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.
Showing posts with label Rock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rock. Show all posts
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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)
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)
Monday, July 30, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 9, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 26, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
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 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
Friday, March 9, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Why am I such a bad dancer?
For those of you who have seen me dance… I’m sorry – it’s not a pretty sight. There’s a lot of misguided hip shaking, arm swinging, and head bobbing as I desperately search for the beat. Usually, I resign myself to a modified “running man.” My head goes up and down or shoulder-to-shoulder, while my arms take turns upper cutting my chin. What my legs do is better left unsaid. Why am I such a bad dancer?
The short answer is that I’m a skinny, white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm. On closer examination, that doesn’t begin to explain my ineptitude. The belief that all Jews, or white people for that matter, are bad dancers is not only a broad generalization (racist) but inaccurate. When I watch “My Super Sweet Sixteen” (MTV guilty pleasure watching at it’s finest) the white kids are cutting a serious rug. (Do the kids say, “cutting a rug” anymore?)
So what makes them so different than me? Well, I’ll get to them a bit later, but first I want to explain why a fairly decent athlete like myself, has to rely on the delicate balance of “just enough booze” when I dance -- too little and I move like the Tin Man, too much and I’m somewhere between doing the cabbage patch and having a seizure, just right and I may walk off the dance floor with some of my dignity still intact.
The answer lies in the music I was socialized with. My mom was not hip. Anyone who has met her will say that she’s very sweet and kind, but no one is confusing her with “the cool mom.” (That was Linda Gerber, aka “the skunk,” aka a regular visitor to the… ahem… imagination of my 15 year old self.) Anyway, the coolest thing my mom ever had me listen to was the Beatles, beyond that, I don’t know if she even listened to contemporary music. I was pretty much on my own when it came to discovering music as a kid, forced to rely on MTV and the tapes my brother was no longer interested in. At the age of 12, my music collection consisted of the following artists: Poison, Guns and Roses, Genesis, Pink Floyd, The Dead Milkmen, Paula Abdul, Neil Young, Vanilla Ice, Fiddler On The Roof Soundtrack, REM, Pearl Jam, They Might Be Giants, Billy Joel, Weird Al, and an additional Paula Abdul album (I had both “Spellbound” and “Forever Your Girl”). What does this eclectic group of musicians have in common? They’re all white.
When Paula Abdul and Vanilla Ice are the closet things a kid has to music created by people of color, it’s damn near impossible to understand what “soul” is. And I’m not just talking about soul music (which much to my delight, I discovered in college); I’m talking about music that has soul in it. The bulk of my black classmates in elementary school grew up listening to the music their parents listened to and you better believe that music had some soul in it. Meanwhile, I listened to what most middle class white kids were listening to… the stuff on the radio and on MTV. Outside of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, Living Color, TLC, and Salt and Peppa, I don’t remember too many black faces or voices on my TV or radio. And I didn’t have the slightest idea what soul meant.
Now what exactly is soul? Well, it’s hard to pinpoint just what it is. It’s easy to point to various groups or musicians (Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, James Brown, Aretha Franklin and so on) and say they have soul. It’s not so hard to trace the influence of soul artists to funk (Bootsy Collins, Maceo Parker, George Clinton, etc.) and onto hip-hop (The Roots, Jill Scoot, Erykah Badu, etc.) But what is it that all these people have in common (aside from being black)? What about their music makes it soulful? If I had to pinpoint it, it’s a combination of R&B and gospel inspired elements, most notably powerful singing and rhythms you can tap your feet to… and dance to.
In college, I used to go to a bar called Darwin’s every Thursday night and dance my ass off. It was a predominantly white crowd listening to predominantly hip-hop music. After a few cocktails, I’d usually work up the courage to approach a cute black girl and I’d say, “I’m skinny white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm… but I want to learn!” The line never failed and in seconds I was grinding was some cutie that could dance circles around most of the girls in the bar. Inevitably, I always heard the same thing week in and week out: “Listen for the beat. Find the beat.”
