Yet Again, I Don't Get It

You've got to get on Myspace, everybody told me. It's so good for your business. Oh, and you'll see, it doesn't seem like it now but it's so addictive.

And now I'm wondering if there's a different MySpace in an alternate universe because after several months of stumbling around uncomfortably in this world's MySpace I don't feel like any gaps have been bridged. My business hasn't changed a bit. And I don't find it addictive in the slightest. In fact it's all I can do to drag myself over there and sign in, knowing that my mailboxes will be overflowing with "friend" requests and messages from people I don't know and, for the most part, don't care to know. My mood darkens and my heart sinks every time I muster up the fortitude to trudge over there and wade through what ought to be the private ickiness of complete strangers.

I hate it. I hate people I don't even know calling themselves my "friends." I hate the site design, which looks like something you might expect from a cat-lover's Geocities page circa 1996. I hate the interminable loading times. I hate that almost half the profiles I visit (in a feeble attempt to feel like I'm not adding total strangers as friends) crash my browser because yet another pitiful goof had to load up his page with stupid band and celebrity photos and videos that he mistakenly thinks make him look more interesting than he is. I hate that so many of my friends, who ought to know better, have spent hours carefully crafting lists of their favorite movies and books and music, as if anybody does or ought to care that they hold John Fante, Fassbinder or the Pixies in high esteem. I hate how rather than shining a light on the human condition in a way that brings us together, it only shows us the ugly, stupid side - the one that insists that the only things we have in common are a desperate need for attention and a complete lack of embarrassment in attaining it. It's a website with God only knows how many hundreds of thousands of profiles of people determined to showcase their uniqueness and individuality. And yet they all come off exactly the same. I hate, most of all, that I'm a part of it.

The site sucks. I mean, at least I won't get an argument there, right? It does look like crap, right? It is criminally slow, isn't it? I mean, on the whole, it's an aesthetically unpleasing, navigationally frustrating experience, right? And am I the only one who can't manage to listen to music files about 75% of the time? They either flat out won't play, take an hour to load, or else they play for six and a half seconds before stopping.

Jeff from the Dead Kennedys told me that one of the problems is that I signed up for a personal account rather than a band account. But is it truly going to make that much of a difference? Am I really going to start making more money? How?

In short, everything I was told about MySpace has, as far as I can see, turned out to be false. Keeping in mind that I have no interest in meeting and wooing girls half my age, is there any reason for me to continue to log in and torture myself? Honestly - what am I missing?

The Too Late Show

I recently received an unedited copy of the new Lillingtons album, The Too Late Show, due out on Red Scare this Fall. The Lillingtons, as far as I know, split up a while back with singer/guitarist/songwriter Kody Templeman having moved on to second banana status in the next best thing from Wyoming, Teenage Bottlerocket and the other guys, I don't know, going back to working as cowboys or meat packers or whatever people from Wyoming do. This new album doesn't technically signify the return of the band - i.e., no touring - but that's okay by me 'cause I only get out to see bands play about every three years anyway (a number that's sure to decrease now that I live in a town that appears to feature a decent rock show about every 15 years or so).

The idea was for me to sequence the record as I had done for the band's two previous releases, and sequence it I did. In the process I heard each song probably about twenty or thirty times and I never got bored. This one's a winner, sportsfans, sure to pucker the scrotums of those who wet themselves over the stellar Death By Television LP as well as those of us who popped wood for the less conventionally accessible but somehow slightly superior The Backchannel Broadcast (both recently re-released by Red Scare). The album features plenty of DBTV-style melodic numbers to get the toes tappin' and fingers snappin' like "Mars vs. Hollywood," "Vaporize My Brain," "Stay Tuned," and, the best of this bunch, "All I Hear Is Static." But the album is also teeming with those idiot savant type anthems that comprised most of BCB; tunes like "Gunbullet," "The Ancient Tale Of The Evil Chinaman," "Target Earth" and "Do It USSR" ought to satisfy the mutant freak in every good punk rocker. Like an audio version of an old EC comic, this one is lurid, succinct and always weirdly compelling. Some will complain about the short track list (11 songs), especially since nottawonuvem breaks the 3 minute barrier, but fans like me are happy to get whatever we can from the kings of retardo-punk.

Red Scare has this one slated for October 10th so you're going to have to hold those stallions, kemosabe, but in the meantime pick up the re-releases - they'll tide you over until the big day.

Right After I Drain the Dragon

I was so happy this morning to run across a Google search in my referral log that brought me to this page. I think this story first appeared in the pages of Jersey Beat a few years back. I've been searching for a copy ever since. I've told most of my friends about it as an example of the many crazy stories I've heard about people pretending to be me. I am quite sure that those friends thought I was embellishing, exaggerating or flat out lying for comedic effect. As they'll see, the story in its original form is actually slightly more outrageous than the version I've been telling for the past few years. I hope the author - Denis Sheehan - won't mind me quoting it in full.

