the passenger seat in my car, was so enthralled with the music, she managed to lead majestically. I never thought I’d get turned on during an indie concert, but somehow the gypsy music managed to be sexy.

The show wasn’t perfect. The band tripped over one another during “Postcards From Italy” and apparently exhausted their repertoire, so they were unable to play a second encore, which the crowd was just begging for. But the combination of Condon’s voice paired with a such an impressive accompaniment of musicians rarely failed to impress. And anytime you see near a thousand people dancing at an indie rock show, you know you witnessed something special.

Poison

I was watching “Rock of Love” last night. Awesome show. It’s like “Flavor of Love,” except instead of Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels (of Poison and Pamela Anderson fame) is the bachelor searching for true love in a round by round elimination of a bunch of strippers, groupies, sluts, psychos, and exotic dancers. Last night a mannish whore tattooed “Bret” on her neck, to convince him how “for real” she was about him. Bret was touched, felt a real connection with her.

I like Bret. He comes across as earnest, especially when he discusses why a particular would-be lover of his failed to get eliminated because of her gigantic rack or extra tight ass. As far as misogynistic rock stars go, and let me stress my lack of irony here, he’s a class act.

Then again, I think I’ve always liked Bret. Long before I discovered home videos of him nailing Pamela Anderson, I was a Poison fan. It’s not something I’m especially proud of, but it’s the truth. I even had a Poison poster hanging in my room when I was a kid. I guess even back then, I was SO comfortable with my masculinity, that I was cool with having four longhaired, makeup-wearing men on my wall. Or maybe not. I also had a poster of a man looking through binoculars… the left objective showed an attractive blonde woman in a bikini seductively lying on a red Ferrari and the right objective showed the same blond, lying on the same Ferrari, but in a different pose. So, I had not one, not two, but four images guaranteed to compensate for my pre-pubescent penis.

As hot as that Ferrari-bikini girl poster was, it was nothing compared to my Poison and Guns and Roses posters. Plural? Yes. I was into hair metal, not for the chicks, not for the drugs and booze, I didn’t know anything about that, no, I was in it for the music. The awful, ungodly music.

How did this happen? Well, it’s a prime example of the power of top 40 radio. You see, my mother didn’t listen to music. I remember one Beatles tape that she occasionally played in the old Peugeot, but after that broke down for the ninth time, Mom got a Chevy without so much as a tape player, and the radio was forever tuned to NPR. I remember grooving to the “All Things Considered” intro throughout my youth. Devoid of parental influence, I at least had an older brother that would guide me away from hair metal… until he moved in with my dad. Then it was just me and Z89.

“From the top top top of Mount Olympus…” Z89 was my connection with popular music. And popular music regrettably included Poison in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Also two Paula Abdul albums. (I don’t care what the critics said, “Spellbound” was every bit as good as “Forever Your Girl.”) Without any one to guide my musical interests, I was subjected to whatever Z89 was playing and assumed it must be good. After all, all my friends in school were listening to the same crap I was.

Therein lies the rube. As true as it was in the late 80’s and early 90’s, top 40 stations continue to poison the ears of today’s youth. This is serious stuff people. I’m sorry, I know Timbaland is catchy, but every third song on the radio should not feature him. And my god, why is Fergie played? Ever? Seriously, you don’t think in ten years, when people look back, they won’t chide each other about just how stupid they were to listen to “Fergalicious” or “London Bridges.” (At her absolute best, she’s a lowest common denominator M.I.A.) And don’t get me started on Rihanna’s “Umbrella.”

There’s hope though. For all those parents who don’t listen to top 40 and leave it on NPR constantly, there’s KCRW’s “Morning Becomes Eclectic.” At least in LA. I’m sure you fools in Boston and New York and Chicago have access to some decent daily music show on one of your public radio stations. Please do your kids a favor, don’t allow them to listen to pop garbage. Change the channel. Do you really want your little girls and boys with posters of Fergie and Timbaland on the wall? ‘Cause if you do, I’ll tell you where they just might end up… on some goddamn reality show, tattooing “Akon” on their neck as they try and convince him they’re not just into his money, they’re real for their man. And they’ll mean it.

The Gym

No matter which gym you belong to, you are undoubtedly surrounded by a handful of weirdoes. They’re everywhere: The fifty-year-old woman whose triple-D implants account for half her body weight, the ginormous Russian body-builder who does pirouettes as he moves from one weight apparatus to another, the guy in the locker room who wants to talk about just how much the Raiders suck while his penis dangles inches from your face, the elderly man who seems to jerk and hyperextend every muscle in his body as he does seated-rows, the meathead who screams and grunts way too loud after every bicep curl. I’m one of those weirdoes too.

It’s not entirely my fault. I’m not conscious of what I’m doing. It’s early. I’m surrounded by strangers. And my headphones seem to alter reality. With music blasting in my ears, I lose the casual awareness that others are around me, possibly observing me. And so I dance. Not like club dancing. There’s neither a bump nor a grind - just awkward white boy nodding of head, tapping of feet. Sometimes I look in the mirror and catch myself playing air guitar, air bass, or air drumming… obviously not at the same time. Note: I do not ever play air piano, that’s not weird, it’s borderline psychotic.

In addition to my air-playing and my body rocking, I’m prone to silently mouthing along to the lyrics. When I work out, I primarily listen to hip-hop, so singing along consists of me moving my lips very fast and taking great care to avoid mouthing the N-word. Despite my political correctness, I look like a creep. It’s not on purpose. It just happens. The noise canceling headphones have the affect that driving in your car has on your sense of privacy – well almost… you won’t find me picking my nose at the gym. That would just be silly.

And while we’re on the subject of the gym, here’s my sixty-minute workout mix.

10 Minute Warm-up:
Aphex Twin – Film (nice, easy, chill, good to start)
Crazy – Gnarls Barkley (pick up the pace, but not too much)
Queen Bee – Medeski, Martin, and Wood (chill and then it explodes in the last minute)

40 Minute Work-out:
The Rooster – Big Boi (This will wake you up)
Heavy Metal – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (upbeat, rockin’)
Float On – Modest Mouse (upbeat, rockin’ +1)
December 4th – DJ Danger Mouse (Shift to hip-hop through the Beatles and Jay-Z)
Get By – Talib Kweli (Upbeat, awesome)
The Seed – The Roots (more upbeat, more awesomeness)
Organ Donor – DJ Shadow (I dare you not to sweat to this song)
Never Let Me Down – Kanye West (Just when you think the song is ending, Jay-Z comes back for an encore verse)
Deceptacon – Le Tigre (The peak, just when you need it)

10 Minute Warm-down:
Umi Says – Mos Def (ramp into something chill)
No Woman, No Cry – Fugees (and we’re done)

Graceland

I almost died this morning. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. A block away from the office, a large white truck, one of those Suburbans or Expeditions, some massive truck that gets like eight miles to the gallon, drifted over from the oncoming traffic, bearing down on my Focus hatchback. Fortunately, I have the reflexes of a moderately athletic twenty-five-year-old man and I swerved across three lanes to avoid the truck and my almost-certain death. I assume the driver was asleep or texting or picking a grape up off the floor, because after laying on my horn, they recovered and swerved back into their own lane.

I was pretty shaken up. It’s not every day you confront your own mortality. I arrived at work a minute or so later and sat in the parking lot shaking. Paul Simon’s “Graceland” had been playing at the time of the almost-accident. At first I thought, it was an odd bit of music for the occasion; “Graceland” being one of the most beautiful, joyous albums ever created – me ruminating on what my life would be like if I somehow survived a head-on collision with truck going 45 as the Paul Simon’s sweet voice echoed in my brain. And then it hit me: if I had died, the last thing I would’ve heard, “You Can Call Me Al,” is a pretty cool song to go out on. And then it hit me again: If I was able to have that kind of thought, so shortly after a near-death experience, “Graceland” truly must be my all-time favorite album… something which I’d been debating over the past month or so.

I feel comfortable saying it’s my favorite album and not qualifying the statement. I assume anyone who’s ever listened to the album would surely understand. If for some crazy reason, you’ve never listened to “Graceland,” feel ashamed, getting caught by your mother masturbating to a JC Penny catalogue ashamed.

Simon somehow seamlessly infuses African music and musicians, with Zydeco and Tex-Mex music and musicians, then encompasses the whole sound into this beautiful little package, akin to a pop song. Is it pop music? World music? Does it matter?! It’s just perfect music, from start to finish, every song, beautiful, wonderful, complex, simple and subtle bass lines that expertly fill gaps, horns, accordions, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo, Los Lobos, The Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, harmonies and rhythms as unique as they are beautiful, fucking Ladysmith Black Mumbazo for crying out loud!

It’s autobiographical, inspired, inspiring, and my god, the lyrics, the lyrics!!! And I’m not even a lyrics guy but:

There's a girl in New York City,
Who calls herself the human trampoline,
And sometimes when I'm falling flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa so this is what she means,
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.

It just doesn’t get any better than that. And these feelings aren’t new, they weren’t suddenly brought on by the trauma of almost becoming a statistic this morning. “Graceland” has endured for years… dating back to my senior camper summer at Camp Seneca Lake, singing “You Can Call Me Al,” cooking with Alex and Julian this was in the background, the first record Christine played when we finished unpacking in our new apartment… it’s a part of me, seems like it always has, and always will be.

