Smart writers write around the problem

Let me explain. You really don't have anything good to say, and you're dying to use a cliche. Which you can't do, because it's lame and weak and you're tired, and you're tired of your editor yelling at you. So you use the cliche, but then you tack on "to coin a phrase." That way, you get to use the trite saying, but you're letting the reader know that you're all about the irony, and instead of them recognizing you for the hack you are, you come off as Mr. Smart Writer.

I'm about to write around a problem.

By that, I mean that I said I wasn't going to turn this into a music blog, and I'm not, but I do have a couple more music-related subjects I want to cover, so instead of flip-flopping like a gigged flounder, I'm going to retroactively proclaim this Music Theme Week. Yep, five full days of blogging on music, especially for you, my (approximately) millions of fans. That's the kind of too-sweet guy I am. Now, for the third of five installments of Music Theme Week.

Jacob has been blessed with some amazing hand-me-down toys, most of which have computer chips and a speaker installed. He has a stuffed dog that is absolutely studded with sensors that generate a chipper voice counting from one to ten in a sing-songy voice, or a cute "ahhhhh-CHOOO!" when you pinch its nose.

Then there's the table full of buttons and dials and levers that plays a plethora of sounds. It knows pretty much every American folk song, from "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain" to "Jimmy Crack Corn" to "The Yellow Rose of Texas." (I smell the influence of Austin in that last selection. Which is okay, since Austin is a great city.)

Flip a page on a book mounted in the center of the table, and the musical table switches from sounds to educational sounds. Push up the slide mounted in a Day-Glo cello, and a perky woman's voice sings, "High!" Push it the other way, and it sings, "Low!" Flip a switch on the table, and it'll do the same thing, only in Spanish. Yes, in fact I am jealous. We darn sure never had anything like that when I was growing up. The only sounds my toys generated were "OW!" and "MAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I specifically remember a Tonka steam shovel that pinched so many fingers so many times it's a wonder I'm not nicknamed Stubby, and a helicopter that spun its rotors when you pushed it on the ground via its short tail section, thereby ensuring that you'd get "Thwacked!" on the wrist a few thousand times every play session.

But at 10 months and one week, you can already see Jacob liking some sounds more than others, and that got me to wondering what kind of music he'll like, and what kind of concertgoer he'll turn out to be. (That's assuming he does become a concertgoer. If he takes after his mother, he won't be one at all. Not long after we got married, The Lovely Missus accompanied me when I reviewed a Michael W. Smith and MercyMe concert. Those are Christian artists, and they're not Christian metal artists, either. Nobody will ever mistake either act for Metallica. Plus, the concert was outside at Oak Mount--I mean, Verizon Wireless Music Center. About halfway through the concert, TLM looked at me and said, "It's so loud!" I replied that she could never, ever, ever go with me to a real rock concert.)

I've reviewed something close to 150 acts, and seen a bunch more, and I've noticed a few types of concertgoers over the years. Here's a rough list of them. The cynical among you will say that this is just a rehash of yesterday's post. To you, I say a hearty "Nuh-uh." If you'll notice, yesterday's list was numbered. Today's uses letters. I believe the correct phrase to use now is "Neener-neener-neener." Once again, I have written around the problem.

A, The Average Fan. Just likes the music, likes the prospect of seeing his or her favorite act live and interacting with other fans, since shared experiences are often better than private ones. Doesn't bother anybody, just sits there and listens, claps, and sings. A little. (See point 4 in yesterday's post.) Years ago, this type fan was the majority. Now, sadly, they're as rare as a three-minute song at a Widespread Panic concert.

B, The Music Snob. Knows every song the band ever did, and everything about every song the band ever did, including things like chord progressions and guitar amp settings, even though he doesn't play himself. (The Music Snob category is overwhelmingly male. You can make up your own "compensating" joke as a reason for that gender disparity.) Talks as much about who produced a song as he does who sings it. Refers to the band as "his boys," even though he's never gotten closer to any of the members than his seventh-row seat that time they played Chastain Amphitheater in 2007. (See point five from yesterday's post.) Talks from the time he sits down in his seat until the headliner plays, straight through the opener, and resumes talking as soon as the concert's over. Would hate to be dragged to a concert by a "lame" band on a date, but that's not a problem, as he goes on a date as often as Bob Dylan enunciates.