May 96’-This personal favorite took place at a bar in Burlington, Vermont. I was doing guitar work for a friend's band called Elbow Grease. I can’t play the guitar, but I sure can string one. About 45 minutes before they went on, I was at the bar unsuccessfully trying to pick up a chick. This guy wanders up next to me and introduces himself to the bartender as Ben Weasel. Being a Screeching Weasel fan, I looked up in a hurry. Now, I don’t know Ben Weasel and I’ve never even seen him, but this dude was not Ben Weasel. I don’t think Ben has tattoos covering both of his arms from wrist to shoulder. I also don’t think Ben has OZZY tattooed on his fingers. I decide to play with him. I start talking with him about how much I like the Boogada and Wiggle cds. I will admit he knew his Screeching Weasel, so he was a fan. As the rumor got around that Ben Weasel was in the club, people started to gather around. This guy was getting free beer and asked for his autograph. I couldn’t believe people were falling for this.

The time came for Elbow Grease to play. I went to the stage and hung out doing my job. About four songs into the set I explained to the band about the Ben Weasel impersonator. I had an idea. I took the mike and asked for everyone’s attention. I announced that Ben Weasel was here. Like it had been rehearsed, the joker stands on the bar and starts waving to the crowd. People applauded. I then invited “Ben” to come up and play Ashtray (off of Boogada) with the band. He yells “Most definitely. Right after I drain the dragon!” Yes, those were his exact words. He disappeared into the bathroom and I followed behind him. Sure enough, when I opened the door, “Ben” was trying to crawl out a small window. He couldn’t fit. When he exited the bathroom, Elbow’s lead singer Mike, announced to the crowd what was going on. This guy had to walk out of that bar with people covering him with beer and spit. He wasn’t happy. To this day I can’t figure out why so many people knew Ben Weasel enough to want his autograph, but not enough to know it really wasn’t Ben.

Weather Report

Last night at about three a.m. we were awakened by the sound of some terrible machine with an ungodly motor moving purposefully down our street, tearing up and spitting out concrete. At least that's what it sounded like. It was actually one of the worst storms I've ever been in - in terms of the sound of the damned thing anyway. For a second there I thought the Gates of Hell had opened and I was pegged to be the first soul cast into the Lake of Fire.

The damage wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared - the light of day revealed nothing more than some branches and leaves strewn about the yard and the cheap plastic patio furniture stacked up at odd angles at one end of the deck as though hurled by some pissed off BBQer. Still, it was pretty frightening while it lasted. For a minute there I was sure the windows were going to be blown right in, leaving us looking like something out of a Dario Argento film (don't click the link if a little blood and gore will bother you).

Pixie commented just yesterday afternoon that we seem to have a lot more weather up here than we did in Chicago and I think she's right. Less than a month before we moved there was a major hailstorm up here that damaged thousands of roofs in the area - the previous owner of our house paid his deductible and we ended up with a new roof and gutters out of the deal. There was another hailstorm a week and a half ago that was violent enough to send us scurrying to the basement. Somehow our house remained unscathed but the next door neighbors have holes in their siding the size of half-dollars.

Is the weather actually worse in Madison than in Chicago?

This Story Goes Nowhere

Many moons ago I was sitting in my old Roscoe Village apartment on School Street (the one I gave directions to in the third verse of a little-known Screeching Weasel song called “Why’d You Have To Leave?”) with a group of people which included one Erika Hynes, as well as Larry Livermore. Probably Vapid too. I’m guessing largish quantities of Old Style were being ingested. Details such as who else might’ve been there have long since been swallowed up by the sands of time.

In the course of the conversation it came up, as it often did, that Erika, a Rockford, Illinois native, had grown up next door to Cheap Trick’s Rick Nielsen. Or more accurately, she had grown up between Rick Nielsen, as he had owned the houses on either side of her parents’ home. (It probably also came up that “Southern Girls” was actually about Southern Canadian girls, which then, as always, would’ve prompted an outraged monologue from yours truly on the absurdity of the concept, what with something like 98% of Canada’s population living in the Southern part of the country and all).