Something about that is comforting. In the face of death, I felt calm, at peace; it was the music. Immediately after I swerved away from the truck, I turned off my CD player. There was no way I was going to let something as silly as almost dying, tarnish in any way, shape, or form, an album I love so very much.

My Own Self-Satisfaction Mix

I like throwing parties for one reason and one reason alone: I get to make the playlist. I can’t begin to tell you how often I go to parties and there is virtually no thought given to the music getting played. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. I rarely get invited to parties, but often, when my neighbors throw them and I walk by, I can tell the music sucks and I’m happy they didn’t invite me, because I don’t need to go to their really fun, raucous party if they’re going to play lame music. Screw them.

Anyway, Christine and I had a little shindig this past weekend. (I won’t call it a barbeque, because my Southern friend, James, pointed out, that if I’m not smoking the meat, I’m just “grilling out.”) From what I remember, it was a pretty good time. My memory is poor though. I used a margarita recipe my friend Katie recommended: one can of frozen concentrated limeade, one can of tequila, and three light beers… originally it was two, but I had to dilute it somehow. That surprisingly tasty and obviously strong recipe, which I nicknamed “the marga-ruffie,” along with my playlist pretty much ensured that I was going to have fun even if no one else did.

The way you shape a playlist depends on the type of atmosphere you’re trying to set. If you’re having a wine and cheese Christmas party, perhaps jazz and/or bossa nova is more appropriate than hardcore rap. In the case of a late afternoon/evening bbq (fuck James, I’m not from the South), you’re looking for music chill enough that people can talk, but interesting and upbeat enough to keep people drinking and having fun. Songs longer than five minutes are automatically excluded. As are songs with long intros or outros (think Wu Tang Clan’s Method Man intro… it’s torture mother fucker if you have to listen to that at a party). Instrumental music is something I love, but another no-no for party mixes.

My bbq mix was about 40% hip-hop (The Roots, A Tribe Called Quest, Common, Kanye West, Blackstar, Jay-Z, etc.) Maybe 25% of the mix is high energy indie rock (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The White Stripes, Modest Mouse, The Fiery Furnaces, The Arcade Fire, etc.) The remaining third of the playlist is split up evenly between ska/reggae (The Slackers, Bob Andy, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, etc.), classics (Bob Dylan, The Police, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, etc.) and a variety of stuff I was hoping people had never heard, but would be impressed enough to ask you about. (I’ve mentioned many of these bands in the past, but: Aberfeldy, Le Tigre, Andrew Bird, Darrel Scott, Little Brother, Ms. Dynamite, Okerrvil River, Pinback, Sergio Mendes, Vic Ruggerio, etc.) (With that setup, I could pretty much leave my iPod on shuffle and feel confident that the music would flow nicely all night.)

Whether or not anyone liked the music enough to ask me about it or just enjoyed the music at all, is unclear. Again, “marga-ruffies” lead to trouble, trouble which I have very little recollection of. But that was the goal, and whether or not anyone else enjoyed the music as much as I did, I’m fairly confident that I spent a good part of the night nodding along to the music in that way that white boys who truly lack rhythm always do. And the neighbors, who were invited, but were apparently too cool to show up, were very jealous and sad that they didn't come by… at least in my head.

The Sweet Smell of Burnt Cocaine

Okay, this is totally late, but I don’t care. I can’t think of anything else to write about and it’s totally worth talking about.

Christine and I went to the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago and caught The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic. And it was awesome! More on that shortly.

First, the Hollywood Bowl is the coolest place in the world to see a large, outdoor concert. This I’m convinced of, despite having only been to maybe a dozen or so outdoor concert venues. It’s so fucking cool though! We parked at Hollywood and Highland (where the Academy Awards are held), walked through the heart of tourist central Hollywood and arrived at the bowl, a veritable oasis in the heart of urban tourist sprawl. Before taking our seats, we sat with some of Christine’s friends and chatted with them at a picnic table while they drank wine and ate tasty snacks. Then we walked to our seats, opened the bottle of Chianti we brought, and dug into our picnic dinner. Apparently, if the LA Philharmonic is present, you can bring wine and beer into the Hollywood Bowl, no questions asked. And that is so fucking cool! Plus you’re in this amazing, gigantic, yet somehow intimate concert space, and there’s virtually no indication that you’re anywhere near Hollywood. It’s just hills and trees and vegetation surrounding you. You quickly forget where you are and manage to focus all your senses on tasty wine and fantastic music. I love the Hollywood Bowl. I can’t stress that enough.

A Band Of Horses was the first opener. They’re good. Christine likes them a lot. I thought the Bowl was too big of a venue for them, but they were nice. I honestly don’t have too much to say about them. They seemed good (I know I said that already), but I was focused on wine and picnic dinners and people watching and taking in the sheer beauty of the bowl. I can’t stress how cool it is there.

Next up was Andrew Bird. A guy I worked with when I first came out to LA, was kind enough to make me an incredible mix that featured a Andrew Bird song on it, so I got to be really cool, and tell everyone ahead of time how excited I was to see him, even though I’d only heard about a half-dozen of his songs. I was right though. He’s ridiculous. If you haven’t heard Andrew Bird, you should… especially if you can catch him live. He plays alongside a drummer and bass player (or at least he did on this night). Andrew Bird plays the violin (incredibly well), loops it with a foot petal, whistles , loops that with a foot petal, then picks up the guitar and plays that. Then puts down the guitar and picks back up the violin. Then he whistles some more and somewhere along the ride, he sings too. And he does it all so well. I have trouble describing his style. To say he’s a singer/songwriter who plays violin and loops samples just doesn’t seem to do him justice. To say that after seeing him perform a 45 minute set, I was convinced there was no way The Decemberists playing with the LA Philharmonic could possibly be as impressive as he was, probably is a better testament to how awesome he was. If you don’t believe me, check this out.

I was wrong by the way. The whole, ‘there’s no way The Decemeberists could be as good as Andrew Bird’ thing. Yeah, I was an idiot, because The Decemberists with the LA Philharmonic was one of the coolest things, I’ve ever seen or heard. I’m not going to go song by song and explain every nuance of the show, just a few highlights instead.

They opened with “The Crane Wife, parts 1 and 2.” From the first few notes that the Philharmonic played, I knew I was in for a treat. And moments later when I heard several string players hit a chord in unison and the big bassy French horn kick in, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. It’s so rare that music surprises me, tickles me, touches me. Watching an incredible band play really sophisticated songs with the help of one of the nations best symphonies is a quite simply a treat, and I wasn’t quite ready for what I was about to hear. The songs were so well-orchestrated, so layered, so pleasing to my ears, I couldn’t help but laugh and laugh; it seemed the only sensible thing to do.

My other favorite moment of the show came when the crowd greeted the band with raucous approval as they launched into “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.” For those of you not to familiar with The Decemberists, “Lose Angeles, I’m Yours” is perhaps the single most beautiful tribute to the city I call home; it also happens to be a scathing rant about everything that makes LA such a deplorable place. Christine informed me that people in LA love songs about how awful LA is. And why not? Everyone here is from somewhere else, there’s no attachment to this city, no hometown pride; it’s cool to turn up our collective noses at a city a renowned for neon dreams, materialism, and greed. On this night, some 17,000 fans collectively celebrated our home by cheering along to a song that actively shits on it.

In the past I’ve written about the things I enjoy in live music: technical virtuosity, energy, hearing something unique – something that may never be recreated, and surprises. Suffice to say, this show had it all. (Here’s a link to a video of them playing “The Infanta.” I don’t think it quite does the sound justice… although it pretty well mimics my view.) Did I mention I love the Hollywood Bowl?

Pandora's Juke Box

It’s quite possible that I’m not on the cutting edge of this. In fact, I’m almost certain everyone already knows about this. But on the off chance that some of you out there are as incredibly un-hip as I am, I’m here to preach to you about a website that is a true godsend. Cali’s husband, Paul, turned me onto this a week ago and I quickly became a believer. Pandora.com. I repeat: Pandora.com. Now say, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!”

The website is simple: Start by either entering the name of band or song you like. If you enter a band, Pandora will play a song from that band and give you a description of the music. For example, I typed in “The Roots,” and Pandora played “Love of My Life” off “The Roots Come Alive.” Pandora told me The Roots are characterized by, “hardcore rap influence, east coast rap roots, funk influences, syncopated beats, and duo rapping.” Based on those characteristics, Pandora then automatically created a playlist for me. Next up was “Grown Man Sport” by INI, featuring, “east coast rap roots, heavy backbeat, swingin’ beats, group rap arrangements, and jazzy hooks.” Then “The Easy Spell” by Mos Def. Then “Doo Rags” by Nas. “Proceed 2” by The Roots. “Militia (Pete Rock Remix) by Gangstar. And so on… For each song, I could give a thumbs up or down, based on whether I liked it. A thumbs up and they continue to play similar stuff including that song, a thumbs down and they shift the playlist in a different direction. You can pause, skip tracks (although a limited number in an hour), but not fast-forward or rewind within the song. If you enter a song at the original prompt, you go through a similar process, except, instead of playing that song, they’ll play a similar sounding song. If you type in “Stairway To Heaven,” they might play something like Aerosmith’s “Dream On.”

