correction

In the previous post, I wrote:

"Avril Lavigne is a perfect example of the music marketing machine at its most brilliant, i.e., evil"

I take that back, I forgot about Fergie.

Fergie is the Black-Eyed Peas' "singer" of "My Humps," who has now gone solo. Avril's money men have got nothing on the Rove-like reptiles who have somehow managed to sell this talent-impaired model as a musician.

Kudos to you, soulless bastards!

Seriously, I don't know why this crap bothers me so much. OK, actually I do. It's the idea that the most important thing is The Look. Once The Look is found, bring It into a studio with a mega producer and liberal doses of auto-tuning/pitch-correction software (singing ability is at best an afterthought). Promote the bejeebers out of It, and bam, before you know it, The Look is discussing Its "art" in Rolling Stone.

Bitter? Yep.

sometimes I don't know, I just don't know what to feel

Avril Lavigne is a perfect example of the music marketing machine at its most brilliant, i.e., evil: a symbol of "rebellion" carefully crafted to sell as many units as possible. If you're paying any attention, or older than, say, 20, her cultivated "punk" image is pretty laughable. Her media blitz is unstoppable. Her attitude is deplorable.

But dammit, I can't get that new song "Girlfriend" out of my head. I'm about the millionth person to note this, but it's a lot like Toni Basil's 1981 hit "Mickey". (You know, "Oh Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, HEY MICKEY!") I loved that song, and kept loving it long after most of my friends couldn't stand it anymore. And as was the case with that joyously dumb ditty, the second I hear "Girlfriend"'s stomping intro, I have to turn it up and sing along like a complete idiot.

I'm fully aware that that's exactly how I'm supposed to react, but by golly, I just don't care. "Hey! Hey! You! You!..."

update, wednesday, june 20, 2007

Well, that didn't take long. I'm over it.

update to the update, not much later

Aw, who am I kidding -- I can't fight it. I'm like, so whatever.

"Hi, this is Chris Daughtry from the band 'Daughtry,' and you're listening to (radio station)"

Come on, really? The band, "Daughtry"? I just about spit coffee on the dash when I heard this one. So okay, Chris Daughtry (of the band, "Daughtry") – 2006 American Idol semi-finalist and melodramatic howler -- has personally asssembled a scrappy little group of his old musical buddies, a bonafide band?

SCENE: Night, outdoors, a concrete patio. Chris and his compadres are taking a smoke break after a couple hours of rehearsing in the DRUMMER's mom’s basement.

CHRIS: Sounds great guys. You know, we've still got to come up with a band name—

DRUMMER: Gerbil Fart!

GUITARIST 1: Scymitarr! With a Y and two R’s and like, some of those German dot things—

BASSIST: Umlaut.

GUITARIST 1: Umlaut? Nah, fuck that, Scymitarr! (Screeching) SCYMI-TAAAAHHR!

CHRIS: I was thinking Daughtry—

GUITARIST 2: Bleeding Gerbil Fahrt! It's like, the best of both worlds—

GUITARIST 1, DRUMMER: "Daughtry?" What the f--?

(Silent contemplation. Everyone stares at CHRIS. A lone cricket chirps.)

BASSIST: What, like, an adjective?

Sad as that scene might have been, it wasn't even that good. First there was "Daughtry," and the rest came later. I know it's just the romantic in me, but when I think of the formation of a band, as opposed to, say, A Guy With Some Guys Playing Behind Him, I don’t think of: "an intense audition process" (in which Daughtry-Of-The-Band-"Daughtry") "summoned his keen instincts when meeting and choosing the players… who would eventually make the cut."

That's the word from his official Web site, which I had to reference to make sure I wasn't just making this shit up. No, I'm not going to link to the site, but here's more:

(Chris continues) "'We've found the right guys and I'm really excited about the prospects of what we can do. We didn’t have time to feature them on the album but I can't wait to hit the road with them.'"

