go to spectrumculture.com or as others call it Spectrum Culture.
So it is actually possible to create decent songs about domesticity. Countless artists have tried gamely and failed miserably, subjecting listeners to the type of god-awful, weepy soap opera schmaltz heard on easy listening FM radio stations. Leave it to a fairly obscure Memphis musician to - almost - get it right. On Sucker, Harlan T. Bobo's third album, the artist keeps on the sunny side, offering up songs "mostly written while courting an adventurous woman" that absolutely spill over with optimism and contentment. Though it's a light, breezy release whose sound isn't particularly earth-shattering and whose darker moments are muted, in many ways this only adds to its charm. Sucker is simply likable and listenable, a brisk foray into the kinds of sentiments that can leave listeners reaching for the Pepto.
If 2007's I'm Your Man found Bobo agitated and twitchy - restless, on edge and sporting the type of vocal spasms that suggested an unhealthy amount of bottled up dissatisfaction and nervous energy - Sucker is more sedate and controlled. Though none of the sounds here will blow anyone's mind and everything is played quite conventionally, Bobo can't be accused of standing in place, as these songs tromp through a lot of musical ground. There's string-driven pop (opener "Sweet Life"), a bouncy piano tune ("Perfect Day") and a loosey-goosey country number ("Crazy with Loneliness"), as well as ragged attempts at punk ("Bad Boyfriends" and the F-bomb-dropping "Energy") and several stripped-down, primarily acoustic songs ("Errand Girl," "Drank" and "Mlle. Chatte"). Bobo's weathered voice complements the arrangements nicely; free of studio embellishments and clearly audible, it gives the album an organic and grizzled quality. To the artist's credit, no two songs sound even remotely similar; coupled with its scant, less than 30 minute running time, Sucker can't be accused of being overindulgent.
The lyrics favor straightforwardness and simplicity over obliqueness, perhaps to a fault. This approach usually succeeds, as "Old Man," "Selfish Life," and the half-English/half-French "Mlle. Chatte" prove that sometimes there's no need to muddy the lyrical waters just to make them look deep, while pseudo sea-shanty "Drank" is another highlight, with Bobo effectively mixing nostalgia with humor. Still, the album's major flaws rest in those unfortunate moments when Bobo reels off banally humdrum ponderings that sound ripped from the back pages of a novice songwriter. The man's in love, sure, but lines like "It's such a perfect day/ I'm not ashamed to be satisfied/ ...It's so nice not to be alone" and "If I could be with you when you're down/ If I could be more to you than a clown" are true nausea-inducing groaners that are tough to look past.
The story behind Sucker has a happy ending: Bobo eventually married the adventurous woman, and certainly the album sounds like an ode to fidelity, commitment and the rest of that romantic stuff. It won't kick-start a musical revolution or propel the musician into the mainstream, but this was probably never Bobo's goal. Sucker is a pleasing and varied - if unremarkable and innocuous - release from one of indie's less heralded and more unique artists. Hell, at the least it's a better stab at expressing connubial bliss than many big-name artists have managed.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Monday, March 01, 2010
Rock On: An Office Power Ballad, by Dan Kennedy
Spectrum Culture = spectrumculture.com = an awesome website
Much of Dan Kennedy's Rock On: An Office Power Ballad is as tedious and ennui-inducing as the mainstream music acts and corporate culture he lampoons throughout the book. Based on the writer's experiences as an Atlantic Records employee during that label's clusterfuck 2000s, Kennedy certainly had plenty of material from which to base his memoir/200-plus page rambling inner monologue: music industry weasel executives whose wardrobe never advanced past the early '70s but whose self-preservation skills are finely honed; the inherent absurdities of work life as part of a company on the auction block; the mass layoffs that sent both label presidents and lowly grunts cowering under desks as they tried to avoid getting the axe. Yet the book never really manages to say anything more than major labels are prone to the same shenanigans as any other mega-corporation and are primarily focused on pushing image-conscious and blandly generic artists onto the public instead of fostering a musician's artistic growth or providing quality product to the listening public. No shit.
First, a few polite words. The persona Kennedy adopts throughout Rock On - a well-meaning thirtysomething who initially thinks his lifelong obsession with music will be fulfilled when he lands a job in Atlantic's marketing department - is likable. The author brings a modicum of common sense to a frequently bizarre world of major label internal politics, gamesmanship and ass-covering. He doesn't buy into Atlantic's effusive praise of its illustrious artists, nor does he tow the official party line or hold back criticism of the label's outdated sales methods (in print, at least). The book's best moments occur in its latter half - well past the point by which many readers will have lost interest - where Kennedy offers an insider's view of life in a sagging music company whose employees expected to be unceremoniously canned on a daily basis. Kennedy's writing here is both cynical and poignant, exhibiting a flair for dark humor and a keen eye for capturing the company's anxious mood as loyal workers - including Kennedy - were laid off.
Yet Rock On has one significant shortcoming: it's just not that funny, which is an obvious problem for a book whose primary goal is to humorously skewer the music industry. Kennedy's humor is too often of the snarky, smarmy variety favored by a seemingly increasing number of cultural pundits and hack comedians. Moreover, many of Kennedy's witticisms are fairly obvious, beyond stale and grossly repetitive; 200 pages is a lot of paper to waste to simply state that a lot of mainstream acts are lousy and that executives driven more by self-interest than any abiding love of music are hopelessly out of touch with contemporary listeners. The author's first-person writing style quickly becomes rather exhausting and, quite simply, annoying, as Kennedy at times comes across as more neurotic than George Costanza. Readers who aren't fans of inner monologue writing likely won't enjoy this book.
Rock On isn't a total letdown, but it is trite and formulaic, while rarely offering any new insight into corporate culture that can't already be gleaned from Office Space or "The Office." Kennedy gets some points for deftly - and sometimes, comically - depicting what the atmosphere at Atlantic was like when the label began to flatline, but this only accounts for a small portion of the book. It's actually fitting, in a way; Rock On is unintentionally a lot like the mainstream acts Kennedy jabs at throughout his book: there's a decent tune surrounded by a whole lot of filler and banal sentiments, none of which ever really say anything of substance.
Much of Dan Kennedy's Rock On: An Office Power Ballad is as tedious and ennui-inducing as the mainstream music acts and corporate culture he lampoons throughout the book. Based on the writer's experiences as an Atlantic Records employee during that label's clusterfuck 2000s, Kennedy certainly had plenty of material from which to base his memoir/200-plus page rambling inner monologue: music industry weasel executives whose wardrobe never advanced past the early '70s but whose self-preservation skills are finely honed; the inherent absurdities of work life as part of a company on the auction block; the mass layoffs that sent both label presidents and lowly grunts cowering under desks as they tried to avoid getting the axe. Yet the book never really manages to say anything more than major labels are prone to the same shenanigans as any other mega-corporation and are primarily focused on pushing image-conscious and blandly generic artists onto the public instead of fostering a musician's artistic growth or providing quality product to the listening public. No shit.