It gets better. If you sign up for a FREE account, you can have up to 100 different selections (bands or songs) to make playlists from (and Pandora remembers them all and your preferences). You can combine all of those different “playlists” and Pandora will automatically form a “quick mix” incorporating music from whatever you select… whether it be 10 bands or 100. Basically, it’s like setting your iTunes library on random, only, your library is like a million times bigger. And yes, obviously it’s not the most convenient way to listen to music, but considering the possibility, nay, probability of broadening your knowledge of music, the few quarks seem well-worth it. So do yourself a favor and check this puppy out.

Emmit Otter's Jug Band Christmas

Christine and I drove up the coast, along Highway 1, to San Francisco a couple of weeks ago. If you live in California and you’ve never done this drive I highly recommend it. The scenery, especially around Big Sur, humbled me. Prior to the scenic stretch of the drive, Christine and I entertained ourselves with a surprisingly fun game, that I was unsurprisingly bad at. We tuned my Sirius satellite radio to the indie rock station and played a modified version of “Name That Tune.” Christine, who listens to “Morning Becomes Eclectic” on a near daily basis, kicked my ass. But the surprising thing was how much music neither of us had ever heard of. I mean for every Decembrists or Modest Mouse song, there seemed to be three or four by artists like Art Brut (eh), Bear Hands (Modest Mousy), Bees (Really chill, cool stuff), Kings of Leon (Big ups Anthony – you were right, really good stuff), and a handful of other indie bands I’ve never heard and can’t remember. So aside from keeping Christine awake and laughing at my ignorance, we both ended up getting a pretty good education.

Our last night in San Francisco, my friend Marcia took us out to a wonderful hole-in-the-wall, in the Mission District. It was the Tamale Lady’s birthday party. Who is the Tamale Lady you ask? Well, apparently around the Mission and Lower Haight, she’s pretty famous for dropping by bars late night and selling tamales to drunk, hungry patrons. To honor her, we paid ten bucks for dinner and a few hours of some (all you could drink) tasty San Fran microbrew (whose name escapes me, although let me recommend almost anything by Russian River, especially Pliny the Elder, and also the Racer 5 IPA). To top the evening off, the birthday celebration, which took place mostly outside on an expansive patio, featured a jug band.

An honest to god, real life, actual jug band. Complete with jug player, washboard percussion, spoons, kazoo, and washtub bass. It was quite a sight for these drunken eyes, and surprisingly enjoyable to listen to with these drunken ears. The kind of music I wanted to hoot and holler to. And you know what? I did. Stood up and clapped and banged around, and then promptly sat down when I realized I was the only one doing it. It was a good trip.

Common Sense

My all-time favorite hip-hop lyrics. The Roots featuring Common. “Love of my Life.” Common’s verse. One big metaphor about hip-hop. Similar to “I used to love H.E.R.” But so much better. I always dreamed of my Stand and Deliver moment. Dead Poet’s Society. Teaching an English class. Specifically poetry. To a bunch of inner-city kids. And I’m finally able to reach them. Finally able to get them grasp what metaphor means. Finally able to teach them to appreciate poetry. And it’s all thanks to my man Common.

I never taught inner-city kids. I probably never will. I was, however, fortunate enough to teach a section of PHI 191 (Ethics and Moral Value Theory) my senior year of college. I envisioned myself a man of the people, in touch with the students. I’d level with them. “I’m a student just like you. You might see me at the bars, might even have the misfortune of catching me dance on Thursday nights at Darwins.” Laughter. Next I’d explain my game plan to them. “I don’t want to make you do busy work or more reading than you have to. I want our class to be a place where we can come and discuss things. I’m not here to lecture you, just engage in a dialogue.” Now as their friend and their equal, I would inspire them. “Philosophy isn’t always about answers. Sometimes the real thinking lies in the question. On most any topic we discuss, there is no clear right or wrong; my job is to help you explain your beliefs and be able to support them with arguments.” Nice. Twelve freshman and sophomores looked at me like I was their savior. It was the first day and none of them knew what an idiot I really was.

There were some awkward moments. Most notably, the SU/Pitt game were I smuggled in a flask of whiskey and after drinking half of it before the game, spilled the rest all over myself. With a gigantic stain that looked like I pissed myself, a drunken Zidane began to scream at the crowd behind me. They were berating Craig Forth and praising Jeremy McNeil. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said. “McNeil should only be in when we press, he gets lost in the zone… Forth is our anchor. Watch how he moves off ball. Look at how he sets a screen. Check out his understanding of how to play the high low.” Boos. They were booing me. So I screamed back at them, enraged by their ignorance. Everyone hates a big, tall, lanky white guy who occasionally misses lay-ups, but only a true fan really understood that he was our best bet at center. At some point, say fifteen minutes into my screaming, one of my students, the cutest girl in my class – yes I had fantasies of giving her a little after-school tutoring – politely suggested that I might want to take a seat. I told her to go fuck herself, in the eloquent sort of way that only a really good teacher can.

That was nothing. Oh Common, heaven help me for what I did. It was the week before Spring Break and my section had just taken a mid-term in their lecture. They had no new assignments for the break, nothing to study for, and so I was left without much to discuss. I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to break out the Common lyrics. I should’ve known better, but Jewish boys who love hip-hop are not always the swiftest fellers.

I began class by giving them a choice; I was a fair guy after all. We could either review the material they had just been tested on or we could do an exercise in critical reading involving hip-hop, one that would get them out of class fifteen minutes early. They were on board. Having gone out drinking late the night before (my section met early Friday morning), I didn’t do a great job preparing for my lecture, but I thought I’d be fine. My plan was simple. Write the lyrics up on the board, go through them line by line, decipher what the metaphor was referring to in each line, and then do a conclusion about how when my section read their assignments, it’s not enough to just read the words, they had to make a greater effort to think about them critically. I was pretty fucking brilliant when I came up with the lesson plan at last call at the bar the night before.

I was just about finished writing the lyrics on the chalkboard, when I heard one of my students' cell phones ring. Now, cool guy Zidane, was pretty cool about everything… except cell phones. It was my one rule. If you answer your cell phone during class, I’m going to kick you out. Period. I drew my line in the sand early on. But sure enough, one of my student’s phones was ringing. I looked up from what I was writing and gave him a look – turn that shit off. He gave me a wave of his hand and picked it up. I tried to remain calm. I told the student that if he wanted to talk on the phone, he should probably continue the conversation after class. He brushed me off with his hand again, like, “just a second.” I tried harder to remain calm. I told the student I was going to kick him out of class if he continued to talk on the phone. He smiled at me. I was no longer calm.

“Get out!” I exclaimed. He grabbed his bag and headed out. I thought that was the end of it, but a few minutes later he returned to the class and went to sit back down. I was calm now. “I thought I told you, if you answer your phone in my class, especially after several warnings, you can’t stay. Get out!”

That’s when nice guy Zidane, the friendly teacher guy bit, all fell apart. The students didn’t fear me; they thought of me as a peer. In short, they thought they could walk over me and I was not having that on the day I was finally giving my inspiring Common Dead Poet's Society lecture. The guy freaked out. He screamed at me that he was just coming back to get his notebook. He told me to go to hell. I stayed calm this time. “Bye, bye.”

He left again, slamming the door. I thought it was finally time to do my lecture. I was wrong. A minute later the student returned in a blaze of idiotic glory. “Have you ever gotten your girlfriend pregnant?” he yelled as he burst in. I told him that no, I’d never been that stupid. Usually you have to be sleeping with someone in order to get them preggo; I didn’t have that problem at that moment in time. He kept going. “Well that was my girlfriend calling with the results of her pregnancy test and Jesus Christ himself couldn’t have stopped me from answering the phone!”

Now both the student and teacher were thoroughly embarrassed and I hadn’t even started my lecture yet. I told him I was sympathetic to his plight, but if he truly needed to answer the phone he could’ve told me it was an emergency, mentioned to me before class he was expecting an important phone call, or just walked outside and picked up the phone there. Having done none of these things, and deciding to insult me and challenge my authority instead, I was left with no choice to kick him out. “Bye, bye.” I said again. He left in huff, slamming the door.

I should’ve cut my losses right there, but my stupid hung-over self thought I could lift myself out of the hole with my inspiring lecture. Suffice to say that a class full of white kids attending Syracuse University weren’t too familiar with obscure references to Hype Williams, Common’s other albums, his beef with Ice Cube, or the basic trajectory of the commercialization of hip-hop. My lecture fell on deaf ears. The kids were bored out of their minds. They looked at me, the ones who were still awake, with pity in their eyes. I bailed early. And in that moment gave up any lingering thoughts about doing Teach For America or doing anything else remotely beneficial to society.

There are reasons why there aren’t more Stand and Deliver teachers. First and foremost, there is only one Edward James Olmos. If you watch Battlestar Galactica, you know what I’m talking about. Second, students are assholes who answer their cell phones during class. Third, teachers that expect their students to be as passionate about the subject matter as them are idiots; no matter how good their intentions are, no matter how close they are in age, teachers always seem to fail to understand that their students are probably just taking the class because they heard it’s an easy A for an elective that fills some requirement.

So rather than try and force meaning into Common’s lyrics, I’ve pasted them below. Feel free to check them out and if you get inspired stand on your desk and yell out, “Oh Captain, My Captain,” for this old Cousteau.