But I couldn’t. And it’s not because I was white and she was black, it’s because I was raised listening to Poison (no one is ever going to confuse anything Poison has written for having even an inkling of soul in it) and she was raised listening to stuff you can dance to. Now white kids were in the clear for a while. White music was pop music, and so others had to conform to the white style of dancing. In the 70’s it was disco, in the 80’s it was some sort of manic, arms flailing, seizure-like thrashing (http://youtube.com/watch?v=5Iwmqq1o0Ts - watch how the people dance in the background in this clip from 16 Candles), and in the 90’s it was head banging and mosh pits.
Today, hip-hop culture is pop-culture. White kids and black kids alike are socialized on black music. And while “soul” may be absent from Lil’ John and some of his hip-hop counterparts, check out the most recent Kanye West album and listen to “Gold Digger” or “Gone” and then try telling me there’s not a direct correlation from soul music to rap. Kids of all races are growing up listening to music that has a beat, which leads me back to “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” The white kids in that, bumping and grinding away with careless ease, have no trouble finding the beat. If you grow up listening to music with soul, the beat is just a part of you.
The short answer is that I’m a skinny, white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm. On closer examination, that doesn’t begin to explain my ineptitude. The belief that all Jews, or white people for that matter, are bad dancers is not only a broad generalization (racist) but inaccurate. When I watch “My Super Sweet Sixteen” (MTV guilty pleasure watching at it’s finest) the white kids are cutting a serious rug. (Do the kids say, “cutting a rug” anymore?)
So what makes them so different than me? Well, I’ll get to them a bit later, but first I want to explain why a fairly decent athlete like myself, has to rely on the delicate balance of “just enough booze” when I dance -- too little and I move like the Tin Man, too much and I’m somewhere between doing the cabbage patch and having a seizure, just right and I may walk off the dance floor with some of my dignity still intact.
The answer lies in the music I was socialized with. My mom was not hip. Anyone who has met her will say that she’s very sweet and kind, but no one is confusing her with “the cool mom.” (That was Linda Gerber, aka “the skunk,” aka a regular visitor to the… ahem… imagination of my 15 year old self.) Anyway, the coolest thing my mom ever had me listen to was the Beatles, beyond that, I don’t know if she even listened to contemporary music. I was pretty much on my own when it came to discovering music as a kid, forced to rely on MTV and the tapes my brother was no longer interested in. At the age of 12, my music collection consisted of the following artists: Poison, Guns and Roses, Genesis, Pink Floyd, The Dead Milkmen, Paula Abdul, Neil Young, Vanilla Ice, Fiddler On The Roof Soundtrack, REM, Pearl Jam, They Might Be Giants, Billy Joel, Weird Al, and an additional Paula Abdul album (I had both “Spellbound” and “Forever Your Girl”). What does this eclectic group of musicians have in common? They’re all white.
When Paula Abdul and Vanilla Ice are the closet things a kid has to music created by people of color, it’s damn near impossible to understand what “soul” is. And I’m not just talking about soul music (which much to my delight, I discovered in college); I’m talking about music that has soul in it. The bulk of my black classmates in elementary school grew up listening to the music their parents listened to and you better believe that music had some soul in it. Meanwhile, I listened to what most middle class white kids were listening to… the stuff on the radio and on MTV. Outside of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, Living Color, TLC, and Salt and Peppa, I don’t remember too many black faces or voices on my TV or radio. And I didn’t have the slightest idea what soul meant.
Now what exactly is soul? Well, it’s hard to pinpoint just what it is. It’s easy to point to various groups or musicians (Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, James Brown, Aretha Franklin and so on) and say they have soul. It’s not so hard to trace the influence of soul artists to funk (Bootsy Collins, Maceo Parker, George Clinton, etc.) and onto hip-hop (The Roots, Jill Scoot, Erykah Badu, etc.) But what is it that all these people have in common (aside from being black)? What about their music makes it soulful? If I had to pinpoint it, it’s a combination of R&B and gospel inspired elements, most notably powerful singing and rhythms you can tap your feet to… and dance to.