And eventually learn their names and stuff. I think the Pussycat Dolls were assembled in pretty much the same way. Meoww!

There's absolutely nothing wrong with A Guy With Some Guys Playing Behind Him as a concept, there are many fine examples. James Brown, Elvis Presley, Todd Rundgren, Frank Zappa, ferchrissakes. But they didn't try to pretend that they were "the band, 'Brown.'"

I don't mind (much) when a band is called "The (Joe Blow) Band," or "(Joe Blow) and the (Nouns);" that practice is steeped in tradition. I don't even mind the single-last-name option if it at least sounds like it could mean something in another language ("Van Halen," say, or "Danzig"… "Ja, das ist zo focking Danzig!"). But "Daughtry?"

What, like an adjective?

At least now that I've heard the single "It's Not Over" ("It's not OH-WOO-VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!") which is exactly the type of overwrought Nickelback/Creed/Live, Crybaby White Boy Rock which Chris emoted each and every week on Idol, I can't blame "the band, 'Daughtry'"-- remember, they "didn’t have time to feature them on the album."

Well, that sure was a lot of words, considering I just thought it was damn funny hearing "Hi, this is Chris Daughtry etc." on my morning commute. Believe it or not, I don't wish him any ill will, he seemed like a nice enough guy on AI. And even though a few seconds of his brand of Corporate Whatever are all it takes to make me switch stations, he's as good at it as any of the other acts I don't enjoy, and the people seem to eat it up big time. As for the boys in "the band?" Good fucking luck.

"Hi, I’m Johnny Cash… from the band, 'Cash,' and you're listening to (radio station)"

an epic experience: a day at Wakarusa 2006

First of all I am bound by solemn oath to tell you that Wayne Coyne descended from the storm clouds in a glowing crystal orb.

We arrived at the Wakarusa Music & Camping Festival on Clinton Lake west of Lawrence KS, Saturday around 10:30am. The festival was already 2 days old at this point but we were only there on day passes. In my twenties and maybe even thirties I would have probably done the whole four days, but those days are gone. The sad fact is I almost fogeyed out of the whole thing because I wasn’t sure I wanted to be outside in a crowd for a whole day. Wa-a-a-ah. Love of music won out; I was on a mission to see Camper Van Beethoven at 12:30, fill in the blank for 9 hours, then finish off with the Flaming Lips at 10:30 that night.

Camper Van Beethoven was setting up when we arrived in a prime spot at the front of the stage. Most of the ‘rusers were not out in force yet; presumably nursing hangovers in their tents or delaying them with Goldschlager, bocce ball and dips in the lake. Thus the crowd for Camper was criminally small. Lips Wayne Coyne and Mike Ivins were already hanging around the stage, despite not being scheduled to play for another 10 hours. Wayne, already wearing his pinstriped linen suit, even toted some equipment for the Campers.

I was surprised to find that St. Louis semi-legend and stageside dancing fixture Beatle Bob had crossed the state to assume MC duties for the festival, strolling briskly from stage to stage to introduce the bands throughout the day. After Bob’s enthusiastic intro, CVB started right on time with “Flowers,” and sounded great. Reeeeeeally great, as my friend Bill is fond of saying. By the time they launched into “Sweethearts” a bit later I had tears in my eyes as I leapt with uncontrolled joy.

They played a few songs from 2004’s reunion LP “New Roman Times,” and about midway through the set they covered the Clash’s “White Riot.” The Campers were only allotted one hour, and frontman David Lowery wasted little time on chatter. Too soon they had to go, finishing off with, of course, “Take the Skinheads Bowling,” “Pictures of Matchstick Men,” and a lovely new one, “That Gum You Like is Back in Style”. Still, sure would have loved to hear “When I Win the Lottery” or “I Was Born in a Laundromat.”