Yo, yo I was speakin, to my guy 'Riq and
How she was desperately seekin to Organize in a Konfusion
Usin, no protection, told H.E.R. on _Resurrection_
Caught in the Hype Williams, and lost H.E.R. direction
Gettin eight/ate in sections where I wouldn't eat H.E.R.
An under the counter love, so _Silent_-ly I _Treat_ H.E.R.
Her Daddy'll beat H.E.R., eyes all Puff-ed
In the mix on tape, niggaz had her in the buff
When we touch, it was more than just a fuck
The Police, in her I found peace (like who?)
Like Malcolm in the East
Seen H.E.R. on the streets of New York, trickin off
Tried to make a hit with H.E.R. but my dick went soft
Movin weight, losin weight, not picky - with who she choose to date
To confuse the hate, with her struggle I relate
Close to thirty, most of the niggaz she know is dirty
Havin more babies than Lauryn, she started showin early
As of late I realized, that this is H.E.R. fate
Or destiny that brings the best of me
It's like God is testin me
In _Retrospect_ I see she brought _Life_ and death to me
Peace to us collectively, live and direct when we perform
It's just coffee shop chicks and white dudes
Over H.E.R. I got into it with that nigga Ice Cube
Now the fight moved to in life, makin the right moves
Besides God and family, you my life's jewel

Coffee Shop Music Scene

First, I apologize about the lack of entries lately. I’ve sequestered myself at a coffee shop, here in Hermosa, in order to crank out a pilot during my five week vacation. Nearly all of my time and energy has gone into writing, although I must admit there’s nothing more enjoyable to me, then taking a break in the middle of the day to walk my buddy Hayden’s massive Labradane, Herman. There is perhaps no greater piece of mind, then experiencing the unconditional love of a good dog.

Anyway, back to the coffe shop. Java Man. You should know this about me: I don’t much care for pastries and sweets, refuse on principle to pay nearly nine dollars for a turkey sandwich that I could just as easily make at home, hate the taste of coffee and almost all coffee-related products, but I fucking love the coffee shop. I like that I’ve become a regular. I suppose spending six hours a day there will do that. They know what I’m drinking when I walk in. It’s hot tea in the morning (I vary it up, Earl Grey or this is kick-ass green tea called Fiji) and Iced in the afternoon. I have a little spot by the window that I like. It’s great for dog watching and checking out the most attractive forty year old women you could ever imagine. They’re not that nasty, botox, boob job, liposuction, alien-looking-like, forty-something that plagues Hollywood. These women are beach trophy wives and they’re hot. Okay, some of them definitely have boob jobs. But I’m losing my point.

The coffee shop is the only place I really get productive writing done. I focus there. I sit at my table, sip my tea, put on my iTunes, and write. Recently, I discovered a wonderful thing about Java Man. Because they offer free wireless internet, I’m part of the Java Man network. That means, every other guy in the place writing a script, listening to their music with iTunes, is plugged into the network… and if they’re decent enough, then like me, they’ve set their iTunes preferences to allow other people to check out and listen to their music library.

This is the single best method I’ve found for sampling music for free. Yesterday, I listened to The Street’s “Original Pirate Material,” off Hey Sexy Girl’s library. I’ve heard The Streets before, really like them, was briefly obsessed with their single “Never Went To Church,” but I don’t own any of their complete albums. I will shortly though. Thanks to Hey Sexy Girl, I discovered that “Original Pirate Material” is from top to bottom a fantastic hip-hop record. Ultra chill, great beats, wonderful production, and I’m a sucker for a British accent.

The day before I listened to Jay-Z’s back from retirement “Kingdom Come.” I’d heard about four singles from the album on the radio, wasn’t too impressed. “30 Something” had some impressive lyrics, but I wasn’t crazy about the beats. “Show Me What You Got” (the one from the Bud ads) was a bit too smooth for my tastes. The title track, “Kingdom Come,” which samples “Superfreak,” was nothing special. Then listening to it the other day in Java Man, I felt like maybe Jay shouldn’t have come back. This album paled in comparison to “The Black Album.” That was, until I got to the last track, “Beach Chair,” produced by Coldplay’s Chris Martin and Dr. Dre. Featuring Martin on the song, it was the only track on the album that felt full of soul. It’s probably not catchy enough to release as a single, but it’s far and away the best track on the album and left me with hope.

Quick sidebar. I have no idea what makes a good single. I think I’ve said this before, but in my opinion Kanye West’s “Gone” was the best produced hip-hop song to come out last year. And I understand releasing “Gold Digger” and “Heard ‘Em Say” as the first two singles from “Late Registration,” but I can’t for life of me understand why “Touch The Sky” and “Drive Slow” were the next two released and no one ever heard “Gone.” Craziness. But like I said, I don’t understand how and why a single gets chosen. And I like Jay-Z and Kanye are probably doing alright without me as an A & R guy.

Back to the coffee shop. There are a lot of thirty something guys in the shop and everyone of them seems to have tons of The Dead Kennedy’s in their library. That and Aerosmith’s “Pump.” And show tunes, tons of show tunes. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but this is all seems a bit odd to me. I think if I knew people were going to be browsing my music library, that I might avoid having a significant chunk of it dedicated to show tunes, but that’s just me.

And maybe these guys don’t care. After all, it’s all pretty anonymous. I have no idea who Hey Sexy Girl really is. It’s fun to guess. I assume it’s the prematurely balding guy in the corner, the one with a book on web design and cigarette stains on his teeth. Or maybe it’s his buddy, that he always talks with. The long haired smoker, who talks shit about his ex-girlfriend and he’s better off without her, but it’s so painfully obvious that he’s lonely, that he makes eye contact with me wondering if maybe I’ll talk to him.

There’s no way to know, unless I’m listening to the music and the guy quits out of iTunes and stands up and walks away. Not knowing only adds to the voyeuristic pleasure of it all though. You take a person, check out what may or may not be their music collection, and then construct a personality profile, imagining what they’re like as people. It’s people watching with a musical twist. And when I’m not writing, it’s one of my favorite things to do.

A few other little tidbits. I’ve had the opportunity to go through my own music and dust off some cobwebs, so a few quick thoughts:
1. The Beta Band “The Three EP’s” is perhaps the ultimate coffee shop album.
2. If you like reggae and you like Radiohead, check out Easy Star All Stars… it’s exactly that… reggae covers of Radiohead songs.
3. If you like jazz and you like reggae, Ernest Ranglin is the shit!
4. Gillian Welch is a white girl with some serious soul. You might know her from the O’ Brother Where Art Thou Soundtrack… she does some awesome Appalachian folk music. I mean, white chicks with soul are few and far between. I’m struggling to think of any. Maybe Nelly Furtado? Amy Winehouse? Lily Allen? Anyway, check out “The Devil Had A Hold Of Me,” if you don’t believe me.
5. Vic Ruggiero’s “A Live At The Ladybug House” is everything that a singer songwriter should be live in concert. Great singing, neat and tidy guitar, and lyrics about nasty women and booze.

For Liana...

Bug Girl is getting married this weekend. In honor of her, I decided to give Tom Petty a second chance. When I was a kid, I remember watching the video for “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.” It won a bunch of awards I think, but I thought it was weird. All the corpses, the close-ups of Tom (not pretty), the morgue, the mortician, the corpse in the wedding dress that Tom eats dinner with and then dances with. It weirded me out. Plus, I was just old enough to know that Mary Jane was a euphemism for marijuana and I couldn’t for the life of me understand what marijuana had to do with death.

There were other videos: In “Free Fallin’,” images from the fifties were interspersed with modern shots of skateboarders and cute young girls, coming to age in Lose Angeles. I think I was too young to really understand what the song and video were all about, but I remember being sketched out by creepy-looking Tom, big shades and all, looking like a pedophile overseeing the cute young girls. “Runnin’ Down A Dream,” was animated, awesome, and profoundly confusing. Why did he ride a bed like a horse and fly away in the end? Did he catch that dream? What the hell was the deal with Animated Tom and that midget King guy smoking a cigar, dancing on top of the earth? I was probably about ten, but I sensed there was something off about this man.

My feelings were cemented in sixth grade when I drove with the Hutchison family, listening to a Tom Petty best of album. Raymond’s older brother, Camden, commented that Tom Petty was nothing but “a Bob Dylan knock-off.” Camden was two years my senior and very smart. He seemed to know a lot about a lot of things. I trusted he was right and for the next ten or so years, I repeated that slogan. At some point time, I stopped just regurgitating his musical rhetoric and actually believed what I was saying.

Tom had that same kind of nasal Bob Dylan voice, played the guitar and harmonica, and seemed to sound vaguely similar, but vastly inferior to the best singer SONGWRITER in the history of rock. His songs weren’t as well written, his music less interesting, his creepiness far more annoying than Bob’s irritability. I convinced myself that Tom was just a lousy clone of Bob, and cast Tom out without a second thought.

Bug Girl loves him. Swears by him. And she’s got some pretty great taste in music, so I started listening to Tom again with a few thoughts in mind. The first idea was that any singer/songwriter put up in a head to head battle against Bob Dylan is going to lose. Bob Dylan is the best. Period. I refuse to argue about this. It’s a fact. The second idea, one that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, is that disliking a band because I think it’s cool to dislike them (see my thoughts on the Dave Matthews Band in my last entry) is decidedly un-cool.

So for the past few months, I’ve been listening to Tom Petty when his songs come on the radio. I re-watched some of his old videos on youtube. I spent some considerable time thinking about his music. And you know what? After careful consideration… he still sucks!