First, a few polite words. The persona Kennedy adopts throughout Rock On - a well-meaning thirtysomething who initially thinks his lifelong obsession with music will be fulfilled when he lands a job in Atlantic's marketing department - is likable. The author brings a modicum of common sense to a frequently bizarre world of major label internal politics, gamesmanship and ass-covering. He doesn't buy into Atlantic's effusive praise of its illustrious artists, nor does he tow the official party line or hold back criticism of the label's outdated sales methods (in print, at least). The book's best moments occur in its latter half - well past the point by which many readers will have lost interest - where Kennedy offers an insider's view of life in a sagging music company whose employees expected to be unceremoniously canned on a daily basis. Kennedy's writing here is both cynical and poignant, exhibiting a flair for dark humor and a keen eye for capturing the company's anxious mood as loyal workers - including Kennedy - were laid off.
Yet Rock On has one significant shortcoming: it's just not that funny, which is an obvious problem for a book whose primary goal is to humorously skewer the music industry. Kennedy's humor is too often of the snarky, smarmy variety favored by a seemingly increasing number of cultural pundits and hack comedians. Moreover, many of Kennedy's witticisms are fairly obvious, beyond stale and grossly repetitive; 200 pages is a lot of paper to waste to simply state that a lot of mainstream acts are lousy and that executives driven more by self-interest than any abiding love of music are hopelessly out of touch with contemporary listeners. The author's first-person writing style quickly becomes rather exhausting and, quite simply, annoying, as Kennedy at times comes across as more neurotic than George Costanza. Readers who aren't fans of inner monologue writing likely won't enjoy this book.
Rock On isn't a total letdown, but it is trite and formulaic, while rarely offering any new insight into corporate culture that can't already be gleaned from Office Space or "The Office." Kennedy gets some points for deftly - and sometimes, comically - depicting what the atmosphere at Atlantic was like when the label began to flatline, but this only accounts for a small portion of the book. It's actually fitting, in a way; Rock On is unintentionally a lot like the mainstream acts Kennedy jabs at throughout his book: there's a decent tune surrounded by a whole lot of filler and banal sentiments, none of which ever really say anything of substance.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Column: My Life Could Be Your Band
of the bravest men I ever met was a guy who wore a T-shirt declaring "Your Favorite Band Sucks." This was at Built To Spill's St. Louis show at the now-defunct and much-lamented Mississippi Nights nightclub, way back in those heady days of 2004. I don't say he was brave because the crowd was particularly rough or violent that night; it's not difficult to be the toughest person among an indie crowd, which tends to consist of frail people sporting hoodies, black-framed glasses and heavy doses of mascara. Some of the women also wear mascara.
No, I say this man was brave for the simple and seemingly unremarkable act of wearing this shirt. Why? Because, with some exceptions, we music fans tend to take any criticism of our favorite artists as deeply personal insults on par with the most biting Yo Mamma jokes or the most inflammatory political rhetoric. Such criticism can open the critic up to a host of various insults, threats and suggestions to do something to himself that is physically impossible, often via the anonymity and safety net the Internet provides. If politics and religion are the two traditional hot button topics guaranteed to result in bruised feelings and bloodied noses, music should probably be added to that list.
Anyone noble or foolish enough to voice such dissent across the Internet's truly-disturbing global reach has probably felt such wrath. A couple years ago I wrote a facetious and, what I considered, utterly silly and entirely innocuous article that questioned why the Lynyrd Skynyrd standard-for-lousy-songs tune "Free Bird" tends to be eagerly requested by the more intoxicated or tone deaf elements of a concert crowd. Meant only to bring a chuckle or two to someone's dreary day, it instead resulted in a pretty impressive barrage of hate email from those Skynyrd disciples who walk anonymously among us. In a perverse way, I've actually started looking forward to these mails, which are usually sent from a culprit with a Southern-centric handle like george_wallace_fan or robert_e_lee_luver and generally take an amazingly vulgar Confederacy vs. Yankees approach in explaining why I'm missing the point about Skynyrd's brilliance.
I don't bring this up as any type of woe-is-me lament or for blatant and unrepentantly shameless self-promotion. Even worse, I'm guilty of the same hypocrisy and must admit that I have occasionally counted myself among this parade of fools. Take a shot at Born Sandy Devotional and I'm liable to lock onto your leg like a rabid pit bull. My brother and I have almost identical musical tastes, yet our differing views about R.E.M.'s Monster have threatened to create a rift between us usually reserved for ugly squabbles involving inheritances. He likes it; I know it's the aural equivalent of rotting Spam. When I tried to get my wife sufficiently prepped for an Elvis Costello concert, I requested that she listen to This Year's Model and Get Happy!!, two indisputable classics. When she recoiled in horror and cruelly dismissed both as "circus music, minus the elephants," I reacted as if I'd been smacked in the jewels with a ball peen hammer. Only our eventual mutual agreement about Okkervil River prevented an ugly, prolonged marital spat, though I still suspect she likes the drummer more than the band's music.
Which brings me back to the central question of this rambling article: why do so many music fans get so bothered, and in many cases grossly offended, when their favorite artists are either criticized or outright dismissed by those who don't worship at that particular altar? Certainly some music fans are off the reservation; these are the ones you see listening to their favorite musicians at the gym, on the bus, or at work with an awed expression of hero worship that clearly shows that in their minds there right up there on that stage with the band. These are the people who dress up like their favorite performers, think that every song was written as a coded message to them, and drive cross-country to attend concerts, work and family commitments be damned. Wait, I've done that; scratch that last one.
Clearly such die-hards are without any possibility of redemption and should thus be handled with kid gloves, patted gently on the top of the head and perhaps even relocated to a deserted island near the coast of Borneo for everyone's safety. Yet I've seen many cases where otherwise rational people react like vultures around a carcass when confronted with particularly pointed or satiric music criticism about their musical tastes.
The reasons for this are several: first (and please excuse this brief foray into armchair psychology), whether rightly or not, as music fans we tend to define who we are by the type of music we listen to. And when self-identify jumps into bed with musical preferences for a romping tango, it's not too surprising that fans sometimes react with such strong emotions in the face of these critiques. Essentially an individual's musical tastes become an extension of that individual; thus, there's a tendency to view such comments as personal attacks.
The other main reason is that music fans tend to identify music with particular milestones or important events in their lives ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea helped me get through my unfortunate accident/divorce/third stint in rehab, so I'll brain you if you insult it"). Think about one of your personal favorite songs or albums; there's a good chance it will remind you of a very specific time and place in your life (you know, when you were young and naïve and didn't yet know life was a cruel, unforgiving whelp of a whore who brings nothing but disappointment). Such memories make us unintentionally defensive about slights directed at the music we hold so near and dear. Music shapes how many of us remember our past; is it therefore any wonder that we bristle when the music that frames this past is belittled or questioned?
Certainly there are numerous other reasons - some music fans just like to argue and play the roll of trolls on various websites, some critiques border on cheap personal attacks and deserve to be challenged, among others - but this somewhat unhealthy self-identification seems to be a large reason fans can react emotionally to perceived attacks about their musical preferences. Of course there are plenty of musos who can brush off such comments with a shrug, without it impacting their psyche or pissing them off.
Perhaps it's not surprising that music can often serve as a lightning rod for both reasoned debate and borderline psychotic, overly emotional arguments. Music defines who we are, how we perceive both ourselves and others, and shapes the memories we keep in our various addled brains.
Or maybe it's just that, as someone recently said to me, "All you music freaks are batshit crazy."
