I imagine it must be as warm as 9 or 10 degrees as Pixie and I make the walk down to the Aragon from the spot we found four blocks north of the venue. By the time we arrive at will call, I’m past shivering and well into grimace mode, and in no mood for the shenanigans soon to be inflicted upon me by the woman doling out passes. I give her my name and show her my license. I see my name on the list. Me plus one. Pixie is the plus one. Everybody else on the All-American Rejects list has guest access. We have VIP access. She hands us guest passes.
“We’re supposed to get VIP passes,” I say politely, trying to sound vaguely bored and unconcerned as I imagine an actual Very Important Person might.
“Those are VIP passes,” she answers. “See where it says 6:45?” She points at the time written on the passes in Sharpie. “That means you can’t go backstage until 6:45.”
I know this isn’t true and I’m pretty sure that she knows this isn’t true but in any case I’m definitely sure that it doesn’t matter because we are not getting backstage tonight. Guest passes have the word “Guest” on them. VIP passes say “VIP.” That’s how you tell them apart. And we have Guest passes. Not so long ago, I would’ve made a big deal out of it, and I most likely would’ve ended up sorting the whole thing out, having made a new enemy or two in the process. Tonight it’s not worth it. It’s too cold and we’re running too late to get into a big thing over somebody else’s ineptness.
As we walk through the lobby to the stairs leading to the mezzanine, I can hear the All-American Rejects’ hit single “Dirty Little Secret” being played over the P.A. When we reach the mezzanine, I realize it isn’t a recording – the band must’ve just started their set. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a band that tight. Not even Green Day. It’s a minute or two past 6:00 p.m. The early starting time is probably a concession to the young crowd, most of who appear to be 16 or younger. It’s fine with me; my days of staying out until four a.m. ended a long time ago and I’m happy to be able to see the set, grab a bite to eat on the way home and be in bed by 10.
We find that although we’re allowed up another set of stairs to the balcony, the large security guy stationed at the back of the landing won’t let us through the Magic Door, which comes as no surprise. After explaining that we’re really supposed to have VIP passes - and watching Meat roll his eyes in response - I request an elaboration on the 6:45 thing, just for kicks.
“You and everybody else up here are guests of the All-American Rejects,” he explains slowly, as though I’m retarded. “This is your area,” he continues, like we’ve just won a trip to Belize or a speedboat or something. “The other band’s guests are on the other side.” He gestures to the balcony on the other side of the venue.
“So they don’t rumble,” I offer.
He patronizes me with a half-hearted chuckle.
“Anyway,” I say. “We can go back at 6:45, right?”
“No, the guests are allowed up here at 6:45,” says Beefaroni.
“But it’s 6:05 right now. And you’ve let us all up here.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“This is the guest area for the All-American Rejects, right?”
He nods his meaty head patiently.
“And they just went on?”
He nods again.
“And they finish at 6:45?”
Another nod. I really seem to be getting it.
“And we’re not allowed up here until 6:45, but you’ve let everybody up at 6:00 anyway?”
“Yes,” he says, as if it makes all the sense in the world.
I resolved some years ago to try to live my life with a modicum of dignity; to beg a pork roast in a t-shirt reading “SECURITY” to listen to reason would violate that fiat. Better to smile and walk away, thinking to oneself, “You may have won the battle, worthy foe, but I shall stomp gloriously on the steaming pile of goo you call your entrails after I win the war.”
We settle in to watch the Rejects. They have a lot of great songs and they put on a hyper, high-energy show which, remarkably, doesn’t comes off too contrived or choreographed, like every other band that thinks that putting on a good show means hopping around like a fruity dingbat, only stopping the labored frolicking occasionally in order to pose like a girl who just set up her first MySpace account.
The Rejects play all their hit songs. Last time I was at the Aragon, in 1994, Nirvana couldn’t be bothered to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” even though that song was the primary reason most of the people were there. If you’re selling a gazillion records, don’t be coy or moody – play your hits.
The Rejects are a pop band masquerading as a loud rock band. Their attack is a little more hard-rock oriented than punk, but the tunes don’t seem to come from quite the same AOR-inspired place as a lot of their peers on the major labels; they’re more of a singles band. And that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for. Every once in a while it’s nice to see a bunch of young guys kicking out the jams with little regard for putting on a jaded, detached hip act or making dim-bulb sociopolitical observations; every once in a while you just want to hear really loud songs about girls.
I’m expecting a bloated 60-70 minute set, but the Rejects pull the plug after about 40. Whether that’s their choice or the promoter’s, it’s nice that we didn’t have to be beaten over the head. The set over, I make one last attempt to reason with the porcine security guy, to no avail of course.