No, I’m just kidding Liana. You were (mostly) right, Tom Petty is a damn fine singer/songwriter. A number of his songs are well-written, interesting, unique, and aesthetically pleasing. Christine pointed out that he was in the Traveling Wilburys with Bob Dylan and George Harrison, so amongst his peers, he’s pretty highly regarded too. I don’t have any real insights into his music; it’s just good stuff and that’s good enough for me.

I guess if I could take anything away from this experience, it’s that sometimes you have to give music a second chance. I have a mandatory three-listen rule when I get a new album. I don’t think it’s fair to make up your mind about something until you’ve really given it a few listens. And if you spend more time listening to what others think about a band than you do actually listening to the band’s music, you haven’t really given the band a fair chance. Also, despite being a good musician, and I refuse to argue about this, Tom Petty is the ugliest rock star I’ve ever seen.

Commercial Music

Many, many, many moons ago, The Black Eyed Peas rapped, “I see you try to diss our function by stating that we can’t rap. Is it cause we don’t wear Tommy Hilfiger or baseball caps. We don’t use dollars to represent. We just use our inner sense and talent.” Forget for a moment, that these are some of the worst rhyming, most awful rap lyrics ever created, in a song (“Falling Up”) dedicated entirely to how well they can rap. Rappers who write shitty lyrics are like writers who wear ugly clothes: it’s to be expected. The Black Eyed Peas, like many hip-hop groups, are full of awful lyrics, but that’s not what bugs me about them. It’s the way they denounced selling out on their first two albums (Bridging The Gaps and Behind The Front), constantly calling out other groups for being “fake,” shortly before they did a mass-market Dr. Pepper commercial campaign. Soon after, Fergie became a prominent member of the band, and they were off and running, doing every commercial you can possibly imagine.

It was sad seeing one of my early favorite hip-hop groups (pre-Fergie) sell out like that. The Black Eyed Peas were at the forefront of turning hip-hop into commercial music (For the purpose of this entry, commercial music refers to music actually appearing in commercials). The commercialization of hip-hop, something that had flourished outside of MTV and network television prior to the ‘Peas and a few others, was a disturbing trend.

Perhaps my own arrogance and desire to be “hip” wouldn’t allow me to listen to music that had been embraced by the masses. People are stupid. That’s not a gross generalization; I’m fairly certain that if you picked ten people at random between the ages of 12 and 55, from across the United States, a majority of them would watch American Idol. I repeat: People are stupid. And my disgust for mainstream stupid people often leads me to hold stupid opinions of my own, just so I can be different than the masses. It was the mainstream, frat boy success, of talented groups like The Dave Matthews Band, which led me away from rock and towards hip-hop in the first place. Now that hip-hop was mainstream, I found myself running blindly towards a genre which prided itself on having a plethora of bands that most people would never hear: indie rock.

I began to explore indie music, sifting through tons of shit, searching for those elusive incredible bands. Generally when I found them and bragged to my friends, they were already myspace friends with them. For the first time in years, I felt like I was behind the curve on what was hip. In many ways, this only resulted in getting me more interested in the genre. I wanted to be the one cluing my friends into which bands they should be checking out. Unfortunately, advertisers have made sure that will never happen.

A few weeks ago, I begged people on this blog to check out a French group called Nouvelle Vague. I thought I’d discovered a talented, obscure band that I could finally share with my friends. A few days later, I heard their cover of “I Melt With You” on a GMC commercial. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of all the indie rock suddenly appearing in mainstream television commercials. Bands like The Postal Service, The Shins, Modest Mouse, and Peter Bjorn and John (who will henceforth be known as PB&J per my friend Lauren), were appearing in commercials for UPS, McDonalds, Nissan, Pontiac, AT&T, and (ironically?) Napster.

At first, I thought my disgust was purely selfish. The fact that savvy advertisers were smart enough to hire young people with good taste in music to pick the songs for their commercials, would surely be good for indie rock. The added exposure to cutting edge bands and artists, might inform consumers, schooling them on things they should be checking out. That was certainly the case with those catchy Target ads that feature the chorus, “a little bit more… a little bit more… a little bit more… a little bit more…” After some research, I discovered the song was written by Jamie Lidell; I checked out some of his stuff and it was quite good. The fact that I was getting musical advice from a Target ad wounded my pride, but I tried to set aside my ego and focus on the music.

Then the ads kept running and I heard the music over and over and over again. I mean, that’s the point of an advertisement right? Product branding. If you see a product over and over and over again, and it becomes imbedded in your brain, then you’re more likely to spend your money on it. Using catchy music to sell a product is nothing new; jingles have been around… forever? A while anyway. Catchy indie rocks songs are even better though. Jingles are commercials… you don’t hear them unless you’re watching tv or listening to the radio. Indie songs are everywhere, and if the advertisers do their jobs correctly, every time you hear the 5,6,7,8’s “Woo Hoo” you’ll think of Vonage. That’s the power of branding.

So now, my grievance is far from not being on the cutting edge, has nothing to do with the guile of advertisers trying to educate me on what I should listen to, but rather, commercial music is destroying a genre that I’ve grown to love yet again. Commercial branding is so much worse than the Dave Matthews Band frat boy craze phenomenon… a catchy song/band getting overplayed and becoming irritating from that over-saturation. It’s just a matter of time before I see Tide commercials using The Cold War Kids’ (big ups Preeti) “Hang Me Out To Dry” in one of their commercials. And in doing so, Tide, like every other company that uses an indie rock song to promote it’s product, will help ruin a genre of music which prided itself on being anything but commercial.

Bad Lyrics

Christine and I saw the Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie at the cheap theatre this past weekend. It was unequivocally the worst movie I’ve ever seen. Often times, a bad movie will have some redeeming qualities; perhaps the sheer awfulness of the movie is enjoyable in of itself. This movie had no redeeming qualities of any kind. There were no pros, no laughs, nothing clever, nothing enjoyable, only pain.

The movie attempted to poke some fun at Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” I emphasize attempt, because even the most astute viewers who understood a shot was being taken at an awful song, with awful canned drums, and awful monotonous lyrics, probably were so fucking annoyed with the movie, the god damn icing on the cake, came in the form of hearing that awful song. How many fucking times can you repeat the same lyrics over and over and over again? Apparently, if you’re Phil Collins, you can do it over and over again and still have an international hit.

The song got me thinking about the worst lyrics of all-time. The writers, perhaps reading my mind, had a discussion about it yesterday. Prior to their discussion, I planned to use this space for a lengthy debate. Fortunately, one of the writers, Gene, ended the debate almost immediately.

After Mike mentioned the Digital Underground lyrics from “The Humpty Dance,” (“I get stupid, shoot an arrow like cupid, I use a word that don’t mean nothing, like looptid…”) Gene had this brilliant insight (and I’m paraphrasing):

With regards to the Young MC song “Bust A Move,” a certain verse makes absolutely no sense when you think about it. “Your best friend Harry, has a brother Larry, in five days from now he’s gonna marry. He’s hopin’ you can make it there, if you can, cuz in the ceremony you’re the best man.”

If Harry is your best friend, then why is his brother Larry using you as the best man in his wedding? If Larry has a brother Harry, why isn’t he using his brother Harry as his best man? You have to construct a pretty crazy story for why Larry would possibly use you as the best man. Apparently, even though you consider Harry to be your best friend, Larry considers you to be his (?) so much so that he’s going to buck the tradition of using his brother, Harry, as his best man. And while this scenario is possible, I’m going to venture out a limb here and suggest that Young MC is an idiot, but hey, so am I… after all, I went to go see Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres with out being stoned out of my gourd.

If you can think of lyrics worse than Young MC’s I implore you to post them in the comments. Here’s your chance to talk some shit, have your voice heard, strike back at every one who hurt you.

Movies and Music

My friend Hilary (one of my all-time favorite people on this planet) and I play online Scrabble, sending each other emails back and forth with our moves. We take turns asking each other three questions and then answering them. The other day she asked me, “Would you rather be a NY times bestseller, a rock star, or the head of a foundation.” Now as an aspiring writer, the obvious choice would be the bestseller. If you’re my mom and you think I’m a really nice guy who really cares about people, then maybe I should be the head of some philanthropist foundation. My brain tells me the former is a good choice, my conscious tells me the later, but every other part of my body (especially my penis) would love to be a rock star.

I don’t think I need to go into great depth about why it would be cool to be a rock star. If you’ve ever been to a big rock concert and heard the sound of the crowd erupting when the lights go down then you can imagine how much of a thrill it would be to play in front of an adoring audience. Not to mention the groupies, the destruction of hotel rooms, and the opportunity to have my own iTunes mix. I wouldn’t even have to be the lead guitarist. I’m happy to be Ringo or the bassist who just plays scales over and over again.

Alas, I have no musical talent. None. I can play a handful of chords on the guitar and probably stumble over a few Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin tunes, but a rock star I will never be. I do have plans to buy a ukulele. One of the Office writers inspired me. It’s a pretty sound and easy to play, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I’m never going to be a rock star and that sucks.

Driving into work this morning, I heard Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” and took solace. I never really cared for the song before I saw “Almost Famous.” Now I blast it every time it comes on the radio. There is a strong visual and emotional connection between that song and one of the seminal scenes of the movie. Both the movie and the song are better off having joined as companions.