No, I say this man was brave for the simple and seemingly unremarkable act of wearing this shirt. Why? Because, with some exceptions, we music fans tend to take any criticism of our favorite artists as deeply personal insults on par with the most biting Yo Mamma jokes or the most inflammatory political rhetoric. Such criticism can open the critic up to a host of various insults, threats and suggestions to do something to himself that is physically impossible, often via the anonymity and safety net the Internet provides. If politics and religion are the two traditional hot button topics guaranteed to result in bruised feelings and bloodied noses, music should probably be added to that list.
Anyone noble or foolish enough to voice such dissent across the Internet's truly-disturbing global reach has probably felt such wrath. A couple years ago I wrote a facetious and, what I considered, utterly silly and entirely innocuous article that questioned why the Lynyrd Skynyrd standard-for-lousy-songs tune "Free Bird" tends to be eagerly requested by the more intoxicated or tone deaf elements of a concert crowd. Meant only to bring a chuckle or two to someone's dreary day, it instead resulted in a pretty impressive barrage of hate email from those Skynyrd disciples who walk anonymously among us. In a perverse way, I've actually started looking forward to these mails, which are usually sent from a culprit with a Southern-centric handle like george_wallace_fan or robert_e_lee_luver and generally take an amazingly vulgar Confederacy vs. Yankees approach in explaining why I'm missing the point about Skynyrd's brilliance.
I don't bring this up as any type of woe-is-me lament or for blatant and unrepentantly shameless self-promotion. Even worse, I'm guilty of the same hypocrisy and must admit that I have occasionally counted myself among this parade of fools. Take a shot at Born Sandy Devotional and I'm liable to lock onto your leg like a rabid pit bull. My brother and I have almost identical musical tastes, yet our differing views about R.E.M.'s Monster have threatened to create a rift between us usually reserved for ugly squabbles involving inheritances. He likes it; I know it's the aural equivalent of rotting Spam. When I tried to get my wife sufficiently prepped for an Elvis Costello concert, I requested that she listen to This Year's Model and Get Happy!!, two indisputable classics. When she recoiled in horror and cruelly dismissed both as "circus music, minus the elephants," I reacted as if I'd been smacked in the jewels with a ball peen hammer. Only our eventual mutual agreement about Okkervil River prevented an ugly, prolonged marital spat, though I still suspect she likes the drummer more than the band's music.
Which brings me back to the central question of this rambling article: why do so many music fans get so bothered, and in many cases grossly offended, when their favorite artists are either criticized or outright dismissed by those who don't worship at that particular altar? Certainly some music fans are off the reservation; these are the ones you see listening to their favorite musicians at the gym, on the bus, or at work with an awed expression of hero worship that clearly shows that in their minds there right up there on that stage with the band. These are the people who dress up like their favorite performers, think that every song was written as a coded message to them, and drive cross-country to attend concerts, work and family commitments be damned. Wait, I've done that; scratch that last one.
Clearly such die-hards are without any possibility of redemption and should thus be handled with kid gloves, patted gently on the top of the head and perhaps even relocated to a deserted island near the coast of Borneo for everyone's safety. Yet I've seen many cases where otherwise rational people react like vultures around a carcass when confronted with particularly pointed or satiric music criticism about their musical tastes.
The reasons for this are several: first (and please excuse this brief foray into armchair psychology), whether rightly or not, as music fans we tend to define who we are by the type of music we listen to. And when self-identify jumps into bed with musical preferences for a romping tango, it's not too surprising that fans sometimes react with such strong emotions in the face of these critiques. Essentially an individual's musical tastes become an extension of that individual; thus, there's a tendency to view such comments as personal attacks.
The other main reason is that music fans tend to identify music with particular milestones or important events in their lives ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea helped me get through my unfortunate accident/divorce/third stint in rehab, so I'll brain you if you insult it"). Think about one of your personal favorite songs or albums; there's a good chance it will remind you of a very specific time and place in your life (you know, when you were young and naïve and didn't yet know life was a cruel, unforgiving whelp of a whore who brings nothing but disappointment). Such memories make us unintentionally defensive about slights directed at the music we hold so near and dear. Music shapes how many of us remember our past; is it therefore any wonder that we bristle when the music that frames this past is belittled or questioned?
Certainly there are numerous other reasons - some music fans just like to argue and play the roll of trolls on various websites, some critiques border on cheap personal attacks and deserve to be challenged, among others - but this somewhat unhealthy self-identification seems to be a large reason fans can react emotionally to perceived attacks about their musical preferences. Of course there are plenty of musos who can brush off such comments with a shrug, without it impacting their psyche or pissing them off.
Perhaps it's not surprising that music can often serve as a lightning rod for both reasoned debate and borderline psychotic, overly emotional arguments. Music defines who we are, how we perceive both ourselves and others, and shapes the memories we keep in our various addled brains.
Or maybe it's just that, as someone recently said to me, "All you music freaks are batshit crazy."
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Satire: Music Fan Ponders Fate of Collection after His Demise
An alleged near-brush with death has left rabid indie fan Franklin Dyer pondering what will happen to his massive music collection once he springs off this mortal coil. Dyer reports that his near-demise was the ironic result of his good intentions to share his musical tastes with his two teenage neighbors, whom he now describes as two “hopeless pop music lackeys and who blast whimsical and vacuous tunes and other toxic waste at top volume.”
According to Dyer, the numerous attempts he’s made to share his impeccable musical preferences have resulted in emphatic rejections from the two neighbors. “It’s one slight after another. I kindly place Doolittle, a mix CD of rare Neutral Milk Hotel live performances, and the book Our Band Could Be Your Life in their mailbox, and they return it to my front porch in flames,” Dyer said dejectedly.
Yet Dyer never imagined that his goals of spreading his musical gospel to those truly uninterested in his opinions would nearly cost him his life. In a series of events that the two teenagers dispute – though judging from their frequent smirking and giggling, they clearly had some hand in the mayhem that ensued – Dyer alleges that the two teens switched out his October Uncut magazine’s CD with a collection of some of today’s most recognizable mainstream artists. “I eagerly popped in the CD to get an idea of which new songs I wanted to illegally download, er, purchase legally so that the composers are compensated for their work. But something was immediately amiss. The horror revved up with two Fergie songs, took a cruel detour into five different Pussycat Dolls songs, and concluded with Paris Hilton’s Stars Are Blind EP. Within seconds I began to have labored breathing, my vision got blurry, my throat closed up, my eyes started to burn, a purple rash developed on my arms, and I began to babble incoherently in Farsi before blacking out. I eventually woke up to find the Repeat function enabled and the song ‘Don’t Cha’ permanently seared into my brain.”
The horrific incident has left Dyer pondering what will happen to his enormous, and slightly disturbing, music collection once his life “starts to be measured in dirt years,” as he cynically puts it. “I’ve worked too hard through three marriages and several careers with varying degrees of success to just kick off without ensuring this collection finds a worthy home,” Dyer said with conviction. The collection, which he refuses to sell because of its priceless nature, includes both official and unofficial releases, and is a veritable history of music that the vast majority of Americans have never heard of.
For this reason, Dyer feels that its eternal preservation is essential, though he admits his attempts to find a suitable heir have thus far been unsuccessful. According to Dyer, “emails to my old trading partners have returned harsh and somewhat cavalier questions about when exactly I’m planning to die and what the shipping charges might be. My ex-wives declared they’d help me ‘take that junk out with the garbage next Tuesday, and personally pick clean the bones.’ My only daughter thinks Bruce Springsteen is the guy who runs the local Jewish deli, so obviously she’s not a good choice.”