Here is the setlist, which I believe is more or less complete:

Flowers / The Long Plastic Hallway / Circles / All Her Favorite Fruit / Sweethearts / White Riot (The Clash) / I Was So Wasted / Shut Us Down / R ‘n R Uzbekistan / Might Makes Right (which I didn’t know at the time and heard as “My Big Trike”…don’t ask) / She Divines Water (a few more tears here) / Tanya / Eye of Fatima parts I and II (during which I cell-phoned friend Tom and which he probably heard as “BRAHBRABRAAAHBRABRAAAH”) / Tanya / Take the Skinheads Bowling / Pictures of Matchstick Men (Status Quo) / That Gum You Like is Back in Style

David Lowery stuck around for the next set—his post-Camper band Cracker. I’m not terribly interested in Cracker, so my sweetie and I headed up the hill to get some lunch. We sat on the ground listening to the Cracker set and enjoyed delicious (and reasonably priced) bowls of veggie peanut noodles and nourishing strawberry-banana smoothies before wandering into the Revival Tent for most of a rousing set by New Monsoon, a sort of newgrass / world music collective. Their 6-man lineup includes two percussionists, bass, banjo/acoustic guitar, a searing Santana-ish guitarist who also plays a mean mandolin, and a drummer who can seriously get down with the didjeridoo. They mixed originals with some fun covers like Led Zeppelin’s “Bron-Y-Aur Stomp” and Pink Floyd’s “Fearless”. I’d see ‘em again. Thanks to the tapers and BitTorrent I’ve enjoyed this show and their previous night's set a few more times since.

Next up was Andrew Bird, who I only knew as a former member of the Squirrel Nut Zippers. He’s come a long way from the somewhat gimmicky Cotton Club revivalist Zippers; his music is thoughtful and hypnotic as he creates live loops of plucked and bowed violin, often adding guitar, clear tenor vocals and whistling. He was accompanied by a drummer/keyboardist. Some of his material (and voice) reminds me a bit of Adrian Belew, and that’s a good thing.

We made the mistake, entirely my fault, of abandoning Mr. Bird early for the interesting-sounding-on-paper Gabby La La, back in the Revival Tent. She was billed as being “schooled in the fine art of sitar playing and Theremin spell-casting” and also supposedly “jams out on the toy piano, accordion, and ukulele.” I like quirky as much as the next guy, actually quite a bit more than the next guy, but what we witnessed was the worst sort of precious, self-indulgent artsy spew… and it wasn’t even done well! She attempted the self-looping accompaniment technique that Andrew Bird and Keller Williams have mastered, but she had trouble keeping up with herself. Imagine ten minutes of this repeated verse, done Yoko-style: “I want a (no idea here), I want a smiley face / I want to sing The Farmer in the Dell…” About fifteen minutes of Gabby was all we could take… but by that time Andrew was already off the stage, and we snacked on funnel cakes and more smoothies and headed back toward the campground as Gabby’s paean to her poodle blessedly faded away into the background —“Walkie walkie walkie / walkie walkie walkie / walkie walkie walkie / Knock, knock, who’s there?” I dunno, maybe it sounds better on CD.

Our aged bones needed a bit of a rest, so we took the 15-minute hike back to future-son-in-law Tim’s campsite. He was there for the duration, and it was nice to have a place to sit in a chair under a tarp and chill for a while. A long while, actually…

About two hours later we caught the shuttle bus back to the festival grounds with plans to sample Buckethead, Les Claypool and the Greyboy Allstars before the Flaming Lips show. The shuttle bus turned out to be a mistake… we discovered that things had gotten pretty drunk out there for a few people and they were ridin’ that bus loud n’ plowed. I feared at first that the Jäger Patrol was destined to queer the coolness from that point on, but luckily once we got onsite the groovy people outnumbered the frat types and all was well.

