All-American Redux

We had the pleasure of seeing the All-American Rejects again last night, this time at the UIC Pavilion. The band played a killer 35 minute set. I'm telling you, 35 minutes is just about perfect. You play for that long and it's nothing but great songs beginning to end, as was the case with the AAR last night. It wasn't just me - Pixie had a blast and she is a huge AAR fan as well.

One bizarre sight seen: When the band went from former mega-hit "Swing Swing" into current mega-hit "Move Along" all ten thousand people went nuts and about half of them held up their lit-up cell phones and swung them around above their heads. I guess that's what kids do at concerts these days instead of using lighters. Welcome to the 21st century.

The band and crew were really good to us as well. These guys are selling more records than I can even conceive and they don't have any kind of attitude or ego about it at all. Down here in the small pond - or mud puddle, really - where I make my living I've seen bands that sell 20,000 records running around acting like something out of Sunset Boulevard but the AAR cats have their heads on straight. These guys are smart, plus they have the advantage over all the flavors of the moment on MTV because they can consistently write great tunes. I think they're just going to keep getting more popular; we're definitely pulling for them over here at Weasel Manor.

On top of everything else, AAR guitarist Mike Kennerty played me a great demo he'd done for one of my new songs. Mike will be producing my new record whenever I can manage to find somebody to fund it, and he's been doing these amazing demos of my new stuff while on tour. I can't tell you how cool it is to be working with somebody who is putting this much time and effort into ideas for arrangements and production.

So it was a real pleasure getting to see their set and hang out with them, and like the giddy fan I am, I had to take a photo with them. There's a story to this one involving a guy from Australia who likes to have his photo taken with punk musicians while giving the thumbs up sign (he also does a pretty good weblog here) (scroll down to the end of one of the reviews to see his patented thumbs-up rating system with photos featuring my former Screeching Weasel co-hort and all-around prince of a guy Mass Giorgini). So this is my contribution, featuring the wacky "Hey, they're giving me the thumbs up" twist. Yeah, I know it's stupid. So what. Photo by the ever-patient Pixie, who never fails to humor me when I get another bright idea.

Near-Perfect Records, Vol. 1: Alkaline Trio - Good Mourning

To say that I missed the boat on the Alkaline Trio in the beginning is a fairly huge understatement. I tend to think of pretty much any band that comes from Chicago as worthless, usually for good reason. But rather than bore you with the origins and history of my antipathy for the Chicago music scene I’ll just point out that in the early part of the decade, when the Alkaline Trio name came up in my company it was usually followed by some sort of disclaimer noting that they weren’t much more than a poor man’s Jawbreaker. This was the word as delivered by trusted friends; such a damning conclusion didn’t exactly send me scurrying down to the record shop.

Having only recently become acquainted with the Trio’s early material I’m more or less inclined to agree with the less than charitable comparison to Schwarzenbach and Co. But by the time I heard the early stuff I’d already had the pleasure of listening to 2003’s Good Mourning a few zillion times, an experience that fills one with a sense of joy and brotherhood of the sort that automatically absolves any prior sins, real or imagined.

Usually when you’re talking about a great record you’re referring to it primarily as the sum of its parts. That’s certainly the case here, but one of the more remarkable things about Good Mourning is that more than half the tracks are of the anthemic, hit-single variety that most bands can’t even manage once per record. It takes until the 7th song before you’re allowed the tiniest bit of a breather; prior to that point, you find yourself trying to absorb it all in slack-jawed confusion as you attempt to make sense of a world in which these tunes weren’t all over MTV and the radio. The first six songs on Good Mourning represent one of the most potent stretches of recorded material I’ve ever heard.

Good Mourning finds the band carving out their own niche, one that owes as much to the Ramones as it does the off-kilter pop of the 90s now termed “emo” by revisionists and dilettantes. Embracing huge, obvious, joyful melodies rather than dabbling in the coquettish employment of same (as is so common in the bigger independent rock circles), the songs accomplish the often-attempted, seldom-perfected task of combining familiar and deservedly beloved chord progressions with a hard-earned melancholy that would put any shoe-gazing emo band to shame.