Institutions have likewise shown little interest in the collection. Though he’s somewhat evasive when discussing the matter, he acknowledges that repeated inquiries to Federal preservation agencies have only resulted in his name being added to “various watch lists…but it’s only the government, so why worry?” Dyer likewise received a chilly reception from his local library, where the head librarian “only asked if I had any Perry Como records before making me pay up for an overdue copy of White Noise, which I checked out in 1985.”
Regardless, Dyer vows that his collection will find a loving home before he goes to that great backstage lounge in the sky. “Like innovation or creativity in current pop music, my time on this earth is limited. This collection traces the most obtuse and marginal strands of music history that most people aren’t even remotely aware of. Who wouldn’t be interested in this?”
According to Dyer, the numerous attempts he’s made to share his impeccable musical preferences have resulted in emphatic rejections from the two neighbors. “It’s one slight after another. I kindly place Doolittle, a mix CD of rare Neutral Milk Hotel live performances, and the book Our Band Could Be Your Life in their mailbox, and they return it to my front porch in flames,” Dyer said dejectedly.
Yet Dyer never imagined that his goals of spreading his musical gospel to those truly uninterested in his opinions would nearly cost him his life. In a series of events that the two teenagers dispute – though judging from their frequent smirking and giggling, they clearly had some hand in the mayhem that ensued – Dyer alleges that the two teens switched out his October Uncut magazine’s CD with a collection of some of today’s most recognizable mainstream artists. “I eagerly popped in the CD to get an idea of which new songs I wanted to illegally download, er, purchase legally so that the composers are compensated for their work. But something was immediately amiss. The horror revved up with two Fergie songs, took a cruel detour into five different Pussycat Dolls songs, and concluded with Paris Hilton’s Stars Are Blind EP. Within seconds I began to have labored breathing, my vision got blurry, my throat closed up, my eyes started to burn, a purple rash developed on my arms, and I began to babble incoherently in Farsi before blacking out. I eventually woke up to find the Repeat function enabled and the song ‘Don’t Cha’ permanently seared into my brain.”
The horrific incident has left Dyer pondering what will happen to his enormous, and slightly disturbing, music collection once his life “starts to be measured in dirt years,” as he cynically puts it. “I’ve worked too hard through three marriages and several careers with varying degrees of success to just kick off without ensuring this collection finds a worthy home,” Dyer said with conviction. The collection, which he refuses to sell because of its priceless nature, includes both official and unofficial releases, and is a veritable history of music that the vast majority of Americans have never heard of.
For this reason, Dyer feels that its eternal preservation is essential, though he admits his attempts to find a suitable heir have thus far been unsuccessful. According to Dyer, “emails to my old trading partners have returned harsh and somewhat cavalier questions about when exactly I’m planning to die and what the shipping charges might be. My ex-wives declared they’d help me ‘take that junk out with the garbage next Tuesday, and personally pick clean the bones.’ My only daughter thinks Bruce Springsteen is the guy who runs the local Jewish deli, so obviously she’s not a good choice.”
Institutions have likewise shown little interest in the collection. Though he’s somewhat evasive when discussing the matter, he acknowledges that repeated inquiries to Federal preservation agencies have only resulted in his name being added to “various watch lists…but it’s only the government, so why worry?” Dyer likewise received a chilly reception from his local library, where the head librarian “only asked if I had any Perry Como records before making me pay up for an overdue copy of White Noise, which I checked out in 1985.”
Regardless, Dyer vows that his collection will find a loving home before he goes to that great backstage lounge in the sky. “Like innovation or creativity in current pop music, my time on this earth is limited. This collection traces the most obtuse and marginal strands of music history that most people aren’t even remotely aware of. Who wouldn’t be interested in this?”
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Summer Music Festival Survival Tips and Etiquette
You might think that attending a summer concert festival with thousands of other music fans who share your abiding love of a specific band would be enough to make your festival experience enjoyable. You'll doubt that when you hear said band perform their best songs from their best album with the fellow fan while desperately wanting the lines to the porta-potties to just move already.
You might think that several days in the sweltering sun with like-minded music fans would lead to a mystical sense of musical joy and community, and that the person thuggishly shoving his way to the front of the stage won’t step on your head to get a few feet closer to the band.
You’d be wrong.
Simply put, a summer concert festival is Thunderdome, a regular outdoor concert gone gonzo on HGH and the cold, unforgiving Darwinian struggle for survival all rolled into one. With Coachella already in the books and a whole mess of festivals remaining this upcoming summer, a few simple tips are in order to maximize your enjoyment and ensure your survival.
1. Do not be deceived by the "Chill Tent." What looks like an oasis of cold water and available shade from a distance is actually a cruel mirage. Get close enough to the "Chill Tent" and you’ll see what it really is -- a swarming mass of suffering humanity that most closely resembles a Goya painting or a medieval leper colony.
2. You must cheer wildly for the dinosaur act that recently reunited for the festival circuit. Sure the band hasn’t released a decent album in decades. Their waists have gotten wider while the hair has gotten thinner and grayer. Their upcoming album, that’s described as a return to form, will probably stink out loud, but dammit, the band dusted their corpses off for this festival. Applaud.
3. Dress appropriately. The deciding factor for your wardrobe is not the temperature; instead, it’s your favorite musical genre. If you are a Goth Rock fan, and I know the five of you are still out there somewhere, heavy black clothing is required. If you’re an indie rock fan under the age of 30, you must wear a hoody and dark-rimmed glasses. Bonus points if someone mistakes you for Colin Meloy.
4. You are responsible for your pharmaceutical stash. If you get all Han Solo and panic by dropping your goods at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser, don’t drop them in the lap of the nearest innocent bystander.
5. Ric Flair was your favorite wrestler and that’s cool. The Nature Boy’s a legend, even though his minimalist wrestling attire left nothing to the imagination. Still, use between-song “woos!” sparingly. You don’t need to shout like Flair after every song.
6. You might see people with recording devices. Let them be. They are your friends. Plus, there is nothing worse than an illicit live recording punctuated with “are you recording this? Are you? Really?” during every song.
7. If the natives become restless, the festival starts to deteriorate into an orgy of mayhem and violence, and a random stranger who looks like Beavis asks you to help tip something over or set something aflame, do not accept the offer. Or at least wait for a camera crew before proceeding.
8. Every band has a fan that can only be described as "That Guy." "That Guy" knows the length of every song, can link the band’s latest album to a current political issue, and thinks the band is singing about him in every song. You’ll first meet him buying a beer. Then he’ll be in front of you by what the concert promoters have charitably called the “restrooms.” By this time he’ll consider you his friend, slap you on the back with drunken gusto, and give you a nickname like Johnny One Punch, even though you’re name is Evgeny and you’re from Latvia. Avoid That Guy at all costs.
The final band on the final night is playing the final song. The concert promoters and sponsors are loading their crates of money into vans under cover of darkness. Limbs and legs are strewn over the festival grounds like a Fiona Apple video. You haven’t bathed in 72 hours, your car keys were lost in the Great Unknown, mud and beer have mixed into your clothes to form a potentially fatal epoxy, and your girlfriend’s been backstage for a while and you’re getting suspicious.