In the late 1970s Cheap Trick had gone from respectable, hard-working, but not overly popular rock band to overnight sensation with the release of the At Budokan LP. The album was a massive, humongous, stunning success, on par with the other late 70s mega-huge albums like Frampton Comes Alive, Rumours, and Breakfast In America (my God, did I hate that album. I still hate it. Imagine being on the verge of adolescence and having no choice but to hear that album virtually everywhere you went. It was a brutal, horrifying year or two. Supertramp made Fleetwood Mac sound like Motorhead). At Budokan was the best of the lot, by far. I knew that album backwards and forward. That album is tattooed on my consciousness. If the Buddhists are right and I’m doomed to rebirth after rebirth, and ten thousand years from now I am born a worm in some sub-Saharan hell-hole, I’ll be a worm with the faint strains of “Come On Come On” and “Surrender” chugging through my little worm brain like some maddening Pepsi ad. Don’t get me wrong, I love Cheap Trick, but I don’t think I’ve ever listened to any album as many times as I listened to At Budokan and I think it damaged me a little.

Back on School Street, around 1991 or 1992, I probably said, “Some day I’d really like to meet Rick Nielsen to ask him about that fucking bridge on ‘Lookout’.”

“What fucking bridge on ‘Lookout’,” somebody else (may have) asked.

“What’s 'Lookout'?” asked Larry Livermore (possibly), which likely resulted in my picking up the old Epiphone SG and struggling through a couple of bars of the classic Cheap Trick song.

“There’s a line on that bridge that has always driven me nuts,” I said, as I came to the part in question (I really did say that, I’m pretty sure).

The line is “Cancel Colorado in the march by request.”

Now this line sits at the end of a bunch of deliberately obscure lines that comprise the bridge (the lyrics on the bridge have literally nothing to do with the lyrics for the rest of the song, which are more or less standard innocuous pop fare, albeit with a slightly odder twist than usual), but there is a relative clarity and sense of purpose to the line as compared to the others (I’m talking about stuff like “Seas over yonder” this and “Lands to the south” that). It clearly means something specific and of relative importance. It’s such a clear and direct reference to something that it obviously only makes sense to certain somebodies, and I really wanted to know what it was. On top of everything else, it comes right after a line about “searching for the riddle to the clue” or some such thing – very Beatles “Paul is dead” kind of stuff. I’m sure those were the types of things I was saying when Erika finally announced that she would attempt to pull the covers on the song for me, which involved her going into the bedroom to call Rick Nielsen while we stood outside the bedroom with our ears to the door in order, I guess, that Rick Nielsen wouldn’t hear us acting like morons in the background, thus queering the whole deal and leaving the mystery unsolved. It was a lengthy process as I recall, because Erika first had to call her mother to get the number, then explain to her mother why she needed the number without sounding like a drunken idiot, then call Rick Nielsen’s house and explain to his wife why she wanted to ask him about the stupid bridge for “Lookout.” I’m getting exhausted just writing about it.

When she finally emerged from the bedroom, Erika gave us a big dramatic build-up (actually, that’s very unlike her, and it probably didn’t happen that way at all, but let’s just say…). And the answer?

“He couldn’t remember the words at first,” she said. “But he finally figured it out.”

“Well?”

“It came from a dream.”

I’ve done the same thing too many times to count, but come on. I could’ve invented twelve different great stories about the origin of that line (and I would, but I’m too busy and too lazy and it’s getting late and I have other things to do). And this whole story is apropos of nothing, really, but Erika sent me a great photo of her and Rick Nielsen from her last trip back to Rockford, and I thought you might enjoy it.

UPDATE: As noted by Kurt in the comments, it was years before a studio version of "Lookout" was released. This just adds to the mystique of the lyrics. What the hell? This may necessitate another call to Mr. Nielsen. Hey Erika, ya still got that number?

The Leftovers

I had a soft spot in my heart for The Leftovers from the start because they're from Portland, Maine; I lived up in their neck of the woods for a couple of years in the 80s. Portland is a little oceanside gem that's one of the few affordable cities left in New England. Summer evenings in Portland are reminiscent of San Francisco - they're chilly and, if you're lucky, you can watch the fog roll in over Casco Bay and as far out as Big Sound studios. The city features an array of good ethnic restaurants, a breathtaking Bay, and a downtown area that must have been revamped sometime in the 90s and which features hip record and tattoo shops and a park that, on my last visit anyway, was teeming with punk rockers and other social misifts. Portland is the last great secret of the East Coast.

I can't recall a great band ever having come from Portland - or anywhere else in Maine - but now the Black Fly State can claim the Leftovers, not only the best band from Maine, but quite probably the best band in underground melodic rock music right now.

Check out their MySpace page if you don't believe me (though skip "Crazy" - the only sub-par track I've heard from the band). I'll wait for you.

Okay, see what I mean? I'd say "Camel" is about the best song I've heard in the past six months, but that would slight "Adding Up" which so perfectly brings the hooks, the rock, the passion and the sense of immediacy that is the hallmark of the best aggressive rock. Holy crap, this band is great.

In spite of a fairly diverse set of influences they're considered to be part of the "pop-punk" genre (a genre in desperate need of a more appropriate name, and not "buzz pop" either, as some feebs have been calling it). To these ears they're a bit more in tune with balls-to-the-wall rock than most of their contemporaries but I can sort of see the connection; the Leftovers not only rock your socks off - they actually know how to write a song, too.