In college, I used to go to a bar called Darwin’s every Thursday night and dance my ass off. It was a predominantly white crowd listening to predominantly hip-hop music. After a few cocktails, I’d usually work up the courage to approach a cute black girl and I’d say, “I’m skinny white, Jewish boy, without much rhythm… but I want to learn!” The line never failed and in seconds I was grinding was some cutie that could dance circles around most of the girls in the bar. Inevitably, I always heard the same thing week in and week out: “Listen for the beat. Find the beat.”
But I couldn’t. And it’s not because I was white and she was black, it’s because I was raised listening to Poison (no one is ever going to confuse anything Poison has written for having even an inkling of soul in it) and she was raised listening to stuff you can dance to. Now white kids were in the clear for a while. White music was pop music, and so others had to conform to the white style of dancing. In the 70’s it was disco, in the 80’s it was some sort of manic, arms flailing, seizure-like thrashing (http://youtube.com/watch?v=5Iwmqq1o0Ts - watch how the people dance in the background in this clip from 16 Candles), and in the 90’s it was head banging and mosh pits.
Today, hip-hop culture is pop-culture. White kids and black kids alike are socialized on black music. And while “soul” may be absent from Lil’ John and some of his hip-hop counterparts, check out the most recent Kanye West album and listen to “Gold Digger” or “Gone” and then try telling me there’s not a direct correlation from soul music to rap. Kids of all races are growing up listening to music that has a beat, which leads me back to “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” The white kids in that, bumping and grinding away with careless ease, have no trouble finding the beat. If you grow up listening to music with soul, the beat is just a part of you.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Scrantonicity - The Police "Live"
Real quick post in honor of last night’s episode of The Office. The first disc of the Police “Live” CD is a must-have, if you even remotely like the band (the second disc is only so-so). In previous posts, I’ve ranted about what good live music should consist of… suffice to say, this Boston show (from 1979) is one I would’ve killed to attend. A few quick things about why I love the police and why I love this album:
1. Sting – I think I have a total man-crush on him. Aside from being an amazing singer, song-writer, bassist, front man, humanitarian, and activist – he’s a fucking tantric sex god. The man is beyond words… and he’s not even my favorite member of the police.
2. Stewart Copeland – the band’s drummer is easily one of my favorite all-time drummers. The man is a machine. He’s precise and innovative and the backbone of one of the all-time great rock bands. On the live album you can hear what makes him so special – great fills, unique polyrhythmic beats, fantastic snare and hi-hat work, and some awesome ska and reggae inspired rhythms. I saw him perform with Les Claypool and Trey Anastatio, and while the show was kind of weird (what do you expect when Trey is playing a guitar made out of deer antlers?), I felt privileged just to see Copeland live and in person.
3. “EEEYO” – I never really get sick of hearing Sting’s “eeeyos” and “dah-duh-duh-duh’s” and this album is full of them. So definitely check it out… the link is below. Oh, did I mention that Sting is a huge fan of The Office and let us use all his music? Man-crush confirmed.
Live Police
1. Sting – I think I have a total man-crush on him. Aside from being an amazing singer, song-writer, bassist, front man, humanitarian, and activist – he’s a fucking tantric sex god. The man is beyond words… and he’s not even my favorite member of the police.
2. Stewart Copeland – the band’s drummer is easily one of my favorite all-time drummers. The man is a machine. He’s precise and innovative and the backbone of one of the all-time great rock bands. On the live album you can hear what makes him so special – great fills, unique polyrhythmic beats, fantastic snare and hi-hat work, and some awesome ska and reggae inspired rhythms. I saw him perform with Les Claypool and Trey Anastatio, and while the show was kind of weird (what do you expect when Trey is playing a guitar made out of deer antlers?), I felt privileged just to see Copeland live and in person.