But you’re still breathing and have a few musical memories you won’t forget. Survey the carnage and take a deep breath. You survived.
You might think that several days in the sweltering sun with like-minded music fans would lead to a mystical sense of musical joy and community, and that the person thuggishly shoving his way to the front of the stage won’t step on your head to get a few feet closer to the band.
You’d be wrong.
Simply put, a summer concert festival is Thunderdome, a regular outdoor concert gone gonzo on HGH and the cold, unforgiving Darwinian struggle for survival all rolled into one. With Coachella already in the books and a whole mess of festivals remaining this upcoming summer, a few simple tips are in order to maximize your enjoyment and ensure your survival.
1. Do not be deceived by the "Chill Tent." What looks like an oasis of cold water and available shade from a distance is actually a cruel mirage. Get close enough to the "Chill Tent" and you’ll see what it really is -- a swarming mass of suffering humanity that most closely resembles a Goya painting or a medieval leper colony.
2. You must cheer wildly for the dinosaur act that recently reunited for the festival circuit. Sure the band hasn’t released a decent album in decades. Their waists have gotten wider while the hair has gotten thinner and grayer. Their upcoming album, that’s described as a return to form, will probably stink out loud, but dammit, the band dusted their corpses off for this festival. Applaud.
3. Dress appropriately. The deciding factor for your wardrobe is not the temperature; instead, it’s your favorite musical genre. If you are a Goth Rock fan, and I know the five of you are still out there somewhere, heavy black clothing is required. If you’re an indie rock fan under the age of 30, you must wear a hoody and dark-rimmed glasses. Bonus points if someone mistakes you for Colin Meloy.
4. You are responsible for your pharmaceutical stash. If you get all Han Solo and panic by dropping your goods at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser, don’t drop them in the lap of the nearest innocent bystander.
5. Ric Flair was your favorite wrestler and that’s cool. The Nature Boy’s a legend, even though his minimalist wrestling attire left nothing to the imagination. Still, use between-song “woos!” sparingly. You don’t need to shout like Flair after every song.
6. You might see people with recording devices. Let them be. They are your friends. Plus, there is nothing worse than an illicit live recording punctuated with “are you recording this? Are you? Really?” during every song.
7. If the natives become restless, the festival starts to deteriorate into an orgy of mayhem and violence, and a random stranger who looks like Beavis asks you to help tip something over or set something aflame, do not accept the offer. Or at least wait for a camera crew before proceeding.
8. Every band has a fan that can only be described as "That Guy." "That Guy" knows the length of every song, can link the band’s latest album to a current political issue, and thinks the band is singing about him in every song. You’ll first meet him buying a beer. Then he’ll be in front of you by what the concert promoters have charitably called the “restrooms.” By this time he’ll consider you his friend, slap you on the back with drunken gusto, and give you a nickname like Johnny One Punch, even though you’re name is Evgeny and you’re from Latvia. Avoid That Guy at all costs.
The final band on the final night is playing the final song. The concert promoters and sponsors are loading their crates of money into vans under cover of darkness. Limbs and legs are strewn over the festival grounds like a Fiona Apple video. You haven’t bathed in 72 hours, your car keys were lost in the Great Unknown, mud and beer have mixed into your clothes to form a potentially fatal epoxy, and your girlfriend’s been backstage for a while and you’re getting suspicious.
But you’re still breathing and have a few musical memories you won’t forget. Survey the carnage and take a deep breath. You survived.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Satire: Amy Winehouse Hired as Selsun Blue Spokesperson
Chattem, Inc. announced today that it has hired talented and follicularly-challenged train wreck/musician Amy Winehouse as its spokesperson for its Selsun Blue line of shampoo products. The endorsement deal is set to begin when Hell freezes over; the company’s R&D division estimates that this phenomenon will occur next Tuesday. The terms of the deal were not disclosed, though Internet rumors are rampant that Winehouse will partly be paid in “dangerous and illicit materials.”
Chattem, Inc. officials admit that pegging the troubled chanteuse as its spokesperson marks a dramatic shift in the company’s advertising strategy. According to company liaison Phillip Enwasher, the company wants to take its Selsun Blue products in a bold new direction, and Winehouse fits that mold.
“For too many years we’ve had commercials featuring perfectly proportioned men and women wearing black turtlenecks and mild cases of dandruff,” Enwasher commented. “In the span of 30 seconds, the man’s dandruff would be cured. He’d stroll confidently into the office, and you just knew he was gonna nail his big presentation or the floor secretary. That type of advertising was safe, predictable, reliable, and incredibly profitable. That type of approach is now totally out of touch in the 21st century.”
Although some industry experts are skeptical of the agreement and feel that Winehouse’s mind-boggling bird’s nest hair cannot be tamed and will in turn tarnish both Selsun Blue’s reputation and revenues, Enwasher will not be dissuaded. “We plan to initially feature Amy in commercials for our Medicated, Moisturizing, and Daily Use lines. The commercials will take a chronological approach as we track Amy’s journey from coiffured disaster so Selsun Blue mega-babe. Every day for 34 weeks, and twice daily when it’s raining in Seattle, she’ll be pampered with hourly rinses, lathers, and repeats.
“Then, once we’ve nearly tamed the beast and it's breathing its last gasps, we’re gonna drop our new Ragged Scalp Blaster X product on her,” Enwasher stated. “Designed specifically for unpredictable, irrational, and near-epic-disaster singers, Amy’s hair will be cleaner than a post-colonic colon.”
Although the details of the contract have not yet been released, Enwasher did acknowledge that the company has also secured the rights to anything discovered in Winehouse’s hair. “Even if our attempts to sanitize that primordial monster fail miserably, I’m confident that humanity can advance greatly from what we unearth. Cures for various diseases, the lost colony of Roanoke, the answer to how the filling gets inside the Twinkie, several peach trees, and various extinct species of birds are likely residing somewhere in the deep regions of that hair. And most importantly, I personally have reason to believe that Joss Stone and her career have taken residence there.”
According to her publicist, Winehouse was busy “reading to orphaned street urchins, and most definitely not on a mad bender” and was therefore unavailable for comment.
Chattem, Inc. officials admit that pegging the troubled chanteuse as its spokesperson marks a dramatic shift in the company’s advertising strategy. According to company liaison Phillip Enwasher, the company wants to take its Selsun Blue products in a bold new direction, and Winehouse fits that mold.
“For too many years we’ve had commercials featuring perfectly proportioned men and women wearing black turtlenecks and mild cases of dandruff,” Enwasher commented. “In the span of 30 seconds, the man’s dandruff would be cured. He’d stroll confidently into the office, and you just knew he was gonna nail his big presentation or the floor secretary. That type of advertising was safe, predictable, reliable, and incredibly profitable. That type of approach is now totally out of touch in the 21st century.”
Although some industry experts are skeptical of the agreement and feel that Winehouse’s mind-boggling bird’s nest hair cannot be tamed and will in turn tarnish both Selsun Blue’s reputation and revenues, Enwasher will not be dissuaded. “We plan to initially feature Amy in commercials for our Medicated, Moisturizing, and Daily Use lines. The commercials will take a chronological approach as we track Amy’s journey from coiffured disaster so Selsun Blue mega-babe. Every day for 34 weeks, and twice daily when it’s raining in Seattle, she’ll be pampered with hourly rinses, lathers, and repeats.