I only knew Buckethead by his reputation as a talented guitarist, and for his trademark of always appearing masked and wearing a KFC bucket on his head. We gave him all of about five minutes and he seemed to be just another empty noodler, a lotta fast notes and not much else. In hindsight (hindsound?) after downloading and sampling some of that day’s set I think I just arrived at the wrong time; a lot of it sounds pretty damn good… a lot better than what I was hearing right then. Also, I was grouchy after that bus ride and we were hungry. So we headed back up the hill for some yummy chicken and spinach grilled enchiladas.

We sat on the ground in our previous lunch spot and, once Buckethead was done hammering out triplets on the Sunup Stage, listened to the Greyboy Allstars on the Sundown Stage. They are a pleasant, skilled and funky band; nothing that really knocked me out but a nice accompaniment for people-watching as the evening approached. A bit later in the same spot we discovered we could hear the music from the two main stages, plus the Revival Tent, at roughly equal volume. Thus we listened to Les Claypool on the left, Greyboy Allstars on the right, and Railroad Earth in the tent behind. Not as bad a mix as you might think. Les Claypool’s band sounded interesting, but I just couldn’t muster up the motivation to brave the crowd just yet.

Wakarusa is the kind of festival where a guy can wear a skirt. I only saw one or two this time around but still, it’s that kind of festival. The girls mostly wore the standard jamband uniform—flowing skirts with halter tops, or backless dresses tied with string. I wondered aloud where all the girls got these outfits, like, is there a “Hippie Hot Topic” somewhere? (I’m clueless.) Later when we wandered the vending booths I had my answer. At least half of the 20+ booths sold clothing.

Random aside to a particularly interesting couple: she was dressed like Lewis Carroll’s Alice and he was wearing a filthy Santa suit. Filthy, as in the parts that were supposed to be fluffy white were basically flesh colored. Shudder.

Finally it was time to head down to the Sunup Stage to see just how close we could manage to get to the Lips. As I had hoped, a good portion of the Claypool crowd made an exodus as we snaked our way down. My sweetheart scoped out a pretty decent spot in the center and we stood firm and crossed our fingers. Alas, within a few minutes, with an almost audible “BARGE!” a crowd of folks slid in front and used up pretty much all the available oxygen, so it was time for us to move backwards. We found a good spot near the taper’s section and settled in.

A giant video screen was lifted into place across the stage. I’m not good with spacial estimation so take this with a grain of salt… maybe 20 ft high x 25-30 ft wide? Whatever… it was big. For the next 15 minutes or so accompanied by some excellent between-set music, the techs were adjusting the projector by attempting to align a test pattern. I started to suspect (and still do) that this was actually part of the show… at least it gave us something to watch. Bandleader Wayne Coyne was out on the stage during most of the setup, talking to techs and adjusting various equipment; from what I know of him this is typical behavior, no hanging out in the trailer for Wayne.

Once the camera was adjusted it was revealed that it was mounted on Wayne’s mic, giving us a giant, slightly fisheyed and video-feedbacked view of his face as he announced they’d be ready in a few minutes. Soon we were treated to the frightening vision of Beatle Bob’s giant, slightly fisheyed, etc. mug and nasal cavity when he introduced the band in the cheesiest possible fashion.

This is the point, dear reader, where Wayne descended from the storm clouds above Wakarusa and gently landed on the crowd… I swear it is the truth. In some alternate reality some may claim he was helped into a giant plastic bubble by a crew of folks dressed as space aliens and superheroes, while large block letters on the video screen invited us to “join with the Flaming Lips… in an epic experience… Fuck yeah!” This alleged bubble might have been inflated by a sort of a modified leaf blower. But all can agree that Wayne rolled out onto the crowd’s hands and heads and eventually back onto the stage, where they kicked into “Race for the Prize.”

As far as the show was concerned, it was possibly the most flat-out entertaining rock show I’ve ever attended. Vocally it was pretty rough… Wayne’s live voice really struggles, but if there is a man who has more fun on stage, anywhere, I’d sure like to see it. He led us in a singalong of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” the entire song, with the lyrics projected on the screen. What a blast… we’ve all done that in our cars; now we had the chance to join a crowd of several thousand shouting and singing at the tops of our lungs.

