There are a lot of great things about being a rock star. First and foremost is the fact that your only real responsibility is playing music for thousands of adoring fans. Other than that, you pretty much get to spend all of your time getting drunk, banging groupies and throwing TVs out of hotel room windows. Even if you end up a penniless burnout before you hit 40, you can always count on a second career doing the circuit of lucrative casino gigs and VH1 reality shows.
In fact, just the very act of playing rock music gives you enough shine to pull off a lot of cool shit. Even if you never make it past touring small clubs in a rented van, being a rock musician still justifies the tattoos, tight leather clothes and lewd behavior that you could never get away with being, say, a mid-level accountant. No guy ever walked into a bar and picked up a girl by telling her he works a low paying office job. But that scruffy looking dude making $8.75 an hour at the local coffee shop? I guarantee he’ll go home with a girl on his arm as long as he buys her a PBR and invites her to his show at the Hemlock next weekend.
Speaking of girls and rockers, I think one of the best perks would be making music videos. Even if nobody watches them, you still get to spend a couple of days in front of a camera living like a movie star. And since it’s your video, you can do whatever you want. You can launch the drummer into outer space or you can have the guitar player battle a group of axe wielding ninjas. It doesn’t matter. It’s your video.
Personally, I would take a cue from Cincinnati’s The Lions Rampant. In their video for “Lights On” - a catchy song that blends indie garage rock and 60s R&B - the band members bathe with hot naked girls, wrestle with hot girls in their underwear, and make out with and get licked by hot girls while drinking, dancing and generally carrying on.
Mel Brooks famously said it’s good to be the king. I say it’s better to play rock n roll.
One of my favorite day dreams revolves around time travel. Not the kind of time travel where you are magically transported 100 years into the future so you can finally get that jet pack you’ve always wanted. And not the kind of time travel where you go back to the 16th century and blow everyone’s mind with your intermediate understanding of high school physics.
Instead, in my imagination I am the chaperon for someone else who has travelled through time - specifically someone who has come from the past. Maybe it’s because I love playing teacher, but I think it would be a lot of fun to take a person dropped into 2010 from 1920 and show them how a smart phone works. Or better yet, take them to a 3D screening of Avatar.
One of the other scenarios I often play out in my mind does actually involve some time travel on my part, although it focuses on the not-too-distant past. In my imagination, I go back to the late 60s or early 70s and somehow ingratiate myself to a bunch of flower children at an acid party. Once the party is in full swing - and everybody is tripping balls - I get everyone’s attention and tell them I have come from the future. Of course they would all be like, “No way man, that’s too far out.” And I would be all like, “Yeah, it’s true. We have a black president, everybody talks on shiny little personal communication devices, and the music is a thousand times better than this baby boomer crap you all can’t stop listening to.”
Even high on acid most of them probably wouldn’t believe me, so I would have to bust out my iPod as proof. Just showing them my flashy futuristic gizmo would probably be enough to convince them, but just in case, I would have to take the extra step and blow their minds. I would plug the iPod into their stereo (I would have to remember to bring the right cables, of course) and throw on “Mo Money Mo Problems” then sit back and watch their heads explode. Also, hopefully all the hot girls would want to sleep with me.
Now let’s take this little mind exercise one step further. Imagine that you could go way back to medieval times and drag a witch or a sorcerer into the 21st century. They would be so far removed from the way we live now that you could never hope to acclimate them. I mean, how are you going to explain the internet to someone who doesn’t even understand indoor plumbing? I think it would be better - and more entertaining - just to fuck with them.
First, you could tell them that you have the magical ability to make light out of darkness and then go “shazaam!” while you flip a light switch. Or you could buy a disposable lighter from the corner store and claim the power to make fire from thin air. Or maybe just take them bungee jumping.
But I think the best way to fuck with, say, a wizard from the 8th century would be to convince him to join a metal band. The whole thing would be just familiar enough that he could fake his way through it with only minor, hopefully comic, confusion. For one thing, he would already have the beard. All you would have to do is trade in his robe for some black jeans and a Motörhead t-shirt. Then make him drink a bunch of “magic potion” (aka Red Bull and vodka), give him a microphone and tell him to sing what he knows. I guarantee you that in no time at all, Mr. Wizard’s band would have a full repertoire of songs about Satan, evil witches, and mythical battles fought between Pagan gods.