“Then, once we’ve nearly tamed the beast and it's breathing its last gasps, we’re gonna drop our new Ragged Scalp Blaster X product on her,” Enwasher stated. “Designed specifically for unpredictable, irrational, and near-epic-disaster singers, Amy’s hair will be cleaner than a post-colonic colon.”
Although the details of the contract have not yet been released, Enwasher did acknowledge that the company has also secured the rights to anything discovered in Winehouse’s hair. “Even if our attempts to sanitize that primordial monster fail miserably, I’m confident that humanity can advance greatly from what we unearth. Cures for various diseases, the lost colony of Roanoke, the answer to how the filling gets inside the Twinkie, several peach trees, and various extinct species of birds are likely residing somewhere in the deep regions of that hair. And most importantly, I personally have reason to believe that Joss Stone and her career have taken residence there.”
According to her publicist, Winehouse was busy “reading to orphaned street urchins, and most definitely not on a mad bender” and was therefore unavailable for comment.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Local Woman Listens To Grandson's iPod
When Kirksville High student and self-proclaimed “Northeast Missouri music czar” Larry Walforten forgot his iPod on his senior class trip to Thousand Hills State Park last week, he was more than a little peeved.
“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”
Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.
“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.
Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”
She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”
The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”
Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”
Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”
Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”
“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”
Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.
“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.
Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”
She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”
The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”
Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”
Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”
Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”
Sunday, November 04, 2007
The Concertgoer's Guide to Appropriate Behavior
The timid finger gently taps the back of the dancing concertgoer, currently engaged in a grotesque pelvic thrust that is part macarena, part electric slide, and all horror.
The concertgoer spins around as if shook from a dream, to hear a kind request to sit down so that the face of the timid finger can see the performer on the stage. The dancer answers by gruffly threatening future physical abnormalities and by telling the person to do something to herself that is physically impossible.
The dancer spins back around and continues his boogie-woogie-woogie. The woman sits in her seat dejectedly. Her seat happens to be a wheelchair.
This, of course, makes the dancing man the world’s biggest asshole.
I witnessed this at the recent Elvis Costello/Bob Dylan October 2007 show in St. Louis.
Only the intervention of a security guard convinced the dancer to at least move to the aisle, so that he could continue his gyrations without blocking the woman’s view. It also led to me to ponder the question of what qualifies as appropriate behavior for a music concert, since I have seen too many cases where norms of human decency have been scuttled in favor of behavior that would rival that of our knuckle-dragging ancestors.
The fact that this type of thuggish behavior has mostly happened at concerts by “established” acts (Dylan, Costello, R.E.M), and not at shows by less-known indie acts (The National, Silver Jews) is a topic probably best left for another day.
What follows is my humble attempt to create a modern day Hammurabi Code for Concertgoers. Minus the punishment by dismemberment and disembowelment.
Reserved Seating
You’ve just thrown down hundreds of dollars and donated several pints of blood in order to afford a couple Neil Young tickets, yet you aren’t exactly thrilled to be sitting at the top of the mountain:
Your reserved seat number is not a suggestion or a general approximation of where to sit. If your ticket says Nosebleed Balcony Seat 236, your posterior should be drawn like a magnet to the confines of that seat’s dimensions.
If you are occupying someone else’s seat and you get called out on it, don’t feign surprise and act like you were unaware you parked it in the wrong spot. Your hangdog expression and slow ascent into the wilds of less cozy environs within the venue gives you away every time.
People occasionally leave their seats to get a drink or buy $50 tour sweatshirts. When they come back to their seat, you shouldn’t be sitting there like a rock-n-roll Goldilocks.
General Admission
General admission is always a dicey proposition. You have a great chance to get in the pit and get close to the musician you’ve been stalking for years. Yet as your fellow concertgoers jockey for prime real estate before the show begins, violent elbows to your spleen are a real concern. Here’s how to handle this situation:
If you are a male under 5’9’’, forget about it. You will be muscled out of your spot in the pit; it is a Darwinian certainty.
Sitting on the floor of the pit until the show begins is not a good strategy. Some concertgoers equate sitting heads with steps. And like a turtle hiding inside its shell, eventually you must come out. When you do, that winged predator with sharp teeth you were hiding from will still be there.
Tables with either chairs or stools at a general admission show are the equivalent of water from a cactus for a man starving in the desert. Do not hesitate, do not look around for a better spot, and do not be fooled by the mirage of a near-empty orchestra pit. Grab the table and bunker down. Do not leave it unguarded under any circumstances.
Bodies in Motion (Dancing and Standing vs. Sitting)
You’ve impressed your date with third-row center seats, but she’s not yet aware of your Travolta-like tendency to treat the venue as part of your personal discotheque. What’s a guy to do?
Consider the performer:
If you are seeing Johnny’s Disco Explosion, go gonzo. There are no laws, rules, or regulation. It’s Thunderdome.
If you are seeing Johnny Q. Folkie, part your butt in your seat, hold hands with your neighbors, and join in when he sings “We Shall Overcome.”
If you are seeing something in between, commit hard in one direction. Either remain rigidly seated even though the other 19,999 people in the arena are shake-shake-shaking all over like frustrated wannabe go-go dancers, or, while everyone else is moping and staring at their shoes, perform your own rhythmic gyrations from the time the show starts until the performer walks off stage. Or until security throws you out. Whichever comes first.
Those around you should not need to drive a flag into the ground to claim their space as part of their familial birthright. Likewise, your raised arms, flailing legs, and shaking ass should not intrude upon any concertgoer with whom you are not intimately familiar.
Nicotine Consumption and Beyond
Your reformed smoker friends constantly tell you to drop the habit. Yet you cannot get the full concert experience without a few puff-puffs. Although your lungs are crying on the inside of you, you need a few lung darts to have a truly enjoyable time. With public smokers becoming pariahs, what’s a dedicated Marlboro man to do?
If it’s a smoking venue, puff away until you can’t puff any more. For extra spite, blow your smoke in the direction of the 6’3’’ jerk that muscled you out off your spot near the pit’s railing (see above).
If it’s a non-smoking venue, you will likely be relegated to an inconspicuous, dimly-lit, and borderline-dangerous alley near a side door to the venue. As you shorten your lifespan along with your fellow cigarette cronies, take this opportunity to remember the old days when non-smokers didn’t complain about minor things like secondhand smoke, their personal comfort, or their desire to not smell like Joe Camel.
A popular alternative to smoking in the great wide open at non-smoking venues is the classic play of smoking in the bathroom. Not only does this say that you won’t be relegated to an alley, it also shows that you are a true worshipper at the altar of God Nicotine. A word of warning though: this approach is the equivalent of running the gauntlet .Those pesky male pissers tend to be uncompromising with anything that keeps them from reaching the porcelain goddess, especially in dire situations.
If your chemical proclivities extend to, technically speaking, illegal substances, follow these simple guidelines to maximize your illicit enjoyment and to avoid an awkward 2 am call to your parents from a holding cell:
You are not hanging out in your basement room with your friends Slappy and Jimmy C-Nuts after your parents have gone to sleep. Be discreet about it.
If you are holding and Security approaches you, do not panic and throw your stash in the lap of the stranger sitting next to you.