In order to encourage us to sing along to “Yoshimi,” Wayne worked a rubber nun hand puppet. Here came the tears again, but this time it was from laughing so hard. (To the taper furthest to the left: I’m sorry if our goofy laughs ended up all over your recording.)

Oh yeah, the music. Bassist Michael Ivins laid down a solid bottom. Onetime roadie and current touring drummer (and Lawrence native) Kliph Scurlock pounded out the beats mightily and well. And Steven Drozd did the rest—guitar, keyboards, backing vocals… that man seems to be the musical glue that holds it all together. And if you’ve seen the documentary “The Fearless Freaks,” or know anything about his struggles, you’ll join with me in hoping that he somehow manages to keep walking the planet.

The video screen played constantly; when it wasn’t filled with Wayne’s face it displayed everything from the Teletubbies to topless karate-kicking women. Onstage the crew of space aliens danced on the left while a herd of Santas bopped on the right. Confetti and hurled glowsticks filled the air. A planned onstage marriage proposal fell through. An unplanned marriage proposal was realized.

As I’ve written before, I saw the band almost 15 years ago and it was a completely different experience. That was the tail end of the dark psychedelic years for the Lips; Ronald Jones played REALLY LOUD SWIRLY GUITAR, Steven's drums attacked my ribcage and to put it bluntly, they just stood there and fucking rocked. No video, no effects—for me, more musically interesting (though painful). But the Flaming Lips of today are so full of joy that you just can’t help but be moved by them and join them in “an epic experience.”

The setlist: Race for the Prize / Bohemian Rhapsody / Free Radicals / Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (Pts. 1 and 2) / Vein of Stars / The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song / The W.A.N.D. / She Don’t Use Jelly / Do You Realize? / A Spoonful Weighs a Ton

By the end of the show I was drained and hoarse and ecstatic. The full moon lit our way back to the campsite, the car, and home. Apparently we were just old- and square-enough looking to avoid the heavy police scrutiny that marred the festival for some. Or maybe we were just blessed. We had rocked, we had danced, and it was good.

at war no more

In 2002, two of my favorite musical acts released albums which were for me, depressingly average. Since then, one of them released an album in 2005 which I have yet to hear, so I’ll reserve further judgment until I’ve heard the ’05 release.

Which leaves me with The Flaming Lips and their new album, At War with the Mystics. For a number of years I was fanatical about these Oklahoma misfits. I was turned on to them in ’91 or ’92 by a friend of a good friend. Tom and I sat in Jenny’s Chicago apartment and had our heads rearranged by Oh My Gawd!!!... The Flaming Lips. I believe we both rushed out and bought this trippy 1987 masterpiece as soon as we returned from our Chicago visit, along with 1989’s Telepathic Surgery.

Happily, within a few months of my first exposure, the Lips released Hit to Death in the Future Head, my feelings for which can be summed up by paraphrasing Jack Black: “If you’re wearing shoes right now you might want to take ‘em off, unless you want to get your socks blown right through them.” HtDitFH parked in my CD changer and seldom left, except to travel to players at other friends’ houses in my evangelical zeal to expose as many people as possible to the Lips’ unique brand of quirky-yet-aggressive psycho-deliciousness. Tom and I incorporated a couple of their songs into our band’s repertoire of covers, and we went to see them at a mid-sized club where their Frigidaire-sized stacks left my ears ringing for three days (I got a little worried for a while... the ringing went away but there was probably at least a little permanent damage). I loved the next few albums as well, as they explored wildly diverse sounds and styles.

Then came Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. Critics placed it high on their year-end lists, and "Approaching Pavonis Mons by Balloon (Utopia Planitia)" even earned them a Grammy.

...and yet it left me, well, kind of bored.