The same can be said about countless other songs that have appeared in films. Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” is one of my favorite love songs, and it’s almost certainly due to its appearance in “Say Anything.” I’ve become of fan of Loverboy because of “Wet Hot American Summer.” Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” is a terrible song, but I love it because I can’t hear it without thinking about Rocky. The list could go on forever. Directors like Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, and Wes Anderson have greatly expanded my taste in music and also managed to reenergize classic songs, bringing them to the forefront of pop culture.

A great movie almost invariably has a great soundtrack or at least a few great songs on it. Obviously there are exceptions, but most of them involve movies that have fantastic scores rather than soundtracks and that doesn’t really count. When a movie captures the essence of song or reinvents its essence (and vice versa), the song and movie become forever linked in my mind. I have trouble separating one from the other and the sum the parts ends up being so much greater than pieces alone.

This is a wonderful phenomenon. Songs get better, movies get better, and perhaps I’ll get to live out my dream after all. Maybe one day I’ll write a feature and convince the director to allow me some input into the soundtrack (note: I’m aware that even if the former were to happen, the later is incredibly unlikely). Maybe I can shine a light on a few unknown bands or songs. Maybe I can help to shape those songs, turn them into something special, and in doing so, excite people’s ears almost like a rock star would. A boy can dream anyway.

Women Make Me Cry

Sorry (to the two or three people who actually read this) about the lack of recent entries. I had the week off last week and when I wasn’t camping or running errands, I was busy doing my own writing. Now I’m back at work and that means time to kill, so hopefully I’ll have a few posts over the next couple of weeks.

I was driving back from Big Bear this weekend and Christine was complaining about the CD I was listening to (Pinback – “Blue Screen Life” which I think is absolutely amazing… the Vein turned me onto them and if you’ve never heard them, I urge you to check them out… best “new” indie band I’ve heard in a long time). So I decided to put on a band that she’d never heard, but was sure to like. Portishead is this crazy-good trip-hop band, that features the amazing Beth Gibbons on vocals. Sad, beautiful, haunting songs that feature Gibbons’ incredible voice never fail to get me emotional.

Sure enough, Christine enjoyed what she heard, at least until she fell asleep, which she’s prone to doing a lot. While she slept, I found myself singing along and getting emotional as usual. As I sang “Glorybox,” I found myself tearing up as I bellowed (and butchered) the chorus: “Give me a reason to love you. Give me a reason to beeeehe… a woman. Just want to be a woman…”

Was this odd behavior? Probably for most guys, but it’s become an increasingly common occurrence for me. I’ve always prided myself on being comfortable enough with my manhood and sexuality, that I’m not afraid to get in touch with my sensitive and feminine sides. I don’t cry very often, but I tear up all the fracking time. The local news, NPR’s “This I Believe,” and all the Jim and Pam drama on the Office are sure to make my eyes wet. I’m an emotional guy, and feelings of empathy are nothing to be afraid of.

That being said, I still can’t begin to comprehend the complexities of women. They remain a mystery to me, one that I know I’ll never fully understand. I remember back in high school, sitting at a table full of girls, I was asked if I had the opportunity, would I want to be a woman for a day. I said of course; it would help explain some of what seems like pure loony bin behavior to me. When I turned the question on the girls, there was a resounding affirmation, that the girls would all love to be a guy for a day. When I asked why, my friend Hana explained, “I’d spend the whole day jerking off.” I tried to point out that women could masturbate nearly as easily as guys, but that sentiment was shot down. Now, the truly interesting thing about this conversation has very little to do with masturbation. I’m sure most of those girls have grown up, become more comfortable with their bodies, and have no trouble double clicking the mouse once in a while. The interesting thing is the way the opposite sexes characterized one another.

I thought women were complex creatures, impossible for me to understand. They thought of men as simple beings, endlessly entertained by touching themselves. As much as I’d love to dispute those girls, their over-simplified logic, contained more than a hint of truth. I don’t consider myself to be that complex. I like sleeping, eating, being entertained, pretty girls, laughing, and… touching myself. Everyday I try and navigate the murky waters of femininity in my day-to-day interactions with women. Everyday I fail.

Which brings me back to Portishead and crying. I find that while there are several male artists who move me, very few can reduce me to tears: Al Green, Sting, Kurt Cobain, Elliot Smith, Neil Young, and The Beatles were the only ones that popped into my head. But there are countless female artists who do it to me all the time.

Understanding this phenomenon like understanding a women, is not easy. My initial instinct was to turn to science. I hypothesized that perhaps there is an intrinsic emotional response to soprano singing. The higher a person sang, the farther those notes traveled into your heart, mind, and soul. And perhaps there’s some truth to this somewhat absurd notion, but there’s far too many exceptions to the rule, to make for much of a theory.

With that in mind, I came up with a second thesis. Female singers cause me to get emotional far more often than male singers, because females are tapping into a set of emotions that I’m not familiar with. In the same way that society has become largely indifferent to the over-saturation of violence they see on television and in the movies, men have become largely unmoved by other men singing about emotional subjects. We, as men, spend so much time and energy dealing with problems that are strictly man problems, that it takes a particularly powerful male song to move us. But since we rarely have to deal with the emotional problems unique to women, a woman’s voice moves us in a unique way that we’re unaccustomed to (and when combined with a woman’s lyrics, it’s hard not to get emotional). My personal response is to tear up.

Aretha Franklin’s best-know song “Respect” generally doesn’t make me cry, but it moves me emotionally. Hearing her belt out, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T… find out what it means to me…” always humbles me as a man. The song has become a feminist anthem and it was impossible for me to listen to it and not wonder about how I treat the women in my life, until I discovered she was doing an Otis Redding cover. Now, no offense to Otis Redding who is incredible, but hearing his version made me feel downright guilty. I don’t know if it’s truly mysigonistic, but the lyrics took on a dark new meaning when being sung by a man: “I’m about to give you all my money. And all I’m askin’ in return, honey, is to give me my profits. When you get home, just a, just a, just a, just a… little bit…” Same song, same lyrics, but Aretha, purely in being a woman, causes me to tap into a set of emotions that I don’t deal with on a regular basis. Otis makes me feel guilty about enjoying sex.

The same can be said of Elvis Pressley’s cover of Big Mama Thorton’s “Hound Dog.” When Elvis sings, it’s just another song written by a man about a bad woman. I’ve heard a million of these, enjoyed many of them, sympathize, empathize, understand, and know a handful of “hound dogs.” But when Big Mama Thorton is bellowing out the same lyrics, I can’t help but reexamine every time I’ve mistreated a girl. Again, something about a woman singing, causes me to tap into emotions that I’m generally not comfortable dealing with.

Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In the Wind” and Judy’s Collins’ cover of it, affect me the same way. I understand that both are protest songs, both use the same lyrics, and I know that Bob’s version is the quintessential version, but somehow Judy Collins’ sweet voice gets me teary-eyed in a way that Bob Dylan’s raspy one never does.

The previous three examples, all compare male and female singers performing songs written by men (Hound Dog, while originally performed by Big Mama Thorton, was written by two men). The ability of a female singer to tap into a unique emotional spot in my soul using lyrics written by a man is somewhat astounding. That being the case, it’s no wonder a song written by a woman, sung by a woman, about a unique female experience, like the aforementioned “Glorybox,” gets me all emotional. Like dealing with a repressed memory, listening to a woman sing about pain and suffering, causes me to deal with emotions, memories, and thoughts that I’m just not accustomed to. And it seems a healthy endeavor to engage in. In doing so, I get in touch with my feminine side and begin to unwrap some of the mysteries of the opposite sex.

Nirvana: Unplugged

Allow me to recount a few memories from the oh-so-awkward days of puberty. Most of them, I’ve repressed. Like many people, middle school was the worst part of my life. And I had it pretty good. I was relatively popular, played sports, had a couple of girlfriends, even touched a boob. Despite all those accomplishments, I was constantly worried about being cool and accepted. In an effort to fit in, I sacrificed what little integrity and values I had, and shit on anyone the kids I desperately wanted to be accepted by, felt like being mean to that week. It was kill or be killed and I was such an incredibly good follower, I was only subconsciously aware of what I was doing.

So much of who I was and what I did makes me ashamed. When I watch movies like “Mean Girls” or “Thirteen” I can’t help but think I contributed to kids behaving like that. I try to never reminisce about that time, because quite frankly there’s very little to be nostalgic about. I was a mean, shallow, spineless person, and I’ll always feel guilty about the way I treated my peers.

Despite all that, I want to travel down those old halls for a bit. If I try really hard, bits and pieces come back to me. Mrs. Devour’s deodorant checks, wall ball and butts up outside the school, passing elaborately folded notes in between classes, Airwalks, being punched in the back of my head by Alex Doughty, trapper keepers, my girl-like long hair, smoking cigarettes in the back of Fast Break, spending six months learning how to inhale, aggressive rollerblading, wearing my only long sleeve tee-shirt every day underneath a Grateful Dead tie dye two sizes two big, and of course the music.