We weigh our options. Mike, the guitarist for the Rejects, is the one who put us on the list. I have my cell phone in the pocket of my pea coat. I also have a slip of paper with Mike’s phone number on it. That slip of paper is, of course, in the car. Having already braved the elements once to get to this point, I don’t intend to repeat the expedition March-Of-The-Penguins-style, not that we’d be let back into the venue anyway. It’s not that big a deal, I suppose. I was just hoping to meet Mike face to face.
And I suppose I was hoping, a little bit anyway, that sometimes you can go home again, and that I’d be able to get out of this a companion piece to my 1994 article on the Nirvana/ Jawbreaker show at the Aragon. Only this time the featured band wouldn’t be some bloated retro 70s style act, but rather an aggressive, melodic band featuring a guitarist who grew up listening to my stuff. Y’know, a nice little piece to show that everything has come full circle, or that truth is stranger than fiction, or that I’m one hell of a guy no matter what they say, or whatever angle I might’ve wrangled out of it.
As it is, I’m left to my own devices. I grab my wife by the hand, grateful for her presence even as I’m almost embarrassed at how attached I am to her. She didn’t know me when I was a full time musician. She only knows the older and, I hope, wiser version of me. She didn’t ever have to deal with the me that was seething with hostility and ambition and jealousy and desperation as I tried to assert my place in the music world, and she didn’t see how much things changed when I finally started learning to drop that crap and laugh at myself a little. She only knows the post-30 me, the one that’s semi-retired from music and content to sit in front of the computer writing all day - maybe knocking off a little early to make a pot of soup or some pasta or something – rather than running around playing shows to ever-dwindling crowds and getting all fucked-up to help numb the feelings of self-loathing as I try to impress young men half my age and nail their silly female counterparts. She only knows the me that seldom listens to music anymore, the one who gets together with his old musician pals now and then so we can gossip like old ladies and tell war stories. And she prefers that to the silly, sad, rock and roll stereotype I so easily could have become.
We walk out into the cold and I can see now that it’s a perfect exit for the end of the essay – understated, low-key and focused on my wife and I as we leave the venue and head to the car, rather than on me and my neuroses as we battle it out with the forces of reason and common sense. In 1994 I was looking for a scoop – with exaggerated gusto of course, but I was looking all the same. It wasn’t really for my fanzine as much as it was for me; I wanted to get a look into the big time world of rock and see what it was all about. And not just that night, but over the next year, I got an eyeful.
That was really the beginning of the end of any crazy ideas I might’ve been harboring about trying to take this music thing to a higher level. I saw all the Hollywood clichés in living color, with all the characters dutifully acting out their parts. Melodrama In Real Life. It’s mostly sad, and on the rare occasions when it’s funny, the humor is bitter and mean. It’s not for me. That doesn’t mean that I don’t wish people in that world well. It’s just that I don’t really think I ever could have survived it. Not that I was ever really invited into that world anyway, save for a phone call here and a couple of dropped hints there.
And it’s turned out well. It’s pretty great to be remembered as having done something worthwhile creatively, especially when you know you’ve done it as much on your own terms as possible. It’s fun to go out to these things and see the young guys carrying the torch, as it were. And it’s definitely great that the back catalog is still selling. So maybe that’s my angle: things really do have a funny way of working out.
We’re almost at the car now. We haven’t been talking – it’s too cold and we’re too focused on trying to navigate the sidewalk without taking a spill on the uneven sheets of ice coating the cement. I fumble for the keys as Pixie trudges over a snow bank to get to the passenger door.
“I feel really old after that show,” she says, hands jammed in the pockets of her coat as she stamps her feet to try to stay warm. “Y’know?”
“Yeah,” I say, opening the door. “But it feels pretty good.”
Not that I see any real evidence for this alleged war on Christmas anyway, but to the extent that Christmas language has been homogenized, I can't say I feel too bad for that whiny minority of Christians dragging their bizarre persecution complexes around like a ball and chain. After all, a big part of their complaint is that inoffensive, euphemistic language has made a mockery of the Christmas season. Sheesh, welcome to my world. Inoffensive, euphemistic language has been ruining television and radio for me since I was about eight years old. Until I can watch Goodfellas uncensored on ABC or see the occasional female breast on network TV I'm not likely to get all up in arms about holiday trees and generic presidential greeting cards. I don't know what made these goofs think they could screw around with controlling speech and not have it come around to bite them in the ass, but all I have to say to them is "Happy Holidays."
CNN reports on the guy who left the ring in the unlocked car.