The Leftovers are likely going to do very well for themselves, although I imagine it will be under another name. A quick Google search for "leftovers rock" turns up no less than three bands with the same name on the first page alone. I'm surprised they haven't gotten a cease and desist letter yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Still, this band kicks ass, a notion less and less applicable to most of the alleged punk rock being mass produced these days. Eat up and enjoy - Rally Records will set you up nicely.

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Home In America's Dairyland

God help me, I’m in Wisconsin. The circumstances that led to Pixie and me escaping Chicago for the greater Madison area are unexciting; I was sick of traffic, pollution, and the biggest collection of obnoxious human beings west of Fenway Park. Seriously, you can only live in a city teeming with self-absorbed, chronically depressed, insecure, hateful people for so long before you either become one yourself or flee in terror. I haven’t had a drink since New Year’s Eve*; facing The Hog Butcher sober is a challenge for men stronger than this weary grunt.

I had almost forgotten the joy of being able to run errands after 2:30 p.m. - or on a weekend - without ending up snarled in traffic. Only a vague memory remained of falling asleep at night without the sounds of sirens, drunken hooting and pounding rap music assaulting me through the walls. And, I’m sorry to have to say, I am only now becoming reacquainted with what had become almost mythical concepts like politeness, courtesy and common human decency. Our first week up here was spent in and out of various stores and, upon close observation of the locals, we soon found ourselves playing “Friendly or Retarded?” though I hasten to add the game wasn’t really mean-spirited; we were delighted to be playing it at all, as opposed to our usual Chicago game: “Drunk, High On Crack, or Crazy?”

There are an unusually large number of blondes up here, owing I suppose, to the many people who claim Scandinavian heritage. There are also, as you might imagine, a rather small number of dark-skinned people in the area. This combined with a lack of sleep can lead to some scary parking lot scenes in which one becomes momentarily concerned that one might have tumbled down the rabbit-hole into some Aryan/zombie utopia**. But such moments are rare, and in any case what we lack in pigmentation we make up for in white men in short pants, mullets, and unicorn tattoos.

A mere two weeks into my life in Wisconsin I find myself with a deep, dark tan of the sort I haven’t had since I was a child. Lots of yard work and long runs up and down the hilly streets have given your working boy quite the healthy glow. Frankly, I’m feeling about a trillion times better as well; until I moved, I hadn’t realized how physically tense my body had become. The health problems I’ve been dealing with for the past few years haven’t magically disappeared, but the fresh air, quiet, and slow pace of Wisconsin are agreeing quite nicely with me; for the first time in a long time I really feel like I’m on the mend. There’s nothing like wrestling around with the lawnmower and building up a compost pile to give yourself an honest workout and to get the good ideas percolating.

That said, I’ve completely given up on the novel, at least for the time being. I’m tired of fighting with it. I’ve written roughly seven to eight versions of the opening 70 pages and it’s not getting any better. I can’t take it anymore. I’m back to writing in my journal, going to Mass as much as possible, working out, working around the house, and putting the finishing touches on the last of the songs.

That, at least, is still coming along quite nicely. My producer, Mike Kennerty, has given me exactly the shot in the arm I needed, exactly when I needed it. The album is coming together in a way that actually exceeds my hopes which is a first, though I’ll allow for the possibility that years of failing to even begin to approach my aspirations may have lowered the old expectations a smidge or two. In any case, the demos are outstanding and I can’t wait to make the record.

As for writing, the journaling will have to suffice for now. There’s always plenty to write about, and it not only helps me sort things out, but also keeps me in practice so that my writing gets a little bit better a little bit at a time. The writing is primarily of a spiritual nature and I imagine that my new surroundings will take things in a slightly different direction. We’ll see.

Lest everything sound all peppy and cheery, rest assured that all isn't sunshine and lollipops up here. The car was totaled after being hit by a tanker truck (nobody was hurt), more than halfway through the year I've earned very little money (I would've made more working part-time at a McDonalds), and while the outdoor life is mostly fun, I still find myself screaming like a girl and running from various unidentifiable bugs and assorted wildlife whenever they cross my path, which seems to be about every three and a half seconds. You never realize how pussified city life has made you until you start to notice that you're the only guy in the neighborhood without a pick-up, a gun-rack, a freezer full of venison and and a fridge full of Miller.

But even that makes for some nice fish-out-of-water moments in the old journal. So what the hell. Life is good and if we end up going broke at least we’ll do it with smiles on our faces.

*For health reasons, not alcoholic ones…

** I mean, of course, that it would be a utopia for the Aryan zombies. For us it would be totally bogus.