I’m not saying that I immediately embraced every Lips album before Yoshimi, but I always found something to like in each new direction they took. But Yoshimi just never grew on me. It wasn’t terrible, but I’m definitely less forgiving of (what I view as) mediocrity from a favorite artist than I am of truly awful output from artists I’m less emotionally invested in. I've sold many halfway-decent CDs for grocery money while keeping some really bad albums in my collection. (In those cases there’s also definitely an element of “This is so bad I have to keep it for like, historical value.”)

Also it added (imagined) insult to (nonexistent) injury that some of the rave reviews from the aforementioned critics hailed Yoshimi as the Lips’ finest work, which “of course” I took as fightin’ words. Yeah, I know... I’ve got to stop taking this stuff personally.

Which is all just a sample of the baggage I brought to my first hearing of At War with the Mystics. I’m delighted to report that it’s a hell of a fun record; it takes me somewhere. The artificial sheen of Yoshimi has been replaced with music which sounds like it was actually played by humans. There are still plenty of electronics in the mix but there are also real drums, nice warm electric piano and lots and lots of guitar. There hasn’t been this much guitar on a Flaming Lips album in ten years.

There’s a spark, an energy that runs through At War with the Mystics. The joyful opening romp of “The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song” leads into the sto(m)p-time Bonzo drumming of “Free Radicals,” then slides into the Love-like groove of “The Sound of Failure”. The album never settles into one sound for too long… shimmering psychedelic ballads, anthemic electronic landscapes, 70s rock/funk; and throughout, an undeniable Brian Wilson vibe.

In other words it’s a really good record, I’m glad I bought it. And now that my snit is over, I’ll probably even try to see them on tour… but this time, I’m bringing earplugs.

a 7th-grade observational comic would kill with this one in home room

So I'm eating a bowl of delicious Post Grape-Nuts this morning and I'm wondering, why do they call them Grape-Nuts? They don't taste like grapes, they don't taste like nuts. Doesn't it sound like a pair of euphemisms for the same thing? I mean, why not just call them Nard-Balls?

huh-huh. huh. Thanks folks, I'll be in detention all week!

woefully unhip, update

On this morning's drive I heard "Unwritten" again (still like it, it's really well produced) and the first 15-20 seconds of some Whiny White Boy noise ballad which I had to turn off. There's only so much I can put up with. Anyhoo, over the last 3 1/2 days that adds up to right around 20% music, 80% not music if you figure 4 minutes per song. So during morning and afternoon drive time at least, you could say the mix of "The Mix" is just about 20/80.

I'm woefully unhip: a brief foray into Hit Radio

So for the past few days during drive time I've been listening to hit radio. I admit, it's because it's pledge time on NPR and well, I suck and have only sent them money once.

Anyway, it's been quite a while since I listened to commercial radio and man, there's even less music played during drive time than I ever remember. I have heard a lot of talk, and of course a lot of commercials. From a quick google on radio formats, this station, "Mix 93.3" probably falls into the "Contemporary Hit Radio" format (what used to be Top 40). The talk is mostly good-natured banter about TV shows, celebrity news, etc. This is at least bearable because it doesn't revolve around prank phone calls or other mean-spirited nonsense. Yes I'm a cranky bastard but I don't like listening to cruel radio... go figure.

I do enjoy a dose of slick pop music every once in a while. "There are worse things than pop music," I always say. OK, in truth I'm an absolute sucker for it. But in my non-scientific study of morning and afternoon drive time over the past 3 days, probably a total of 120 minutes, I have mostly been denied my bubblegum fix. I have heard seven songs, total. Not seven different songs, mind you. What I've heard is three songs once each and one song four times.

I can't believe I'm about to analyze these, but here are the songs I heard once apiece (I admit I had to do some googling to get the song titles and artist names):

"Grillz," Nelly. A hip hop ode to the jewelry in Mr. Nelly's dental work. It's entertaining enough to hear... once.