Sadly, Stephen Hawking has proven that travelling back in time is physically impossible, so Mr. Wizard’s awesome hypothetical band will never exist. Which is why we should all sacrifice a baby goat and give thanks to the great warrior god Odin for The Sword from Austin, TX.
These guys have been my favorite metal band since I first heard the opening riff on “Barael’s Blade” from their 2006 album Age Of Winters. That record is my go-to album every time I’m drunk, tweaked on caffeine or when I just want to freak out the neighbors. Which is why I am so excited that they are getting ready to drop something new on this world of unbelievers.
With just a few weeks until the release of their new album, The Sword has released the song “Tres Brujas,” the first chapter first chapter in the epic sci-fi narrative that spans Warp Riders, which hits stores on August 24th via Kemado Records.
If you cough up an email, you can download the track now via the link below. Make sure to buy the album when it comes out and don’t forget to take it with you if you ever get the chance to travel through time or hang out with a wizard.
I’ve been in a strangely contemplative mood lately. All of a sudden it seems like everything is more important than it used to be. Or maybe it’s not. Either way, I find myself taking more time than usual trying to figure it out. The world seems to be speeding up while I do this which causes me to worry that the time spent thinking is wasted; I should be spending more time doing. This kind of thinking turns my mind into a neurotic eternal return where I end up spending all my time thinking about what I’m thinking only to reach the conclusion that I could figure it out if I just had more time to think about it.
I could be having a midlife crisis, but by almost any measure I’m way too young for that. Besides, I don’t have the money to impulsively go out and buy a fancy new sports car so I wouldn’t even be able to fulfill the stereotype. It’s also possible that I’m going crazy, but I don’t think that’s it either. I live across the street from a halfway house full of people who are legitimately crazy. They spend all day smoking cigarettes, staring at the grass and muttering frustrated rejoinders to the voices in their heads. I don’t even talk to myself and I spend all my time working, so I guess I haven’t yet lost my mind.
But what do you do when you find yourself stuck on the big, vaguely philosophical questions that have puzzled mankind since the dawn of self-reflection? Do I really expect to unearth the true nature of happiness? Can I ever come to accept the present without worrying about the future? Will I ever get to see the earth from outer space? I mean, it’s hard to focus on things like grocery shopping and painting the garage when you’re plagued by a nagging sensation that life in general holds much greater purpose.
I catch myself in the middle of these internal, semi-conscience soliloquies and I realize that I sound like a teenager who has just discovered that the world is bigger than he is. Which means the best thing to do is to handle this mental tempest the way I did when I was a teenager - by listening to some music. Fortunately, a CD arrived in the mail the other day that perfectly fits the bill.
Icarus Himself is a two piece from the lake filled land of Madison, WI. Their new EP Mexico comes out today on Science of Sound. It’s a ghostly sounding record, pockmarked with empty spaces. Stray drum machines and keyboards wonder through big washes of reverb-heavy guitar chords. I may be projecting, but it sounds like a band absentmindedly playing music while they think back on the defining moments of their lives. It could be the sound of heartbreak in a small town or a silent prayer for something as beautiful as it was in a memory. It could be the soundtrack to a dream or it could just be the sound of a thousand thoughts jammed into five songs.
As usual, I’m probably thinking about it too much. Rather than set my mind to racing again, I think I’ll just take solace in the wisdom of a bumper sticker I saw on the highway this afternoon: I don’t know and you don’t either.
I was talking to my friend Josh the other night. Josh was mad because he had just come back from visiting an artists’ retreat in the Marin Headlands, and he felt that the space and opportunity were being wasted on a lot of the artists in residence up there. Apparently artists are selected by some sort of committee and then are given room, board and a giant art space amidst the beautiful redwoods at the foot of Mt. Tamalpias - all for free. The idea is that without having to worry about stocking the fridge or paying the rent, the artists will be able to focus all of their time and energy on their art. The result will be more and better art that everyone can enjoy.