3. “EEEYO” – I never really get sick of hearing Sting’s “eeeyos” and “dah-duh-duh-duh’s” and this album is full of them. So definitely check it out… the link is below. Oh, did I mention that Sting is a huge fan of The Office and let us use all his music? Man-crush confirmed.
Live Police
Hippies and Hipsters:The Worst! (Part 2 - Hipsters)
First, I just wanted to say how much I’m enjoying doing this – especially getting emails from people and seeing comments. I think college was the last time that I was really inundated with a wide variety of music. So it’s cool to get suggestions and have discussions and I encourage people to post more comments or even submit posts. I had fairly selfish intentions when I started (wasting time), but I would love for this to be a place where people can discover and discuss new music.
Oh, also, in response to a few people who posted about Phish, I’m inclined to agree that musical virtuosity doesn’t neccesarilly entail a good product, but perhaps that’s the joy of live Phish and improvisational music in general. Rather than reading a speech to the audience, the band attempts to have a conversation on stage; it may not be polished, often can be redundant or incomplete but every once in a while (See: “Wolfman’s Brother” on Slip, Stitch, and Pass), the back and forth between the musicians, creates something totally organic and unique, surprising even the band. To see musicians evolving before your very eyes and ears is something truly special. Improvisation at it’s finest is about just that. Now onto the hipsters:
I was wandering around Williamsburg, Brooklyn with my buddy Julian last year and we got to chatting about hipsters. For those of you who’ve never been there before, Williamsburg has become the gold standard in hipster hipness – Silver Lake, Wicker Park, and Portland are all jostling for the silver. Anyway, I asked Julian if he thought that a hipster would be insulted if you called them a hipster. He wasn’t sure, neither was I, but I think both of us shuddered at the thought of being considered one.
The hipster movement seems to parallel the Revenge of the Nerds trilogy. Think about it: hipsters were those kids in high school, who, having been ostracized by the jocks and cool kids, embraced non-conformity and developed their own funky style. Perhaps they suffered a bit in high school, but at least they had school musicals and tech. Then they went to college, and low and behold, lots of people in college weren’t the cool kids in high school. And much like the ending of the first two Revenge of the Nerds movies, the hipsters realized they outnumbered the cool kids and having that realization they were embraced by the masses, liberated, empowered, free to wear tight jeans and ugly sunglasses, and show off their tattoos. Then when hipsters graduated college, they congregated in hip little communities; they were now the cool kids. And much like Lewis in Revenge of the Nerds III (and the pigs in Animal Farm and pretty much any discriminated class that rises to power for that matter), now that the hipsters were cool, they turned up their noses and started shitting on all us regular Joes and Jills. Fucking hipsters.
That’s all well and good and I could really care less if I’m still a nerd and two years behind the fashion curve (It’s been that way since middle school). The problem is, hipsters are fucking up live music. Hippie music seems to be all about virtuoso musicians and jamming – innovation and originality seem to get lost along the way. Hipsters have the opposite problem. They put such a premium on unique, cutting edge music, that musicians seem to be focusing more on their sound then their abilities.
I’m not an indie rock junkie, but I’ve been to enough shows and listened to enough music over the past few years to both: really enjoy a band’s album and really hate them in concert. Live music is a beautiful thing when done right, but the indie rock scene (which prides itself on bands gaining a following due to their concerts) is helping to ruin it. Live music doesn’t have to be about improvisation, but it should at the very least cause me to have an emotional response to what I’m listening to. Whether it’s dancing, or a general sense of excitement, or being fired up, or being depressed – I should feel something at a concert. At far too many indie rocks shows, emotion is replaced with a dull swaying and numb feeling from drinking too many PBR’s.
The problem isn’t the music itself – it’s the people performing it. In a studio, with a producer and plenty of time, a band can with great vision but mediocre ability can achieve wonderful things. That same band struggles live. And yet the hipsters flock, rejoice, and proclaim their greatness… and then have the nerve to scoff at hippie and mainstream bands alike. Hipsters are perpetuating an environment where originality is valued and little else.