I remember sitting on the floor of Dan Freshman’s bedroom, playing Magic: The Gathering (which, let me assure you, was cool at my middle school… seriously, I know that might be hard to believe, but it was), listening to Pearl Jam, Phish, Sound Garden, Stone Temple Pilots, Bush, and of course, Nirvana. And I remember the day Dan got Nirvana “Unplugged” and we sat anxiously listening to it. I remember being disappointed on that first listen. I didn’t know the songs, couldn’t head bang to them, wasn’t sure why they didn’t play, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” or “Heart Shaped Box.” But in one of my prouder memories, I refused to give up on the band I loved so much. We played it again and again, and after countless games of Magic and numerous listens, we came to appreciate and love the album. And for a year or so, I can’t remember liking any album as much as I liked Nirvana “Unplugged.” I don’t know if I knew why I loved the album, but it’s as pleasant a middle school memory as I have.

In high school I got into Phish and other jam bands and left poor Nirvana “Unplugged” to collect dust in my steadily growing CD collection. It did just that, until my freshman year of college. I went up to Quebec to protest the Summit of the Americas. On my drive back, someone in my affinity group, popped in the CD. There were four of us, a white upper middle class hippie female ultimate frisbee player, a black lower middle class lesbian rugby player, and white middle class male Marxist grad student, and myself. Our ages, backgrounds, and foregrounds were all different, but when that album came on, we all had something in common. Everyone of us could sing along to every song on the album.

From that point on the CD was always in constant rotation in my CD player. I hadn’t listened to it in a few months, until this morning, when I blasted it on my car stereo as I drove in to work. I can still sing along to all the songs and was more than happy to do so. Listening and singing along, it became clear to me for the first time, just why I love this album so much as an awkward adolescent. There was something about Kurt Cobain’s voice that tapped into teen angst better than anything I’ve ever heard.

As I sang this morning, I was overcome with that same angst. A bit of nervousness, sadness, self-loathing, fear, cockiness, naivety, and anger seems to be imbedded in various combinations in each of the songs. I was transported back to those awful days of middle school, terrified at first, but then comforted by the songs that had brought me there. In a time when I was so desperate to have cool friends, and my cool friends were so desperate to remain cool, one of the few things I could count on was Nirvana. All the anger and frustration and fear I was feeling, could be unloaded as I sang along to good old Nirvana “Unplugged.”

If this album was a part of your life at some point and you’ve lost touch, I urge you to pull it out and listen to it. It remains one of my all-time favorite albums. And I could go on and on about each individual track, but that’s not what this is about. Listening to the album was about understanding who I was at a time in my life, when I had no idea what I was doing or why. It’s about coming to terms with the fact that I can’t change the awful way I treated people; I can only vow to never behave like that again. It’s about taking stock of my life and appreciating just how good it is these days. And most of all, it’s about learning to appreciate and enjoy the worst of times and in doing so, coming to terms with my past.

Music and Memories

I have this annoying, savant-like talent to take anything that anyone says and connect it to music. Like last night, Christine and I were having dinner and I asked her how was she able to tell which was the saltshaker and which was the pepper. She pointed to the holes in the shape of a “P” on the peppershaker and I immediately broke into a rousing rendition of, “You down with OPP? Yeah you know me!” (Needless to say, Christine picked a winner and my ability to go from “P” to “OPP” is the stuff legends are made of.)

I’ve been trying to figure out why this always happens to me. Aside from the obvious suggestion that I’m a tool, why do I immediately seize on a tiny, innocuous part of someone’s phrasing and immediately break into song? After much deliberation, I’m willing to reject both science and a certain Old Spice commercial’s belief that scent is the strongest tie to memory. For me, it’s definitely sound.

As a high school student (and probably my first year or two of college), I was able to relate everything anyone said to various Simpson’s quotes. Those were the days when I used to watch a minimum of two Simpson’s repeats a night. Now that I’m a working-man, I don’t have time to watch my beloved Homer and company, instead, I commute nearly an hour to and from work everyday and my car’s stereo is my closest companion. Music has become my teacher, mother, secret lover.

In addition to being able to relate nearly anything to a song, I rarely hear a song that doesn’t evoke some memory. Obviously some are stronger than others. “Tears In Heaven” is a vivid memory of the first time I ever slow danced with a girl (FYI: she was hot). Any song on the Widespread Panic album “Space Wrangler” instantly makes me nauseous; it was the album I listened to as I tried to fall asleep after throwing my first house party (think Beastie Boys’ “Fight For Your Right” video). Medeski, Martin, and Woods’ “Sugarcraft” always reminds me of the insanity of my buddy Paul and his drug-induced, wonderful antics the morning after our prom party at Vein’s camp. Neil Young’s “Sugar Mountain” makes me tear-up every time I hear it, as I longingly recall past days of Jew Camp glory.

The list could go on and on. Nearly any song has some story or brings about some feeling or memory. I’ve often thought about imitating “High Fidelity” and trying to organize my music collection biographically, but I’m lazy and it requires too much time. There’s also the thought of making a mix of the stuff you’re into every month or two and in doing so, creating a musical journal (so to speak). Again, this is a little too ambitious for me. Instead, I thought this would be the first of several nostalgic music posts. There’s nothing better than re-discovering music you loved ten years ago. It brings about all these crazy memories and emotions, and sometimes you have all these wonderful insights into the stuff you used to love but had no idea why. My CD binder is my photo album and I’m looking forward to a trip down memory lane.

My Favorite Album to Come Out in the Past Year...

I don’t listen to quite enough music to declare TV On the Radio’s “Return To Cookie Mountain” the best album to come out last year, but it’s certainly my favorite. I can’t vouch for a TV On the Radio live show, but the band seems to embody what I love most about music: the proper coupling of talent and innovation. “Return To Cookie Mountain” is not only a joy to listen to, but like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

The album’s opening track, “If I Was a Lover,” sets the tone for the album. Insane, manic instrumental beats punctuate lyrics without a true chorus, horns blare, electronica blasts, and once they’ve grabbed your attention, the song opens into a piano-led, sweet, softer section. The beautiful voices of the lead singers, Tunde Adebimpe and the throatier Kyp Malone, blend together perfectly and diverge just as gracefully. I was three minutes into this song the first time I listened to this album and I knew what would follow was going to be special.

“Hours” picks up the tempo a little bit. With a heavy snare hook and a truly unique two-part harmony, the song distinguishes itself in a variety of pleasing ways, but somehow stays in touch with the entire feel of the album.

“Province” is softer, introducing the “ooo ooo ooo ooo’s” that characterize much of the album. Like nearly every track on the album, it’s so beautifully layered. Drums, keyboards, horns, vocals, guitar, bass, electronic loops, and noises I don’t understand and can’t begin to describe, blend together in a beautiful, complicated little package. The whole being so much greater than the sum of its parts.

“Playhouses” is dueling vocals layered over a steady snare and cymbal beat with a grinder-like synthesizer noise being sucked through a vacuum in the background. Slight fluctuations in the surrounding instrumentation subtly raise and lower the tension of the song in very pleasing ways.

“Wolf Like Me” is the closest thing this album has to a real single. You may have heard it on MTV, often times played in between shite reality shows. It’s snare/bass beat is foot stomping catchy goodness. The song builds in pace, only to reach a slower, haunting oasis in the center, where it once again abruptly picks up the pace. The seamless transitions between sections of the song(s) continue to astound me listen after listen.

I could go on and on and write a snippet about each track, but instead, I intend I hope to entice you to go out and get this album, and I’m afraid a seemingly endless stream of praise will bore the reader. So I’ll close quickly… it’s late and I don’t have too much energy to write anyway. This album is simply a joy to listen. And it gets better and better with each listen as I untangle layer after layer of sound. It can be enjoyed on so many levels, from the casual listen to the meticulous ears of a phony music snob like myself. Get it. Listen to it. If you don’t agree, give me shit, but I’ll be shocked if you don’t enjoy it.

Listen Here

The Breakup Mix Pt. 2

Syracuse was excluded from the tournament. Maybe it's my fault. I shouldn't have made a breakup mix in preparation of them losing in the tournament before they were actually in the tournament. I hate everyone and life right now. If you need me, I'll be listening to my mix and feeling sorry for myself. You'd think I'd be used to this after all these years. I'm not.

The Breakup Mix

Breakups are the worst! Specifically, having someone break up with you is the worst. Fortunately, very few girls have ever been interested in anything besides a friendship with me, so I’ve only been broken up with once. Win-Win. Right?

I’m no stranger to heart break though. I’ve watched far too many Syracuse basketball games in my life not to know what it’s like to have your heart ripped out of your body, smashed with a rusty hammer, and then defecated on. Syracuse is that girl, sexy as hell, but treats you like shit. Every time you start to give up on her, she sucks you back in, only to inexplicably blow a 14 point lead with less than ten minutes to go in the second half. No matter how bad she treats me, how much suffering she causes me, how hard she punches me in the gut, I’ll never breakup with Syracuse.

It’s March though. And that means we’re about to embark on the greatest annual sporting event on the planet – the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. Syracuse is seemingly a lock for the tournament, but knowing my luck, they’ll either be excluded which would cause me to become enraged or they’ll exit early in some humiliating, agonizing way. Either way, I’m going to need something to comfort me.