Whether or not the artists taking advantage of this are living up to the full potential of the opportunity is beyond me. But I will say that this is a great idea. Too often in this country the value of art is measured only in monetary terms. People rarely appreciate what abstract things like beauty and curiosity bring to our lives.
Other countries have figured this out though. Canada, France, and many other nations have programs that support artists in ways that are completely free of commerce. These countries put art - and the artists who make it - in the same category as public parks. As such, everybody contributes to their upkeep so that everybody can enjoy the benefits of having them there.
If you really want to stretch this idea, I suppose you could say that’s why we have Portland. The rainy city to the north is still a bastion of cheap rent and poor kids from art school trying to blow the world’s mind. Portland is especially well suited for musicians, since almost everybody there either likes playing, listening to or talking about music. Plus, all those cheap houses have basements that make for great practice spaces. And when it rains 349 days a year, what the fuck else are you going to do?
This is why Cameron Spies moved up there. Tired of the rat race here in San Francisco he left for a city where he could afford to make music and not die of starvation. That was last year and now Spies is back in the city by the bay for a show with not one, not two, but three new bands. His pet project Soap Collectors is at the top of the order and Phantom Kicks will be batting clean-up. In the center of the line up is his most personal project, the semi-ironically named Spesus Christ.
Spesus Christ makes music that is actually closer to art. The three tracks on their second EP are splatter painted with echoing guitars and voices drawn out into church-like reverb. Keyboards, pianos and drum machines make cameo appearances implying hip hop and electronica, but often disappear into the ether just when you get your head around them.
The whole package is experimental and a little unsettling, yet oddly enjoyable. It’s good to see an artist painting in something other than the every day colors. And it’s good to know that Spies only had to move to Portland to do it. Otherwise, I would have had to write this in French.
Spesus Christ plays The Hotel Utah Thursday 4/22/10 with Phantom Kicks and Soap Collectors
There has been many a phrase coined to describe the bare essence of rock n roll, but what I think it ultimately comes down to is taste. You can have the skills, but without the look and the attitude you’ll be stuck playing Steve Vai covers in your bedroom forever. You can have the look and the attitude, but without some kind of musical ability nobody will buy your records. You may feel cool now, but in 20 years you’ll be the old guy with all the tattoos making angry lattes at the coffee shop.
If you have taste, it serves as your guiding light. You know you want to make good music and your senses lead you down the proper path. You may not be born with Jimmy Page’s fingers, but you have the good sense to at least take some guitar lessons. You might not look like a male model, but you know better than to get on stage wearing jean shorts and a fanny pack.
More importantly, if you have taste you most likely have the ability to pull the whole package together. This is important in the modern world of rock n roll because these days it’s not just a band, it’s a brand. You’ve got your music, your album art, your videos, your merch, your website, and your social media. And if you want to make any money from it then the whole thing better be pretty fucking spiffy.
This requires a unified vision, not to mention a pretty serious work ethic. A shining example of this can be found in the LA band Saint Motel. I don’t know where they find the energy and diligence necessary to sustain their prolific output. They only have one album out and they’ve already made at least six music videos. These videos are not cheap, throw-away art projects either. They’re full-blown, MTV style affairs complete with fly-away sets and elaborately staged funerals.
They also play a lot. They are almost always on tour and - I will have to confirm this with their management - I think they play LA something like nine times a week. When I saw them at Spaceland last year they showed up at the club three hours early with an army of art students to decorate the place like an elaborate psychedelic dream. People walked into the club, took one look around and knew they were in for a show.
I tell you all of this because Saint Motel will be playing the Rickshaw Stop this Monday night (4/19). Their infectious brand of indie rock meets 1970s FM fuzz will put your week in perfect alignment. Topping off the bill are UK up-and-comers Band Of Skulls, a pretty kick-ass band in their own right. If you have taste, style, class or even just common sense you can prove it to the world by showing up and getting down.
Two of my favorite bands are playing tonight at Slim’s. If you happen to be in or around SF, I highly recommend you check it out.