Now obviously there are exceptions to this. Christine got me into Built To Spill. Definitely an indie rock band, with an indie rock following, but the talent to put on a unique live show every night (My Morning Jacket is in the same vein). The ironic thing seems to be that if these much beloved hipster bands had a hippie following, hipsters would hate them (see the previous post for more on this).
I haven’t caught them live yet, but from what Christine and Vein and handful of other people tell me, the Decembrists manage to put on a great show, using a variety of theatrics and audience participation. I caught a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah show last year and was thoroughly impressed, not so much by their musicianship, but rather the sheer energy with which they played; it felt like seeing a real rock band, complete with a lead singer that had udder disdain for the crowd and was still beloved.
Still, a good live indie show seems few and far between. And maybe I’m demonstrating some serious ignorance here, after all, I don’t see enough shows and I’m probably not hip enough to know about some of the really cool bands. It’s hard you know, when you don’t have a myspace page and can’t become friends with three hundred indie bands. So perhaps this is more of a plea than anything else: please, educate my ignorant, un-cool ass. Show me some bands that will wow me if I see them live. If not, we’re approaching a scary time, one where I’d rather sit on my couch and listen to a band’s studio album, then go see them in concert.
Oh, also, in response to a few people who posted about Phish, I’m inclined to agree that musical virtuosity doesn’t neccesarilly entail a good product, but perhaps that’s the joy of live Phish and improvisational music in general. Rather than reading a speech to the audience, the band attempts to have a conversation on stage; it may not be polished, often can be redundant or incomplete but every once in a while (See: “Wolfman’s Brother” on Slip, Stitch, and Pass), the back and forth between the musicians, creates something totally organic and unique, surprising even the band. To see musicians evolving before your very eyes and ears is something truly special. Improvisation at it’s finest is about just that. Now onto the hipsters:
I was wandering around Williamsburg, Brooklyn with my buddy Julian last year and we got to chatting about hipsters. For those of you who’ve never been there before, Williamsburg has become the gold standard in hipster hipness – Silver Lake, Wicker Park, and Portland are all jostling for the silver. Anyway, I asked Julian if he thought that a hipster would be insulted if you called them a hipster. He wasn’t sure, neither was I, but I think both of us shuddered at the thought of being considered one.
The hipster movement seems to parallel the Revenge of the Nerds trilogy. Think about it: hipsters were those kids in high school, who, having been ostracized by the jocks and cool kids, embraced non-conformity and developed their own funky style. Perhaps they suffered a bit in high school, but at least they had school musicals and tech. Then they went to college, and low and behold, lots of people in college weren’t the cool kids in high school. And much like the ending of the first two Revenge of the Nerds movies, the hipsters realized they outnumbered the cool kids and having that realization they were embraced by the masses, liberated, empowered, free to wear tight jeans and ugly sunglasses, and show off their tattoos. Then when hipsters graduated college, they congregated in hip little communities; they were now the cool kids. And much like Lewis in Revenge of the Nerds III (and the pigs in Animal Farm and pretty much any discriminated class that rises to power for that matter), now that the hipsters were cool, they turned up their noses and started shitting on all us regular Joes and Jills. Fucking hipsters.
That’s all well and good and I could really care less if I’m still a nerd and two years behind the fashion curve (It’s been that way since middle school). The problem is, hipsters are fucking up live music. Hippie music seems to be all about virtuoso musicians and jamming – innovation and originality seem to get lost along the way. Hipsters have the opposite problem. They put such a premium on unique, cutting edge music, that musicians seem to be focusing more on their sound then their abilities.
I’m not an indie rock junkie, but I’ve been to enough shows and listened to enough music over the past few years to both: really enjoy a band’s album and really hate them in concert. Live music is a beautiful thing when done right, but the indie rock scene (which prides itself on bands gaining a following due to their concerts) is helping to ruin it. Live music doesn’t have to be about improvisation, but it should at the very least cause me to have an emotional response to what I’m listening to. Whether it’s dancing, or a general sense of excitement, or being fired up, or being depressed – I should feel something at a concert. At far too many indie rocks shows, emotion is replaced with a dull swaying and numb feeling from drinking too many PBR’s.