Liquid Consumption
You’re a hard-working white collar dude, but sometimes you want to cut loose with half a dozen strawberry-almond flavored microbrews, to show your fellow concertgoers that you’re not a total suit. Before you or your significant other get blitzed at the Police reunion show on drinks that all end in “tini” and drunkenly croak out “Roxanne” in your own key, observe these rules:
Remember that beautiful duet of “I Shall Be Released” that Dylan and Costello sang at Tramps in 1999? How you couldn’t believe your luck to be in the front row to witness such a moment? How the crowd was pin-drop silent and just knew they were witnessing something amazing that would defy later description? No? Then you drank too much.
Remember hitting on the blonde bartender, challenging the bouncer to a mixed martial arts fight, and screaming hysterically for Kelly Clarkson to sing “that one song from the radio?” Yes? Then you didn’t drink enough.
Performances come and go, bands come and go, but the memory of an unplanned concert vomit on someone’s Chuck Taylors lasts forever.
Waiting in Line
You’ve got general admission tickets to see your favorite musician for the 47th time tonight. To ensure you get close enough to him to see the wrinkles in his catcher’s mitt-like face, you’ve lined up outside the venue six hours before the doors open. You’ve got no one for company except the voices in your own head. You’ve got some time on your hands, so remember these rules:
Eventually people will line up behind you. Do not snarl, bark, or constantly look over your shoulder in paranoia at them. They mean you no harm. Besides, they are piss-fear afraid of you.
Sometimes people will need to walk past you. They are not trying to steal your spot. Some of them aren’t even going to the show. There is no need to eye f-blankety-blankety-blank them.
Sometimes security moves the line to a new starting point, for no reason other than their sadistic pleasure. Shake your fist at the sky, blame cruel fate, whatever gets you through, but the bottom line is that you’d better run like hell. Your previous position as king has been suddenly usurped.
Talking During Shows/Other Random Noises
For some reason, we Americans love to spend large sums of money on concerts and then talk through the buggers. You’ve done this in the past but want to repent; you still have a sneaking suspicion that your constant gum-bumping precipitated the riot at the Guns-N-Roses concert in St. Louis years ago. Follow these simple rules and you shall be granted forgiveness:
If someone smaller than you tells you to quit talking, ignore him. If someone bigger than you tell you to quit talking, listen to him.
Opening acts are people too. Give them a chance before continuing your conversation about how opening acts aren’t people and almost always stink.
Your brand new, super-shiny Motorola V-1,000,000,000 is pretty cool. It’s Web-enabled, is smaller than your pinky finger, washes your car, feeds your children, and when you’re feeling frisky, its vibrate function packs a decent punch. But no one wants to hear your Bette Midler ringtone as Springsteen and Max Weinberg’s Semi-Retired Superstars play “Rosalita” for the 700th time.
Remember that shows are taped with increasing frequency nowadays. Unless you want your conversation about your asshole boss recorded for posterity, keep your voice down.
You’ve followed Dylan across the country since 1963, screaming at every show for him to play “Let Me Die In My Footsteps.” Give it up. It’s not gonna happen.
Behavior in Outdoor Venues
These shows aren’t for the uninitiated. And if you have a heart condition, be warned. Like scaling Mount Everest, surviving outdoor concerts and festivals requires a certain kind of mental fortitude, along with a blatant disregard for sanity, hygiene, flushable toilets, and other key pieces needed for human life to flourish. So before brazenly heading off to that White Snake/Poison double bill under the stars, observe the following:
Urinating in a port-a-potty is gross. Urinating on the lawn where people sit is grosser. Use the port-a-potty.
Not everyone shares your affinity for mud. The mud people are not hard to find. Find them and fling away.
That early 20s-something girl who sported four-inch bangs and flashed Bret Michaels at the Poison concert in 1987 still lives inside you. Please warn everyone around you before your now-undersized shirt is tossed into the ether.
It’s July in Chicago. It’s Hades hot. You’re hungry and tired. The “chill tent” looks like a sick room. You’re surrounded by thousands of people who all resemble Will Oldham and smell like an unholy mixture of sunscreen, weed, and corn dogs. This is the true festival experience. Enjoy it.
Common human decency should dictate how to behave at a concert. And everyone should drive the speed limit. When that decency deteriorates into a mixture of chaos, anarchy, and baby boomers breaking out “Heart of Gold” in a drunken frenzy, the guidelines above could help out in a pinch.
Then again, the 300-pound guy in the Metallica Kill ‘Em All shirt who’s now sitting in your seat hasn’t ever really cared much for rules.
The concertgoer spins around as if shook from a dream, to hear a kind request to sit down so that the face of the timid finger can see the performer on the stage. The dancer answers by gruffly threatening future physical abnormalities and by telling the person to do something to herself that is physically impossible.
The dancer spins back around and continues his boogie-woogie-woogie. The woman sits in her seat dejectedly. Her seat happens to be a wheelchair.
This, of course, makes the dancing man the world’s biggest asshole.
I witnessed this at the recent Elvis Costello/Bob Dylan October 2007 show in St. Louis.
Only the intervention of a security guard convinced the dancer to at least move to the aisle, so that he could continue his gyrations without blocking the woman’s view. It also led to me to ponder the question of what qualifies as appropriate behavior for a music concert, since I have seen too many cases where norms of human decency have been scuttled in favor of behavior that would rival that of our knuckle-dragging ancestors.
The fact that this type of thuggish behavior has mostly happened at concerts by “established” acts (Dylan, Costello, R.E.M), and not at shows by less-known indie acts (The National, Silver Jews) is a topic probably best left for another day.
What follows is my humble attempt to create a modern day Hammurabi Code for Concertgoers. Minus the punishment by dismemberment and disembowelment.
Reserved Seating
You’ve just thrown down hundreds of dollars and donated several pints of blood in order to afford a couple Neil Young tickets, yet you aren’t exactly thrilled to be sitting at the top of the mountain:
Your reserved seat number is not a suggestion or a general approximation of where to sit. If your ticket says Nosebleed Balcony Seat 236, your posterior should be drawn like a magnet to the confines of that seat’s dimensions.
If you are occupying someone else’s seat and you get called out on it, don’t feign surprise and act like you were unaware you parked it in the wrong spot. Your hangdog expression and slow ascent into the wilds of less cozy environs within the venue gives you away every time.
People occasionally leave their seats to get a drink or buy $50 tour sweatshirts. When they come back to their seat, you shouldn’t be sitting there like a rock-n-roll Goldilocks.
General Admission
General admission is always a dicey proposition. You have a great chance to get in the pit and get close to the musician you’ve been stalking for years. Yet as your fellow concertgoers jockey for prime real estate before the show begins, violent elbows to your spleen are a real concern. Here’s how to handle this situation:
If you are a male under 5’9’’, forget about it. You will be muscled out of your spot in the pit; it is a Darwinian certainty.
Sitting on the floor of the pit until the show begins is not a good strategy. Some concertgoers equate sitting heads with steps. And like a turtle hiding inside its shell, eventually you must come out. When you do, that winged predator with sharp teeth you were hiding from will still be there.
Tables with either chairs or stools at a general admission show are the equivalent of water from a cactus for a man starving in the desert. Do not hesitate, do not look around for a better spot, and do not be fooled by the mirage of a near-empty orchestra pit. Grab the table and bunker down. Do not leave it unguarded under any circumstances.