The Whigs are a rock band band in the truest sense of the words. They play loud, charging songs that somehow manage to conjure up an entire life’s worth of sunny days, dark nights, heartbreak and lust. As I once told a friend, The Whigs’ music is simultaneously the perfect soundtrack for a fishing trip, a long drive or a late night beer drinking contest. From what I’ve heard so far, their new album doesn’t quite have the magic of the first two. But having seen these guys live before I can still promise one of the best performances you will ever get a chance to see.
After 12 years and 7 albums, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club have officially cornered the market on bad ass rock n roll. Their music is the aural equivalent of a pair of dark shades or a well-worn leather jacket. Just putting it on automatically makes you cooler. Given their predilection for heavy distortion and fuzzy electronic howls, I can’t say that I would pick them as a perfect match for The Whigs’ more organic sound. Still, having two great bands on the same bill like this pretty much guarantees an awesome night out.
Nerds are funny. Throughout their early school years they ostracized, treated as social outcasts and left to hover over their books alone. Some of them seek comfort in computers or sci-fi board games and end up as 57 year old virgins dying of junk food overdoses in their mothers’ basements. Fortunately for the nerd community, this but a small minority of nerds. Most of them go on to have high-paying jobs with nice houses and kids and really cool electronic gadgets. Better yet, in recent years nerdism has found its way to popularity, thanks in large part to the seemingly ubiquitous ironic hipster contingent.
Now, many people proudly boast about being Scrabble nerds, or total nerds for The Simpsons. Clunky awkward glasses and ugly sweaters can be found atop many a pair of skinny jeans. I’m not saying the jocks have stopped picking on them in high school or anything, but in many US cities, the nerds (or people who look like them) have mad swagger.
Which is why I have no problem admitting that I am a total nerd for urban planning. I love the intersecting uses of sociology and architecture. I totally get off on learning random facts about population density and how urban design affects our behavior. For example, did you know that small business are more likely to succeed on streets where people feel comfortable jay-walking? Or that cities are considered more desirable when they have museums, theaters and good restaurants (obvious) - even to the people who never go to those museums, theaters or good restaurants (not so obvious)?
It’s called existence value. It’s how you describe the cultural worth of something in a city in a tangible way. It means that even if you never go to the museum, you appreciate the fact that museums attract interesting people, which attract interesting businesses, which attract more interesting people, who do more interesting things, which makes your city a desirable place to live.
Which makes me think of jazz. Jazz has taken its lumps in the past few decades. As the last of the masters from the 60s and 70s permanently retire, jazz has more and more often been dragged into the realm of academia - or found refuge with the same kind of soulless honky who thinks listening to blues automatically makes him cool.
This is really sad because I love jazz. Most people, however, people think jazz is just ok. Sure, they would be happy to go to a jazz club or listen to some jazz at your dinner party. For them the existence value of jazz is pretty good. They don’t listen to it all the time, but they’re glad to know that it’s there. The thing is, these people probably can’t tell the difference between John Coltrane and Tom Whitey’s Jive Turkey Orchestra. As long as it’s got a ride cymbal and a saxophone, they’re happy.
The nerds among us, however, we know the difference. We know when something swings and when it doesn’t. We know when the compositions have brains, when the songs snap. The jazz nerds know when something is fresh and thoughtful. We know what it sounds like when good musicians lay back a little bit and let the line sink into deeper waters.
If you’re not sure where you stand on the spectrum of jazz listeners, I suggest you check out the debut album Evening Earth from The Nathan Clevenger Group. To the casual listener this may sound like difficult music. True enough, it doesn’t have the same instant appeal of a sugar sweet pop song or a thumping urban chart topper. I’ll even go so far as to say that if that’s what you’re looking for, this record is not for you. And that’s fine. Some of us like to eat at McDonald’s and some us prefer Chez Panisse. But if you count yourself among the latter group, then I suggest you check out this record.
Clevenger’s compositions are quick and cerebral. Stand out track “Low Resolution” hums with darkness and fog, a perfect soundtrack for a hung over rainy day or a dark night of the soul. The rest of the record sizzles and pops with articulate chord changes and Clevenger’s trademark dexterity with mode and time signature. Jazz of this calibre is an interesting art form, and it should be well received by all the boys and girls who like to throw on their thinking caps every now and then.