Enter “Zidane’s Kick-Ass Breakup Mix.” When you’ve had a bad breakup and/or are a SU fan, there’s nothing like a good mix to flesh out everything you’re feeling: pain, suffering, jealousy, cynicism, bitterness, agony, longing, and more pain. Fortunately, when you’re done, you’re a stronger person (at least that’s what I tell myself after every season). Music helps you get there. Trust me. The four things that got me through my lone breakup were reading Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity” (it taught me I wasn’t crazy), watching “Swingers,” talking about what I was going through, and music. One of the best things to do is blast some Rage Against the Machine and dance away the pain. And when I say dance, I mean wildly punching the air as you thrash around the room. Seriously, try dancing to three songs in a row, you’ll get a lot of anger out and by the time you’re done, you’ll be tired to be depressed. It’s healthy. In addition to Rage, everyone needs some music to flesh out those open wounds and eventually heal them. I recommend the following mix (in no real particular order):

(Note: Before I get started, I should probably mention that I know nothing about how women deal with breakups. This is based on my suffering as a man and a basketball fanatic. Nearly every song on this list is written by a man. I know there are plenty of great female breakup songs, but somehow Janis Joplin’s “Take Another Piece Of My Heart” or any of the other great female breakup songs, didn’t really seem to speak to what I was going through. I don’t know if these songs will speak to the females who read this. All I know is that they were compelling to me.)

1. (“Wasted Days” – The Slackers) I keep bringing up the Slackers in as many posts as possible. Maybe somebody, other than my buddy Vein who turned me onto them, will realize just how kick-ass they are. This is the breakup anthem. “What have I done wrong that I should be sorry? You broke my heart, you left in no hurry. What I'm sorry for, is all those wasted days and all those wasted ways that I loved you.”

2. (“It Makes No Difference” – The Band) This song captures that post breakup feeling about as well as any I’ve ever heard. You know what I’m talking about. After that realization that it’s really over, but long before you’ve started coming to terms with things. By the way, if you don’t own The Band’s “The Last Waltz” go out and buy it. It’s one of the best live albums ever released. Period.

3. (“Ain’t No Sunshine” – Bill Whithers) It’s beautiful and haunting but I can’t help but feel the song ends a bit prematurely. But hey, so do relationships. And 1987 National Championship games. “We didn’t lose; we jus ran out of time.”

4. (“For No One” – The Beatles) They have a song for every feeling and occasion, so obviously the greatest band in the history of rock was going to be on this list. Excluding songs like, “I Want You,” “I’m Looking Through You,” and “Girl” was not easy, but “For No One” is quite simply a perfect song. If you don’t make a point to listen to a Beatles’ album at least once a month, you should start. I’m currently in the middle of another period of falling in love with them for like the fifth time.

5. (“My Girl” – Nirvana – Unplugged) I think this is my favorite song from one of my favorite classic adolescent albums. Have you listened to “Unplugged” lately? It’s incredible. You can taste the bitterness in Curt Cobain’s voice when he gets to that final chorus. “In the pines. The PINES. SUN. SHINE. I shiver… the whole… night THROUGH!” Still gives me chills every time I listen to it.

6. (“You Are My Sunshine” – Norman Blake) As a child I remember singing this in pre-school. How in the fuck was this ever made into a kid’s song? It’s unequivocally one of the most morose songs I’ve ever heard. Don’t believe me? Check out the LYRICS By the time you’re through with this song (along with the previous 5), you’ll be thoroughly depressed. Sometimes after a breakup, that’s exactly how you want to feel. But if you want a pick up, there’s…

7. (“Song For Dumped” – Ben Folds Five) This will get the energy going. Nothing like bitterness to divert from the feeling of anguish. And this is the quintessential bitter boyfriend who just got fucked over rant. My Freshman roommate, Brian, told me he drove around with one his recently dumped high school buddies blasting this over and over again all night. I can see how that would therapeutic.

8. (“I used To Love Her” – Guns and Roses) And if bitterness isn’t working, maybe try a little cynicism. “I used to love her, but I had to kill her. I had to put her, six feet under. And I can still hear her complain…” Misogynistic? Probably. But if you’ve just had your heart ripped out, who really cares?

9. (“Can’t Stand Losing You” – The Police) I had a tough time picking my Police song. “Hole In My Life,” “So Lonely,” “My Bed’s Too Big Without You,” and “Message In Bottle” get honorable mentions for the list. My man-crush on Sting was born during my breakup. The emotion he sang with echoed all the things I was feeling. “I Can’t Stand Losing You” is darkly humorous. “I guess you’d call it suicide, but I’m too full to swallow my pride…” Things were bad, but never this bad. Listening to it, always helped me laugh at myself and keep things in perspective.

10. (“Tell Me Why” – Los Lonely Boys) I know they’re a bit smooth, but I’ve seen Los Lonely Boys in person and they’re shockingly good live. I don’t know if this one can hold a candle to “Ain’t No Sunshine” or some of the previous songs, but I don’t care. I like it. It taps into that time when the breakup is imminent, but you’re still in denial.

11. (“Pictures of Me” – Elliot Smith) Either/Or was and remains not only one of the greatest breakup albums of all time, but one of my all-time top five desert island favorite albums. Picking a single song off it was next to impossible for me. The album is sad, haunting, beautiful, and the best reminder I have of being broken up with. Go buy this album. If you get broken up with, it will be one of your closest companions. And in times of happiness, you’ll appreciate how chillingly magnificent it is.

12. (“My Girl” (acoustic, live) – Weezer) You have to get the live-acoustic version of this. I know some people who think it’s sexist. “I want a girl who will laugh for no one else. When I’m away, she puts her make up on the shelf. When I’m away, she never leaves the house…” Listen to this version and I guarantee that you’ll understand. It’s about a guy whose girlfriend is a cheater and it’s killing him. On this you can hear the suffering in his voice. It taps into that awful, awful jealousy you feel in a way that no other song I’ve ever heard does.

13. (“A Man Needs A Maid” – Neil Young) This is another song that people often confuse as being misogynistic. “I was thinking that maybe I’d get a maid. Find a place nearby for her to stay. Just someone to keep my house clean. Fix my meals and go away.” I know that sounds horrible, but you’ve got to understand the back-story. Young wrote it about his wife, Carrie Snodgress, who cared for him after a back injury. It’s unclear whether or not it’s supposed to be a tribute to her (Young called her his “Maid Marion”). It doesn’t really matter though. I’ve always envisioned the Ethan Frome-like scene of Young bedridden, being taking care of by this woman who hates him, trapped in a loveless marriage.

14. (“How Can You Mend A Broken Heart” – Al Green) Obviously Al Green was going to be on this list. He’s another person, who, if you don’t own one of his CD’s, you need to go out and buy one right away. Whether he’s singing about love or pain, Al’s voice and passion seems to be a mainline to your soul.

15. (“Deceptacon” – Le Tigre) Okay, this defiantly isn’t one of the 20 best breakup songs of all time. I don’t know if it’s a break up song, but I’ve been dying to write about it since I started the blog. The Vein made me a mix and this was the first song on it. It’s awesome! Le Tigre is this female punk band that rocks. Every time it comes on Christine dances like a madwoman. People in the cars around us stare, but she doesn’t care. She can’t help it out, she’s got to wow out and I can’t blame her. It makes the list because there’s a strong touch of bitterness in the lyrics and so much energy, you’ll dance that depression away.

16. (“One Cup of Coffee” – Bob Marley) This is old-school Bob Marley. One of my favorite Bob songs. “One cup of coffee, then I’ll go; though I just dropped by to let you know, that I’m leaving you tomorrow. I’ll cause you no more sorrow. One cup of coffee, then I’ll go.” Part of breaking up is expressing some regret. Even if you’re the victim, you should still be able to look back on the relationship and know you should’ve done some things different. Believing that Nichols, Roberts, and Watkins might lead SU back to the Final Four is regrettable.

17. (“Mysterons” – Portishead) Thinking about that regret, makes me depressed. If you feel like being depressed, there’s always Portishead. The saddest music I know. It’s dark and beautiful and the perfect thing to blast when you feel like being despondent.

18. (“Cry Me A River” – Justin Timberlake) I know it’s Justin Timberlake, but a wise man named Moody taught me all about his brilliance while we were in London together. And this song is one of the ultimate “fuck-you, I’m over you now” songs in the history of music. And good for Justin. Look at Britney these days. She’s a fucking mess. JT is the king of pop. He broke up with Cameron Diaz. He’s the fucking man.

19. (“Stepping Stones” – G Love and Special Sauce) And here’s a bit more of that. Upbeat music, realizing you’re better off without her. But eventually you have to come to terms with the breakup. And when you do, there’s the greatest songwriter of them all…

20. (“Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” – Bob Dylan) This song is about turning the corner. If you’re ever really stuck in a rut and feel like you’re never going to get out, listen to this song. “I’m walkin’ down that long , lonesome road, babe. Where I’m bound, I can’t tell. But goodbye’s too good a word, gal. So I’ll just say fare thee well. I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind. You could have done better but I don’t mind. You just kinda wasted my precious time. But don’t think twice, it’s all right.” No matter how deep a funk you’re in, you’ll claw your way out, just a matter of time. And when you do, brace yourself to it all over again. After all, a new season is just around the bend.

So there you have it, “Zidane’s Kick-Ass Breakup Mix.” Any glaring omissions? Post a comment, let me know. I’ve got one… it was just a little too long to fit on the mix, but The Allman Brothers’ “Whipping Post” from their Fillmore Shows album has to be one of the greatest versions of one of the greatest songs in the history of rock. When I listen to the LYRICS, I can’t help but wonder if Gregg Allman was a Syracuse fan too.