The problem isn’t the music itself – it’s the people performing it. In a studio, with a producer and plenty of time, a band can with great vision but mediocre ability can achieve wonderful things. That same band struggles live. And yet the hipsters flock, rejoice, and proclaim their greatness… and then have the nerve to scoff at hippie and mainstream bands alike. Hipsters are perpetuating an environment where originality is valued and little else.
Now obviously there are exceptions to this. Christine got me into Built To Spill. Definitely an indie rock band, with an indie rock following, but the talent to put on a unique live show every night (My Morning Jacket is in the same vein). The ironic thing seems to be that if these much beloved hipster bands had a hippie following, hipsters would hate them (see the previous post for more on this).
I haven’t caught them live yet, but from what Christine and Vein and handful of other people tell me, the Decembrists manage to put on a great show, using a variety of theatrics and audience participation. I caught a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah show last year and was thoroughly impressed, not so much by their musicianship, but rather the sheer energy with which they played; it felt like seeing a real rock band, complete with a lead singer that had udder disdain for the crowd and was still beloved.
Still, a good live indie show seems few and far between. And maybe I’m demonstrating some serious ignorance here, after all, I don’t see enough shows and I’m probably not hip enough to know about some of the really cool bands. It’s hard you know, when you don’t have a myspace page and can’t become friends with three hundred indie bands. So perhaps this is more of a plea than anything else: please, educate my ignorant, un-cool ass. Show me some bands that will wow me if I see them live. If not, we’re approaching a scary time, one where I’d rather sit on my couch and listen to a band’s studio album, then go see them in concert.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Hippies and Hipsters: The Worst! (Part 1 - Hippies)
My girlfriend and I have a running bit where we try and prove that the other one is a hippie. Christine is a hippie because she went to school in Eugene, makes skirts out of pillow cases she bought at the Salvation Army, and has more Grateful Dead songs on her iPod than I do. She says I'm a hippie because of my widely eclectic and vastly superior tastes in music -- most notably, my affinity for a small handful of "jam bands." I hate the expression "jam bands" almost as much as I hate hippies.
And no, I'm not talking about the 60's hippie. This is a discussion about music and not politics. I've got no beef with the 60's hippie's preference in music. Instead, I want to discuss the modern hippie and how they've managed to tarnish the reputations of a few bands that I love. Whether they're cynical, elitist, naive, apathetic, and/or just plain smelly, the modern hippie is the worst.
(Note: I need to set politics aside when I discuss the modern hippie -- otherwise I'll become enraged. While I generally side with leftists, the modern hippie's plan for changing the world constitutes: smoking copious amounts of weed and from what I can tell, little else. Having knowledge of society's ills and the means to change them, but doing nothing about it, is almost as repugnant as moving out to LA to pursue sitcom writing as a profession.)
The modern hippie loves "jam bands." For modern hippies, the draw of the jam band is a unique live experience every time you see a band. That, in of itself, sounds like a wonderful thing. In practice, it has created a market for bands that seemingly can only be enjoyed if the people who see them are high. Here's a good general rule: (The Acid Tests aside) if you need to be fucked up to enjoy a band, what they're playing probably isn't very good. I'm not saying the musicians playing the music are lousy, rather, their product seems to be either cliché, boring, and/or exhausting. The ability to play a song for fifteen minutes or more does not make the song or the band worth seeing live. Over the past couple days I forced myself to listen to the "jam on" station on my Sirius radio and not change the channel, in an attempt to do some research for this blog. In the eight months prior, I have never successfully gotten through a song by the following bands: Moe, Widespread Panic, Umphry's McGee, Tea Leaf Green, Railroad Earth, The Breakfast, and a handful of other jam bands that seem to be beloved by the modern hippie.