For the rest of you, please continue to enjoy Top 40 pop songs and fast food hamburgers. Lord knows they are delicious. Just don’t forget that there is other stuff out there, and that just by existing, it adds value to everything else.
Here we are in the last waning hours of 2009 and I’m sneaking my top 10 list in right before they close the books for good on this decade. As with most things here at Tough Customer, this list will defy convention. You’re not going to see any of the bands or albums that you would find on the other big, fancy - dare I say “mainstream” - lists. These are all bands flying under the radar that we’ve covered in 2009. Of course, with any luck, some of them will work their way up to the big, fancy lists in 2010.
So remember to cross your fingers, take a shot and kiss whoever is standing next to you at midnight. It’s gonna be a good year.
“…it is with great pride that I would like to introduce you to Oakland’s very own Raised By Robots. They’re one of the first bands I’ve heard that bridges the gap between post-rock and post-indie rock. The guitars and stutter step drums recall early Tortoise albums, while the floating vocal harmonies have an ethereal Grizzly Bear-meets-Radiohead quality. RBR is also prone to throwing in snippets of xylophone or drum machine ear candy, just for those of us who are listening closely.”
“This rag tag posse of Los Angeles based troubadours has a care-free, yet highly musical vibe that rests somewhere between The Band and Arcade Fire. Their songs reel back and forth between camp fire sing-a-longs and full gospel revival. In between they get weird, they get funky and they get loose. It’s the kind of sound that makes me want to grow out my hair and jump on the free love express. It makes me want to share my wine and bang on a drum all day - which is probably exactly what Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros expect of their audience.”
“‘I sold my album out and all the haters stared hard/you put your record out for free on failblog‘
That’s just half a line from a freestyle by Tanya Morgan, which is not a person, but a three man rap group hailing from the fictional utopia of Brooklynati. Apparently these guys have already spent some time freaking out rap aficionados around the internet. No doubt this has something to do with their crazy fresh beats, sick flow, and all around hip hop mastery.
“MSHVB do more than make quirky videos. They also play distorted, tempo shifting indie rock that packs an equal amount of brains and balls into every song. Which is like having sex with a beautiful girl and then finding 20 bucks in your pocket when you put your pants back on. And as if that weren’t enough, the line-up of MSHVB offers a story that will only add to their legend. The band is fronted by a young husband and wife team who adopted the teenage drummer as their son. Rumor has it that they formed MSHVB as a gift to him for learning to play the drums so quickly. How cool is that?”
“…listening to their new album Near or Far, I hear ambling, percussive indie rock. The music is anthemic at times, but mostly reminds me of a modernized version of Wilco - like if Jeff Tweedy was 20 years younger and living in a rent controlled apartment in Williamsburg. Of course, Wilco itself is somewhat derivative, so you’d also have to pepper that assessment with a sampling from rock n roll’s recent history. In all, Near or Far is an album that grows on you, with melodies and piano solos that sneak into your brain when you think you’re not really listening.”
5. Benjy Ferree : Come Back To The Five & Dime Bobby Dee Bobby Dee
“Come Back To The Five And Dime Bobby Dee Bobby Dee sounds like an R&B album from the 60s recorded by AOR musicians from the 70s and driven to the record plant in a brand new Prius. The drums crackle with reverb and the piano player sounds like he just came from church. A string section fills out the low end while a guitar grinds through the mids and highs. Above it all is Ferree, singing his ass off about death, fear and a host of other existential concerns.”
4. Free Energy : Free Energy / Something In Common (7″ Ltd. Single)
“Everything about their first single evokes a summertime make-out session wrapped in the warm embrace of a beer buzz and a mild sunburn. It’s a teenage love affair circa 1979. It’s skinny-dipping in a backyard suburban pool on a hot August night. It’s a Camaro, a blended margarita and a new tattoo all rolled into one. It’s nearly perfect.”
“Sean Bones is actually Sean Sullivan, the guitar player for Sam Champion - another fave here at TC//Wire. Under the Sean Bones moniker, Sullivan has created a laid back EP of Specials-esque ska funk. The tunes vibrate with a tropical lo-fi rhythm that works perfectly as the soundtrack to the first beer at the end of a summer day. Chances are you’ll find yourself drunk on the sound before you get drunk from the booze.”