Bodies in Motion (Dancing and Standing vs. Sitting)
You’ve impressed your date with third-row center seats, but she’s not yet aware of your Travolta-like tendency to treat the venue as part of your personal discotheque. What’s a guy to do?
Consider the performer:
If you are seeing Johnny’s Disco Explosion, go gonzo. There are no laws, rules, or regulation. It’s Thunderdome.
If you are seeing Johnny Q. Folkie, part your butt in your seat, hold hands with your neighbors, and join in when he sings “We Shall Overcome.”
If you are seeing something in between, commit hard in one direction. Either remain rigidly seated even though the other 19,999 people in the arena are shake-shake-shaking all over like frustrated wannabe go-go dancers, or, while everyone else is moping and staring at their shoes, perform your own rhythmic gyrations from the time the show starts until the performer walks off stage. Or until security throws you out. Whichever comes first.
Those around you should not need to drive a flag into the ground to claim their space as part of their familial birthright. Likewise, your raised arms, flailing legs, and shaking ass should not intrude upon any concertgoer with whom you are not intimately familiar.
Nicotine Consumption and Beyond
Your reformed smoker friends constantly tell you to drop the habit. Yet you cannot get the full concert experience without a few puff-puffs. Although your lungs are crying on the inside of you, you need a few lung darts to have a truly enjoyable time. With public smokers becoming pariahs, what’s a dedicated Marlboro man to do?
If it’s a smoking venue, puff away until you can’t puff any more. For extra spite, blow your smoke in the direction of the 6’3’’ jerk that muscled you out off your spot near the pit’s railing (see above).
If it’s a non-smoking venue, you will likely be relegated to an inconspicuous, dimly-lit, and borderline-dangerous alley near a side door to the venue. As you shorten your lifespan along with your fellow cigarette cronies, take this opportunity to remember the old days when non-smokers didn’t complain about minor things like secondhand smoke, their personal comfort, or their desire to not smell like Joe Camel.
A popular alternative to smoking in the great wide open at non-smoking venues is the classic play of smoking in the bathroom. Not only does this say that you won’t be relegated to an alley, it also shows that you are a true worshipper at the altar of God Nicotine. A word of warning though: this approach is the equivalent of running the gauntlet .Those pesky male pissers tend to be uncompromising with anything that keeps them from reaching the porcelain goddess, especially in dire situations.
If your chemical proclivities extend to, technically speaking, illegal substances, follow these simple guidelines to maximize your illicit enjoyment and to avoid an awkward 2 am call to your parents from a holding cell:
You are not hanging out in your basement room with your friends Slappy and Jimmy C-Nuts after your parents have gone to sleep. Be discreet about it.
If you are holding and Security approaches you, do not panic and throw your stash in the lap of the stranger sitting next to you.
Liquid Consumption
You’re a hard-working white collar dude, but sometimes you want to cut loose with half a dozen strawberry-almond flavored microbrews, to show your fellow concertgoers that you’re not a total suit. Before you or your significant other get blitzed at the Police reunion show on drinks that all end in “tini” and drunkenly croak out “Roxanne” in your own key, observe these rules:
Remember that beautiful duet of “I Shall Be Released” that Dylan and Costello sang at Tramps in 1999? How you couldn’t believe your luck to be in the front row to witness such a moment? How the crowd was pin-drop silent and just knew they were witnessing something amazing that would defy later description? No? Then you drank too much.
Remember hitting on the blonde bartender, challenging the bouncer to a mixed martial arts fight, and screaming hysterically for Kelly Clarkson to sing “that one song from the radio?” Yes? Then you didn’t drink enough.
Performances come and go, bands come and go, but the memory of an unplanned concert vomit on someone’s Chuck Taylors lasts forever.
Waiting in Line
You’ve got general admission tickets to see your favorite musician for the 47th time tonight. To ensure you get close enough to him to see the wrinkles in his catcher’s mitt-like face, you’ve lined up outside the venue six hours before the doors open. You’ve got no one for company except the voices in your own head. You’ve got some time on your hands, so remember these rules:
Eventually people will line up behind you. Do not snarl, bark, or constantly look over your shoulder in paranoia at them. They mean you no harm. Besides, they are piss-fear afraid of you.
Sometimes people will need to walk past you. They are not trying to steal your spot. Some of them aren’t even going to the show. There is no need to eye f-blankety-blankety-blank them.
Sometimes security moves the line to a new starting point, for no reason other than their sadistic pleasure. Shake your fist at the sky, blame cruel fate, whatever gets you through, but the bottom line is that you’d better run like hell. Your previous position as king has been suddenly usurped.
Talking During Shows/Other Random Noises
For some reason, we Americans love to spend large sums of money on concerts and then talk through the buggers. You’ve done this in the past but want to repent; you still have a sneaking suspicion that your constant gum-bumping precipitated the riot at the Guns-N-Roses concert in St. Louis years ago. Follow these simple rules and you shall be granted forgiveness:
If someone smaller than you tells you to quit talking, ignore him. If someone bigger than you tell you to quit talking, listen to him.
Opening acts are people too. Give them a chance before continuing your conversation about how opening acts aren’t people and almost always stink.
Your brand new, super-shiny Motorola V-1,000,000,000 is pretty cool. It’s Web-enabled, is smaller than your pinky finger, washes your car, feeds your children, and when you’re feeling frisky, its vibrate function packs a decent punch. But no one wants to hear your Bette Midler ringtone as Springsteen and Max Weinberg’s Semi-Retired Superstars play “Rosalita” for the 700th time.
Remember that shows are taped with increasing frequency nowadays. Unless you want your conversation about your asshole boss recorded for posterity, keep your voice down.
You’ve followed Dylan across the country since 1963, screaming at every show for him to play “Let Me Die In My Footsteps.” Give it up. It’s not gonna happen.
Behavior in Outdoor Venues
These shows aren’t for the uninitiated. And if you have a heart condition, be warned. Like scaling Mount Everest, surviving outdoor concerts and festivals requires a certain kind of mental fortitude, along with a blatant disregard for sanity, hygiene, flushable toilets, and other key pieces needed for human life to flourish. So before brazenly heading off to that White Snake/Poison double bill under the stars, observe the following:
Urinating in a port-a-potty is gross. Urinating on the lawn where people sit is grosser. Use the port-a-potty.
Not everyone shares your affinity for mud. The mud people are not hard to find. Find them and fling away.
That early 20s-something girl who sported four-inch bangs and flashed Bret Michaels at the Poison concert in 1987 still lives inside you. Please warn everyone around you before your now-undersized shirt is tossed into the ether.
It’s July in Chicago. It’s Hades hot. You’re hungry and tired. The “chill tent” looks like a sick room. You’re surrounded by thousands of people who all resemble Will Oldham and smell like an unholy mixture of sunscreen, weed, and corn dogs. This is the true festival experience. Enjoy it.
Common human decency should dictate how to behave at a concert. And everyone should drive the speed limit. When that decency deteriorates into a mixture of chaos, anarchy, and baby boomers breaking out “Heart of Gold” in a drunken frenzy, the guidelines above could help out in a pinch.
Then again, the 300-pound guy in the Metallica Kill ‘Em All shirt who’s now sitting in your seat hasn’t ever really cared much for rules.
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