So what's the problem? Why not let the modern hippie have their stoner music in peace? Well, the problem is, the modern hippie also loves some really good bands and their association with these bands, seems to ruin the band's reputation and dissuade non-hippies from giving them a chance. Take Robert Randolph. He's the best steel petal guitar player in the world; his concerts, something like a gospel show on speed, are so good they make this Jew want to convert. Yet, his hippie following seems to immediately delegitimize his reputation as a great musician.
The same is true with two jazz/fusion trios, The Bad Plus and Medeski, Martin, and Wood. The Bad Plus is doing some revolutionary stuff in jazz with their melodic in your face piano and accessibility of their contemporary pop covers. MMW, perhaps the opposite of accessible, has infused Afro rhythms and electronica into the classic jazz trio structure. Innovators in a musical genre of innovation, these two groups have the jam band stigma attached because far too many of the people attending their shows are stoned out of their gourd. It's almost as if, people outside the hippie community see the correlation between drugs and music and assume it must be crap if the bulk of the people enjoying the show are high.
The ultimate example of this seems to be Phish. I still love Phish and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Now, I hear them shit upon (by hipsters in particular... but that's part 2) more often than other "jam band." Why? People can no longer separate the music from the modern hippie twirling to it.
Top 3 things I hate about Phish heads:
1. They think there's some deep meaning to the songs. In reality, the lyrics, written by Tom Marshall, are generally bits and pieces of poems Marshall has written, cut and pasted together by the band to fit the song.
2. Their belief that Phish is start of and end all of great music. Come on! They're a great band, but really?! You don't want to expand your horizons a little (and no, the String Cheese Incident doesn't count as expanding your horizons).
3.There's an old joke I like, "How do you starve a Phish Head? Hide their parent's credit card underneath a bar of soap." That sums up number 3 pretty well.
Top 3 things that make me not ashamed to love Phish:
1. The band was composed of four incredibly versatile and talented musicians. Innovators, the band was prolific in a variety of genres including: rock, funk, jazz, blues, folk, bluegrass, heavy metal, acoustic, and even classical (Trey Anastatio wrote and conducted a symphony a few years ago).
2. The band developed their sound in the eighties. They seemingly rejected all of the trends in music of the time. Comparisons to the Grateful Dead fall flat -- their sound had more in common with Traffic. As they developed their chops, experimented, and meshed, the band created a distinctive sound, often imitated (by other jam bands) but never recreated. It was something totally original.
3. Having been to a good number of shows, I can safely say that every show was a unique and enjoyable live experience.
Now that being said, I won't go so far to say everyone should enjoy Phish. Obviously that's not the case. They're lousy singers, they have weak lyrics, some of their songs are painfully boring and/or annoying, and the patience to appreciate a band improvise for fifteen minutes is not something everyone possesses. So, not liking Phish is fine, but saying they're a shitty band is silly and demonstrates some serious musical ignorance. If you don't like jam bands, okay, but please, I implore you to withhold judgment on bands until you actually listen to the music. Don't let the fact that hippies like the music discourage you from giving it a shot. Don't be that stuck up hipster who turns up their nose at the very mention of a "jam band." (more on hipsters in part 2)
And no, I'm not talking about the 60's hippie. This is a discussion about music and not politics. I've got no beef with the 60's hippie's preference in music. Instead, I want to discuss the modern hippie and how they've managed to tarnish the reputations of a few bands that I love. Whether they're cynical, elitist, naive, apathetic, and/or just plain smelly, the modern hippie is the worst.
(Note: I need to set politics aside when I discuss the modern hippie -- otherwise I'll become enraged. While I generally side with leftists, the modern hippie's plan for changing the world constitutes: smoking copious amounts of weed and from what I can tell, little else. Having knowledge of society's ills and the means to change them, but doing nothing about it, is almost as repugnant as moving out to LA to pursue sitcom writing as a profession.)