"Unwritten," Natasha Bedingfield. A very catchy song with a positive vibe. Ayla (the unusually tall basketball-playing straight-A-student) sang this on Idol a week before getting voted off by the C students of America. I actually like this and could probably hear this a number of times before getting tired of it.

"My Humps," Black Eyed Peas. I'd previously heard a few seconds of this in a phone commercial. A female rapper/singer describes the attractive qualities of her "hump(s)" and "lady lumps," the gifts they bring and her struggle dealing with the apparently unwanted non-gift-related attention she receives from men as a result.

Finally, the song I've heard four times is "SOS" by Rihanna. It's built on top of a sample from Soft Cell's "Tainted Love." Even though I've heard it four times (and now have repeated that fact three times) I couldn't begin to tell you what it's about. Something about needing to be rescued from something. From what the DJs say I get the feeling this song is probably all about the dancing in the video.

Thankfully, pledge week is almost over and I will soon take my deadbeat ass back to NPR.

tales from IT support

I'm an IT support guy at a non-profit association. I support PCs and Macs in my building, and take phone calls from users of our web site.

Yesterday I took a call from a user who was, I thought, trying to send an e-mail to one of our departments. She gave the e-mail address she was trying to use and said that it was failing. So, I double checked the contact info page for that particular department and confirmed that was indeed the correct address. I even called someone up there to confirm this address.

I asked the user to try again while I was on the phone with her. She did, and told me that it was "not found." I asked if she got the e-mail returned to her and she said no, "it says the page was not found."

The lightbulb flickered above my head. "OK," I say, "are you by chance typing that address into the address bar of your browser?"

(confused silence at other end of phone)

"What I mean is, are you using an e-mail program? Outlook or something? Or are you typing that along the top of Internet Explorer?"

"Yes, I'm typing it in there."

(stunned silence at MY end of phone)

Trying my best not to laugh I explained to her that if the address has an "@" in it, she needs to use her e-mail program.

IT support: helpin' the peoples, one user at a time.

bloggen ein toten horsen*

*(not actual German. In case you were wondering.)

So here I am, having started a b-word. Not entirely spur of the moment but almost; driving home from work last night I figured it was time to do it, since I was basically talking back to NPR. Might as well write it down, I thinks. This stuff is gold, I thinks. Commitment: the first hurdle.

And then of course, the next thought: What to call it? The first "brilliant" idea I had, (and obviously a lot of other people have had), was "Blogging a Dead Horse." Huh-huh. Funny.

So I got home and started on the creation process here at b-worder dot com and checked for availability of my unique, clever name bloggingadeadhorse. Not available, hm.

That turns out to be for the best... a google of "blogging a dead horse" turns up 223 results. Thank god bloggingadeadhorse.blogspot.com was already taken or I guess I'd eventually be #224!

p.s. if you go to bloggingadeadhorse.blogspot.com you might laugh; I did.

and now something about... American Idol

Yeah, I watch it. Almost addictively. I have seldom voted (more on that some other time, maybe). I don't buy or make a point to listen to the music made by previous seasons' winners. But I watch it, every week. If you're not watching it this season the following will mean very little to you.

So, these days there's a contestant, Chris Daughtry (the bald guy). He's technically a very fine singer with a powerful "rock" voice a' la I can't think of a name to drop here. Anyway, much is made of his "originality," and I suppose that's true, in the context of the show. And I like him, not my favorite, but whatever. But a couple things bug me. Two weeks ago was "Stevie Wonder Week," where all the contestants were required to perform a Stevie Wonder song. Chris chose "Higher Ground." He was familiar with the Red Hot Chili Peppers' excellent version and was pleased to find out that it was "actually a Stevie Wonder song." That's fine, he's a young guy. So he performed it, quite well, but pretty much the exact same arrangement as the Chili Peppers' version. Judge Simon Cowell praised his originality. I guess that's fine too, maybe Simon never heard the Chili Peppers' version. Which, uh, was the exact same... you know.