“This band does indie pop rock as well as, if not better than anybody from Willaimsburg or Silver Lake. Phoenix would be a pretty accurate comparison, but The Sweet Serenades are a little more gritty and lo-fi in a way that makes them more likeable. Their new album Balcony Cigarettes is full of jangling guitars, crisp 1970s drum lines and a panoply of hand claps, keyboard riffs, and Cheap Trick-esque vocal melodies.”
“The record is awash in gorgeous synthesizer riffs, dance floor ready drum beats and the band’s trademark cinematic production. The lyrics pay homage to young lust and city life. At times it is catchy pop music. At others it is brooding electro-rock. There are moments of psychedelic beauty and glimpses of haunting dreams.”
If you’ll excuse me for a second, I need to talk some shit about the American consumer banking system. I know this is a tired old trope, but what’s the point of having a blog if you can’t use it as your digital soapbox every once in a while? Besides, I just got screwed over (again) by a bank, and it has left me feeling helpless and frustrated. And there’s nothing I hate more than feeling helpless and frustrated.
First, to sum up what you already know: If you want to do anything in this country, you have to be actively involved in our convoluted financial system. Without a bank account and at least one credit card, you can’t rent a car, rent an apartment, buy a house, make a plane reservation, get a phone, or participate in any other activity that requires you to demonstrate financial responsibility to one of the huge banks that we now know to be wildly irresponsible themselves. Do you make a habit of buying things with cash so that you can only spend money that you actually have? Do you feel that banks and credit card companies engage in predatory lending practices, charging absurd fees simply because they can and, as such, refuse to participate in their government regulated loan-sharking?
If you answered yes to either one of these run-on sentences, then you probably do not have sufficient credit history to rent a slice of bread. To anyone with even an ounce of common sense it would appear that you were being smart with your money; spending only what you have and avoiding companies that charge extremely high prices for low-value services. But to any landlord, credit card company, rental car agency or bank you are a deadbeat with no money who doesn’t deserve any of the conveniences of modern living.
Which brings me to the very abbreviated version of my story. I don’t like credit cards. I like to pay in cash and I like to buy things outright - not on layaway. But several years ago, I got sick of fighting with prospective landlords about my non-existent credit history. Also, I wanted to be able to rent a car when I travel. So I broke down and got a credit card. It had like, a $400 limit and I only used it to pay for my Netflix subscription. As far as JP Morgan Chase was concerned, I was the most boring, non-profit generating customer they had - which was how I wanted it.
Then I decided to start my own business. I went to get an SBA loan and the bank offered me six times more money than I applied for. When told them I only needed 1/6th of what they were offering me, they said, “Sure, but why not take more? It’s always good to have more money than you need…” Right. Let me just go ahead and take an extra $75,000. I’m sure that will work out great for me.
Needless to say, I declined. My application was sailing through the approval process. And then the entire economy imploded and all of a sudden the bank wouldn’t loan me dime. Whereas the month before the only qualification I needed was to fog a mirror, I now suddenly needed to show tax returns with years of escalating profit. Which, as a brand new business, I did not have. So, no loan for me.
However, the filthy rat motherfuckers at American Express offered me a dozen new credit cards at a low APR. So I got one and used it to finance my business. I was very careful to keep my balance well below my limit, and I sent them at least three or four hundred dollars every month to pay down my balance. While I was not thrilled about joining the ranks of Americans carrying credit card debt, I was willing to live with it. Plus, it helped my credit score.
Then, for god knows what reason, Amex decided to lower my limit and all of a sudden I have a maxed-out credit card. This, in turn, adversely affects my credit score. The lowered credit score allows them to raise my APR, which causes them to asses a higher monthly charge, which means that I get charged overdraft fees. And only then does the real raping and pillaging begin.
I called to complain. Of course I did. But what did they say?