The modern hippie loves "jam bands." For modern hippies, the draw of the jam band is a unique live experience every time you see a band. That, in of itself, sounds like a wonderful thing. In practice, it has created a market for bands that seemingly can only be enjoyed if the people who see them are high. Here's a good general rule: (The Acid Tests aside) if you need to be fucked up to enjoy a band, what they're playing probably isn't very good. I'm not saying the musicians playing the music are lousy, rather, their product seems to be either cliché, boring, and/or exhausting. The ability to play a song for fifteen minutes or more does not make the song or the band worth seeing live. Over the past couple days I forced myself to listen to the "jam on" station on my Sirius radio and not change the channel, in an attempt to do some research for this blog. In the eight months prior, I have never successfully gotten through a song by the following bands: Moe, Widespread Panic, Umphry's McGee, Tea Leaf Green, Railroad Earth, The Breakfast, and a handful of other jam bands that seem to be beloved by the modern hippie.
So what's the problem? Why not let the modern hippie have their stoner music in peace? Well, the problem is, the modern hippie also loves some really good bands and their association with these bands, seems to ruin the band's reputation and dissuade non-hippies from giving them a chance. Take Robert Randolph. He's the best steel petal guitar player in the world; his concerts, something like a gospel show on speed, are so good they make this Jew want to convert. Yet, his hippie following seems to immediately delegitimize his reputation as a great musician.
The same is true with two jazz/fusion trios, The Bad Plus and Medeski, Martin, and Wood. The Bad Plus is doing some revolutionary stuff in jazz with their melodic in your face piano and accessibility of their contemporary pop covers. MMW, perhaps the opposite of accessible, has infused Afro rhythms and electronica into the classic jazz trio structure. Innovators in a musical genre of innovation, these two groups have the jam band stigma attached because far too many of the people attending their shows are stoned out of their gourd. It's almost as if, people outside the hippie community see the correlation between drugs and music and assume it must be crap if the bulk of the people enjoying the show are high.
The ultimate example of this seems to be Phish. I still love Phish and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Now, I hear them shit upon (by hipsters in particular... but that's part 2) more often than other "jam band." Why? People can no longer separate the music from the modern hippie twirling to it.
Top 3 things I hate about Phish heads:
1. They think there's some deep meaning to the songs. In reality, the lyrics, written by Tom Marshall, are generally bits and pieces of poems Marshall has written, cut and pasted together by the band to fit the song.
2. Their belief that Phish is start of and end all of great music. Come on! They're a great band, but really?! You don't want to expand your horizons a little (and no, the String Cheese Incident doesn't count as expanding your horizons).
3.There's an old joke I like, "How do you starve a Phish Head? Hide their parent's credit card underneath a bar of soap." That sums up number 3 pretty well.
Top 3 things that make me not ashamed to love Phish:
1. The band was composed of four incredibly versatile and talented musicians. Innovators, the band was prolific in a variety of genres including: rock, funk, jazz, blues, folk, bluegrass, heavy metal, acoustic, and even classical (Trey Anastatio wrote and conducted a symphony a few years ago).
2. The band developed their sound in the eighties. They seemingly rejected all of the trends in music of the time. Comparisons to the Grateful Dead fall flat -- their sound had more in common with Traffic. As they developed their chops, experimented, and meshed, the band created a distinctive sound, often imitated (by other jam bands) but never recreated. It was something totally original.
3. Having been to a good number of shows, I can safely say that every show was a unique and enjoyable live experience.
Now that being said, I won't go so far to say everyone should enjoy Phish. Obviously that's not the case. They're lousy singers, they have weak lyrics, some of their songs are painfully boring and/or annoying, and the patience to appreciate a band improvise for fifteen minutes is not something everyone possesses. So, not liking Phish is fine, but saying they're a shitty band is silly and demonstrates some serious musical ignorance. If you don't like jam bands, okay, but please, I implore you to withhold judgment on bands until you actually listen to the music. Don't let the fact that hippies like the music discourage you from giving it a shot. Don't be that stuck up hipster who turns up their nose at the very mention of a "jam band." (more on hipsters in part 2)
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