"Merry Christmas. Thank you for leaving your car door unlocked. Instead of stealing your car I gave you a present. Hopefully this will land in the hands of someone you love, for my love is gone now. Merry Christmas to you."
What a dick. Not only does the guy have way too much money for somebody as dumb as he obviously is, but he's a passive-aggressive, whiny jerk, too. "Instead of stealing your car I gave you a present." How magnanimous of you. Imagine the kind of lines he must've dropped on the sensible female who wisely dumped him: "I could've had you killed by my people but instead I brought you a bouquet of roses."
And I just love the self-pitying "Merry Christmas" message he doles out twice. "Even though I'm in more pain than any human has ever had to suffer, I'm still a decent enough guy to offer holiday greetings to my fellow man." Yeah, good show, old bean.
And how about this: "...for my love is gone now." What the fuck, Shakespeare? Who talks like that? I mean besides pretentious, self-involved twats who think their own broken hearts ought to be headline news. He could've returned the ring and given the money to a thousand places where it would've done some good, but he just had to be all dramatic about it. And I'll give you ten to one odds that the guy has no idea whatsoever why women loathe him.
I seldom attend rock shows anymore. They're too loud and smoky. Yeah, I'm old, but I kind of always felt that way - it's just that they were more tolerable when I used to spend a lot more time drunk.
I sort of wanted to see the Dead Kennedys when they were in town last month but it was one of those million band festivals and I didn't feel like being around a million idiot punk musicians. I meant to try to get together with their singer Jeff for a coffee but typically I flaked.
So now I kind of want to go out to see the All-American Rejects at the Aragon on Sunday night. I may or may not be on the list, but I don't want to find out the hard way that I'm not. The hard way involves standing outside in the cold at the will call window emptyhanded, seething and shaking my fist at the venue and all she represents. I can just walk out in front of my own building and do that if the urge strikes - why drive all the way up to the Aragon? I'd buy tickets except that I'm cheap and I don't believe in paying to get into shows if I can avoid it by getting in on the list. So we'll see what happens and in any case I'll try to report back Monday.
In the course of an interview I did last week (more on that in a few weeks or so) I was informed that not only can you now buy Green Day action figures, but that the Mike Dirnt figure comes complete with a Screeching Weasel tattoo. I know what I want for Christmas.
UPDATE: Here's a better view: you can see the tattoo on the inner part of the left arm. Thanks, Dave Bug!
After running around like crazy all day yesterday I seem to be, if not caught up with business and domestic responsibilities, at least a little less swamped by them.
So there really aren't any excuses for not writing today. I haven't written in two weeks, and though the excuses are plentiful and awfully good, I still feel kind of cruddy about it. As I should. But this backstory stuff is killing me. I'm pretty sure it'll be relatively smooth sailing once I'm through it.
But who knows? I have no idea where my old, famous work ethic went. It said it was going out for a pack of cigarettes sometime around the summer of 1998 and it never came back. I've been very lazy ever since.
Since the impulse to work is no longer coarsing through my veins like so many diligent corpuscles, I must create the desire artificially by doing things like imagining my enemies beside themselves with envy and teeming with hostility when I complete, sell and publish the book, or by pretending that every time I finish a page a Communist dies - stuff like that.
So far so good, though I'm still working in spurts, which is a lousy way to work. But I don't think I'll ever be one of those sit down in front of the computer for two hours a day kind of guys. Or worse, one of those page-a-day dingbats. Sure, I could force myself to write a page a day. A page a day of crap. I'd be better off catching up with Passions. So I'll just have to work with what I've got. And anyway, it's coming out pretty good, so what the hell.
I present without comment a few choice bits from Joe King's latest missive:
We met the guys from the great band Frenzal Rhomb when we were in Brisbane.They were telling us how they toured with The Dropkick Murphys and the guitar player from Skrewdriver showed up-backstage. Nice stuff,eh? He told the guitar player from Frenzal Rhomb that he looked like a "faggot" cause of his long hair. Why would you even let that asshole from Skrewdriver backstage?!? I'd be damned if I would. Whatever my other faults I draw the line at fraternizing with guys from Skrewdriver. But I'm funny that way. I mean any scene that embraces Lars from Rancid as a hero is fucked up in my opinion. The poor guy has tattoos on his forehead now. What can you say about someone like that? You say a prayer that's what. His interviews are among my faves though. He once referred to Rancid as a "pack of badgers"!!! I never forgot that and since then I always keep my eyes open for little bon mots of information like that one."A Pack Of Badgers". Lars is a good guy though. Harmless. His heart is in the right place. He just thinks he is way more important than he really is that's all. And certainly in the punk scene now he is not alone in that thinking. You gotta love him.