“Sorry sir, but we have a clause in our fine print that allows us to fuck with you however we want. Did you read that? No? I didn’t think so. That’s too bad. Not that it would have stopped you from applying for a credit card with us. Because everybody has to have a credit card, right? Otherwise, without credit, you can’t do anything in this country. And, just so you know, all credit card companies have this clause in their fine print. Banks too. So pretty much, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
Anyway, enjoy being our little bitch. Because until you can afford to pay us back - which won’t be for a very long time - you will be stuck at the bottom of a long, slippery slope that we specially designed just to fuck you up. Have a nice day.”
Fuuuuck! I am so fucking mad right now. All of a sudden, I understand why people send letter bombs or walk into corporate headquarters with a machine gun or watch Michael Moore movies. I have been royally screwed over and, because I’m poor, there is nothing I can do about it.
So, it is with a hate filled heart that I dedicate this Pig Destroyer song to every bank and credit card company in America. I hope it makes your ears bleed you fuckers.
I recently got rid of all my CDs. After years of buying, trading and collecting albums, after dragging them across the country, after loading most of them onto my computer and after watching them gather dust for the last two years I finally decided to get rid of them. I sold as many as I could and I gave the rest away to friends. It wasn’t easy parting ways with my collection. And at 1000+ CDs it was an actual collection, one that I had carefully cultivated and was quite proud of.
But by now you know the story about compact discs. They are outdated technology and they don’t even last as long as they’re supposed to. Not only that, but a lot of my CDs were first pressing, which is something good in the world of vinyl, but in the world of CDs it means my CDs are shitty, inferior versions of the fancy new CDs the started making in 1999 or whatever. Long story short, most of my CDs are now living out their golden years in the bargain bin at Amoeba Records.
It’s kind of funny that I feel such an attachment to these CDs. The obvious recipient of my affection and nostalgia should be the albums - i.e. the music, the cover art, the liner notes. And while the music is ultimately the most important thing to me, I still feel a real attachment to the physical CD. I liked seeing all of those CDs stacked up on the shelf. I liked looking at their spines all lined up in a row. I liked the bounty their sheer volume seemed to represent. Somehow looking at a really long playlist is just not the same to me.
What’s funny about this is that owning a physical copy of the music is a relatively recent phenomena - and it’s already dead. For most of human history, music only happened when it was played live. People only started buying vinyl in a real way after WWII. And the LP didn’t see popular use until the late 60s. Before that, you listened to live orchestras on the radio or you just bought sheet music and hoped somebody in your house learned how to play it on piano. Before that you either went to the symphony or you listened to some drunken troubadour playing lute down at ye ol’ inn.
I’m wondering if that made music more special somehow. If music was more of a rarity, something brought out for special occasions only, it stands to reason that it would be treated like a delicacy. I mean, compare that to now, where you can download pretty much any song you want whenever you want, you can see on-demand music videos and concert footage, and the most popular songs and artists end up appearing ad nauseam in commercials, movies, restaurants, bars and birthday parties. These days, silence is more of a rarity than music.
But I’m a junkie so I still crave it. Honestly, I can’t get enough. And I’ve decided that after selling all my CDs and wearing a digital hole in my iPod, I need to go back to the source for some uncut pure shit: live music. In the words of Axl Rose, I used to do a little, but a little wouldn’t do it, so now I do more and more.
That’s right, I’m putting more live music in my life and I’m starting with the Wolfmother show at The Fox next Monday. (Actually, I’m starting with the Conspiracy of Beards show tomorrow night, but that’s as much for the spectacle as it is for the music.) I’m kind of playing it safe here, since I know this will be a straight-ahead brass tacks rock show. Heartless Bastards are also on the bill which ups the ante to level 8 awesomeness. And perhaps most interestingly, thenewno2 are opening up the show.
This band features loud electric guitars, strange synthesizer noises, beautifully syncopated drums and some oddly (purposely?) amateurish drum programming, an offspring of the Beatles, wandering psychedelic flourishes and what I hope will be a whole lot of volume. This is the kind of thing you go to see live music for - a sound, a performance, an experience. Judging from what I’ve seen online (guilty!), thenewno2 definitely bring the thunder. To continue with the food metaphor, Wolfmother may be the bread and butter of this show, but I’m counting on thenewno2 to whip up something special for dessert.
thenewno2 plays The Fox Theater in Oakland on Monday 11/23/09 (with Wolfmother and Heartless Bastards)
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