This past week Chris performed Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line." He did it in a kinda dark, alterna-rock way that was pretty interesting, and once again one of the better performances of the night. Partway through I realized what bugs me about Chris.

Think back to the height of the mid-90s alternative rock explosion. There was some damned good music on the radio again -- Pearl Jam, Nirvana, even cool bands I never thought would ever be on commercial radio, like the Butthole Surfers, Flaming Lips, Sonic Youth and the Meat Puppets. But this same boom also gave birth to bands like Candlebox, Live (damn you Ed Kowalczyk), and way too much similarly glossy, overwrought, precisely-market-segmented, um, crap. Pretty much the Foreigners to Pearl/Nirvana's Zeppelin, if you will.

So yeah, partway through Chris' latest emotional performance I remembered. I really, really hated Candlebox.

in defense of the fab four

1. I admit it's a little cheap to post a 2-year-old rant on my brand-new blog, but hey, I needed something up here!
2. A bit of explanation, to put this into context. Why would anyone ever need to "defend" the Beatles? While lurking on the forums at comomusic.com (an excellent Columbia, MO music-centered site) a couple of years ago I encountered a thread vehemently questioning the relevance of the Beatles to today's 20-something music fan. I had to respond.

It is the responsibility of every generation to despise the music of the previous generation. I'm only half-serious on that point, and I realize this doesn't hold true for every member of a given generation. Much of the feeling I get from reading [the posts on the above-mentioned forum] reflects my own previously-held opinions, as a tail-end 'Boomer, towards, say, Frank Sinatra. To me, Frank Sinatra and his "overrated" contemporaries represented everything that sucked about music. (Later on, those feelings changed -- by realizing what great songwriters were supplying Frank with his tunes, not to mention his fine interpretive skills. But that's another story.)

I was not a Beatles fan in my late teens/early twenties. "Love Me Do" and songs of the like simply irritated me, as a rockin' Zeppelin kind of guy. Then "Abbey Road" and the White Album kicked in my door, and my ass with it. My appreciation grew as I traveled backwards along the Beatle album timeline over the course of a number of years, until I grew to love even those goofy earlier tunes, for one simple reason: the friggin' songcraft! Even the simplest songs usually had some "odd" bit to them, an unexpected chord change, a clever lyric, a strange harmony.

Those are things that may be taken for granted now, possibly because of the influence on so much of the music that followed (we've all heard that to death, but that's because it's true), but just listen to most of what you hear today, as well as most other music of their day -- that quality of songwriting is still damned rare. And no, I don't think they "invented" modern music, nor do I think innovation ended with them, but damned if they didn't combine the best parts of what came before them -- Cole Porter, Chuck Berry, Buck Owens, whatever -- and distill it into fucking brilliant songs and albums. Sure, the Stones were superior in the realm of blues and country. Did the Beatles "rock" harder than anybody before or since? Of course not. But they sure wrote circles around 'em. They were a rare combination: experimentalists with an almost unerring commercial instinct.

Why you "should" like the Beatles: uh, you shouldn't. You either do or you don't. And in the future, you either will or you won't. In the end it's pretty subjective. But (in my opinion, mind) they were the finest songwriters of their day, and that includes Mick & Keith, Pete Townshend, Ian Anderson, Page & Plant, Ray & Dave Davies, David Bowie and countless others whose music I still love dearly. Would I say they are my favorite all-time artists? Nah, I can't even begin to pick favorites anymore, there's too much good music out there. Will my favorite contemporary artists still move me 20, 30 years from now? Will yours? I sure hope so. I really do. End of rant. Music is the best.

post the first

Welcome to The Quivering Fringe, my first foray into blogginess. I have no idea where I'm going with this but I figure this might be a better outlet than ranting in the street.

Though I haven't completely ruled out ranting in the street.