As is often the case with the near-perfect album, the songs tend to share similar qualities. Morons, snobs and rock critics often view this as a sign of limited ideas, entirely missing the point with a typical lack of embarrassment: great albums are inherently conceptual, whether the people making them are consciously aware of it or not. What follows is the creation of a series of chapters in a book, as it were; there is continuity from song to song, not just thematically, but musically, and in terms of tone, arrangements and production. This is often a process that rises and falls between the conscious and subconscious and generally, though not always, the process reaches its peak in album form at a time when the band has finally found its groove and when the band members are all on the same page creatively (whether they’re on the same page in any other sense is irrelevant). This almost serendipitous convergence of creative elements bleeds from the pores of Good Mourning, and, like all great art, the record stands defiantly vulnerable before the listener who would prefer to sneer rather than to gratefully admit that his doors have been blown clear off.

Matt Skiba employs a pack-a-day vocal affectation that works perfectly with the songs, occasionally offset by the smoother lead vocals of bassist Dan Andriano, who sometimes conjures up images of vegemite sandwiches as his voice has much in common with that of the singer of the 80s Aussie band Men At Work. The album is ably recorded by Green Day alum Jerry Finn, though it’s fairly indistinct on the low end. Joe McGrath’s less-is-more production approach doesn’t do too much to the songs, but then the songs are great enough that they don’t need too much.

What stops it from being a perfect record: The lyrics are well written. The phrasing is above average. The themes and metaphors, however, are awfully silly. By about the fifth mention of blood or coffins or dying you start trying to stifle giggles. That said, it’s still near-perfect, and well worth a purchase with the funds out of the swear jar or lemonade stand.

April Update

The Buddhists say that as one moves closer to spiritual enlightenment one's life starts to become a shambles. Money troubles, health issues, bad luck all around; all these are signs that one is getting closer to Ultimate Truth. If that's the case, I'm well on my way to becoming a bodhisattva as I can't seem to go more than a few minutes lately without some new disaster forcing its way into my home and giving me a swirly in the toilet of misfortune. Just sitting down to write this post proved to be an adventure, as I managed to start choking on the tail end of a turkey sandwich at the precise moment I took a big swig from the old water bottle. But what the hell. One soaking shoe and a damp carpet later I'm back in the saddle.

That's the good news: I'm managing to pick myself up and dust myself off every time life administers another grundy, though I can't deny that it's beginning to get a bit tiresome. This morning I was sitting in a traffic jam on Harlem Ave. due to a lane closure. I happened to look out the window to my left where I was treated to the sight of a gigantic adult retard skipping merrily down the sidewalk like some deranged cherub. My god, I thought to myself, what I wouldn't give to trade places with that big jolly bastard right now!

But the sun also rises, comrades. For one thing, the writing phase of the album is nearing completion and I'll be damned if it's not some pretty hot stuff. Granted, I've had little serious interest from any respectable labels, and in any case, no offers of a budget that would even come close to enabling me to record the album somewhat properly, but at this stage of the game I've bigger fish to fry anyway, so that particular headache will have to get back in line and wait its turn. But I do seem to have stumbled blindly into finding myself a potentially great producer who is spending an unusual amount of time demoing ideas for arrangements and production glitter and gloss. Good news indeed.

On the novel writing front, there is absolutely no news to report. I knew I wouldn't have time to get back to it until late summer, but it's kind of driving me nuts because I had finally gotten into the groove of it. Still, 80% of writing is mulling and I can do that even while wading neck-deep through the toxic waters of mild tragedy to which I've recently been subjected. (None of which I intend to address directly here, as I find that alluding to it in vaguely ominous tones is more than adequate to let a little pressure off the steam valves, and if that makes me coy, so be it. Go read somebody else's blog, ya grabby little twat.)

All in all, things aren't so bad. I'm reasonably healthy, if not wealthy or wise. I'm 133 days off of cigarettes, having kicked cold turkey. I'm brimming with creative ideas, if not the time or money to explore them. Plus I've got the love of a good woman, which makes it all a little easier to take. And while bitter experience has taught me to play it relatively close to the vest when discussing future projects, suffice it to say that I have more than enough to keep me busy creatively now, and more is being added to the plate every moment. I couldn't be happier about it.

The only real problem is a lack of time. I suppose lack of money is a problem too, but I'm used to working around that. Things will slow down eventually but, as noted previously, updates will be few and far between until late summer, as will any serious creative work. Like a great man once said, the world needs ditch-diggers too, and I'll be manning the shovel for a bit longer until I can get back to banging on musical instruments and making up stories for a living.

Until then, may you and yours have a fine Spring and a terrific summer. With any luck, I'll pop in here from time to time to give you an update.