C, The Creepy Old Guy. (I'll give credit for this nomenclature to comedian Greg Behrendt.) Beer gut. Balding head or, worse yet, a gray ponytail. (Often accompanied by Creepy Old Gal, who has...a beer gut, balding head or gray ponytail.) Is bound and determined not to become the Uncool Dad, thereby ensuring that he's not only the Uncool Dad, he's also the Supremely Embarrassing Dad. Like the Music Snob, considers any form of music but vinyl to be apostate. Shakes when he rocks like a bowl full of jelly. Has a VW microbus he calls Woodstock because "Me and it was there when it happened," although he's only 47.

D, The Longsuffering Mom. Would sooner have a gynecological exam by Dr. Freddy Krueger than be there, but promised Candace she could go, and take Tiffany, Tiffni, and Tiff'naye, if she got all A's on her report card. Wears wadded-up Kleenex in her ears to mute the sound a little. Can't wait to get home, climb into a bathtub full of lavender-chamomile bath salts, crank up the Kenny G. and bliss out.

E, The Suffering Dad. Would sooner have a prostate exam by Dr. Freddy Krueger than be there, but wife promised Candace she could go, and take Tiffany, Tiffni, and Tiff'naye, if she got all A's on her report card, then got a convenient headache and forced him to take the girls. Seriously considering Googling "burst eardrum" on his BlackBerry to see if doing so would provide temporary relief but not permanent deafness. Checks his watch every 30 seconds, mentally calculating how far along that Steelers game is that he's missing. Every screech from the crowd of girls around him pushes him a little bit farther into full-blown Red Formanhood.

F, Teenage Gland Boy. Is borderline psychotic from the combination of testosterone created by that many guitars and posturing concentrated in one spot, and the complete lack of attention he's getting from the assembled teenage girl population. Combs his Bama Bangs incessantly. Mentally calculates how much cooler he'd be if HE were the lead singer, instead of that goob who's leading the band now. Moron doesn't even know have a Flying V guitar.

G, The Concert Reviewer. Takes notes incessantly, even though he knows he'll only end up using one or two of them in a 200-word review. Keeps set list, even though he knows he won't get to list more than three or four songs in a 200-word review. If he doesn't know the band's songs that well, he'll consult the list of songs he printed out that afternoon, or jot down all the lyrics he can so he can Google them later that night. Feels a bit guilty at times when he realizes he's getting paid to listen to music and then give his opinion on it, especially when he's done that all his life for free. Feels less guilty when reviewing jam band concerts, because there's only so much endless noodling a man can take before he busts a spring. Has seen some sad things, like Vern Gosdin drunk, turning his back on the crowd for large portions of the concert. Has seen some jaw-droppingly cool things, like Luther Dickinson of the North Mississippi All-Stars coming out to jam with the Jason Isbell-era Drive-by Truckers, when he thought his face would melt from the concentrated guitar crunching. Once almost cried when the Truckers' Patterson Hood prefaced "Let There Be Rock" by saying that music got him through high school, because music did the same for him, even though he played trombone, which isn't nearly the chick magnet an electric guitar is.

Keeps a count of the number of songs, and knows that when a band hits 13 or 14 songs, they're usually getting ready to wrap up their first set, which will then be followed by a two- or three-song encore. Also knows that the lead singer who says, "Birmingham is the best!" said the same thing last night in Biloxi, and the night before in Sioux Falls, and had to be reminded which city he was playing in just before they took the stage. Once texted "Less cowbell, more glockenspiel" at Verizon in Pelham, and it got posted on the screens between acts. Doesn't have much use for the rent-a-cops who have attitude, but can't thank the good rent-a-cops enough for keeping things running smoothly. Tries to be knowledgeable without sounding like a Music Snob. Tries to be honest in his critique without being so removed that he forgets some people put their hearts into the concert he just watched. Knows that Tom Hanks' parody of guitar techs/roadies was too, too spot-on.

Thus concludes today's music-themed post. Now for your Non Sequitur MP3 of the Day, which I've about decided to make a regular part of the blog. Here's "Like a Rolling Stone," by Sebastian "Mr. French" Cabot.