And I do mean "Happy," because, for the first time in a long spell of years, The Lovely Missus and I will be receiving a decent-sized refund. Why didn't I file sooner? Because for years, my freelance income, minuscule though it may be, pushed me into the "Pay up, sucker!" zone. Nothing was deducted from most of that money, so I always ended up owing instead of being owed. (Yes, I know that a smart person would have withheld his own taxes, put them in the bank, etc. If I see a smart person around here, I'll tell him.)
Now, however, with my wonderful little tax deduction crawling around, and with the loss of revenue TLM's pregnancy and Jacob's birth caused last year, things are good around the Dunn household on an April 15th for a change. (Yes, I know that a smart person would have already filed...) Man, they tell you fatherhood is wonderful, but you really have to experience it for yourself to get the full impact.
But that's not why you called. You've all--I'm sure of this--been waiting with bated breath for my promised take on comedy from yesterday. Now that happy days are here again, tax-wise, I'll dispense it.
First, while I'm not a music snob, I am a proud comedy snob. Unabashedly so. Not that I only appreciate high-brow humor. Far from it. If the situation calls for it, I can be so lowbrow as to actually be countersunkbrow. Concavebrow. Subterranean brow. You get the picture. I'm not limited to New Yorker cartoons, is what I'm saying.
But while I can be as juvenile as the next guy, unless the next guy is Jim Carrey (in a nutshell: not a fan), I do have certain requirements in a comedian, and in a comedy. To wit, beginning with comedians.
1. Limit your use of the word "like." If I want to hear, "He was like" and "I was like" and "I'll be all like," I'll hang around with teenage girls. Every time I hear a comedian use "like," it's a sign that he or she is too lazy to craft a really funny line. It's not, "So when I saw the painter's bill, I was flabbergasted, because I had asked for oil-based paint, not gold-based paint. Was it personally brushed on by George Clooney, using only his left eyebrow?" (Which is not that funny, I know. Just take the gist, okay?)
Instead of those ostensibly funny lines, we get, "So he hands me the bill, and I'm like, 'Man, you're crazy.' And he's like, 'Yeah, but I'm rich.'" Har. Har.
2. Dispense with the contrived setups. Don't tell me about how you drove to the post office, and as you were getting out of your car, you saw a fat man climbing out of a small car, and he was mailing a package to his mother, blah blah blah. As comedian Daniel Tosh says, "No you weren't. Do your joke."
3. (Here's where I lose half my readership. Both of them, in other words.) Remember when Jerry Lewis said that he didn't like women comedians? I agreed with him. Still do. Let's stay frosty while I explain.
I didn't, and don't, agree with his view that women are baby-producing machines. And I don't, and never have, believed that women can't be funny. Every iota of humor I ever produced came to me through my mother, who at almost 78 can still kill me with how easily she brings the funny. I've seen her eviscerate people with an exquisitely timed remark, I've heard her tell jokes like a pro, and thanks to her, I see the necessity of laughing at life to keep from losing your sanity.
The Lovely Missus can slay me, too. Once, I was riding in the car with her and her mother. We came up on one of those portable radar units that shows your speed so that you'll slow down. TLM's mother said, "Is that one of those things that tells you how fast you're going?"
Without a nanosecond's hesitation, TLM stung. "No, Mother, that tells us how much we weigh. We weigh 43 pounds." That's killer stuff.
Some of the funniest commenters at Retrosnark are women. I've had to threaten some of them with banning, so badly have they embarrassed my attempts at humor.
To this day, the funniest line I've ever heard came from my cousin Ginger. It's a complete location joke, and y'all weren't there, but the punchline was, "And the Mazda goes 'MMMMMM.'" That was more than 30 years ago, and I still haven't heard a line that can top it.
And there are women comedians I love. Rita Rudner owned me, back when she was a regular guest on comedy shows like "Evening at the Improv." Maria Bamford is a scream. Laura Kightlinger had her moments. Margaret Cho used to crack me up, before she turned into a shrieking harpy with a thousand axes to grind. Janeane Garofalo was hilarious before she became so uber-political. Wendy Leibman's act was great until she ran the non-sequitur bit into the ground. Amy Sedaris is a comedic gem. I only wish she'd take over Dave Letterman's desk instead of being such a regular guest. (Speaking as someone who was a Letterman fan back when he was on DAYTIME television, the man has lost it. Jay Leno is funnier, Dave. Time to call in the dogs and pee on the fire.)
So I'm not anti-woman, and I'm not even anti-woman comedian. But for the most part, female comedians leave me laughless, and here's why. At its core, comedy is a humbling, a self-abasement. I don't care if you're pulling in Seinfeld money, you're still just a class clown done good, hoping people like you. And the male form, lacking as it is in refinement and beauty, just handles that abasement better than the sculptured beauty of the female form.
Look back at the women comedians I've listed, and for the most part, (at least when I thought they were funny) they all were funny without being vulgar or coarse. They weren't distaff versions of Sam Kinison. They were women, and while they weren't quite debutantes at a cotillion, they weren't longshoremen, either. Today, you have female comedians like Lisa Lampinelli, who I've laughed at quite a lot, mainly because I don't see her as a woman. She reminds me of the countless roughnecks I've worked with over the years, ripping off one dirty joke after another. As a female comedian, she's horrible. As Bubba the survey monkey, she's great.
I didn't intend for this to post to be a two-parter, but that's what it's become. Tune in tomorrow for the rest.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Goodbye forever, satellite radio
Nope, not going to start another week of music blogging, especially since I didn't use XM (now SiriusXM) for much music listening in the first place. This is about how I've grown progressively displeased with XM since they merged with Sirius, and will most likely lead to some comedy-blogging tomorrow, since that's a subject near and dear to my heart, and rare in today's comedy environment. (And don't write off tomorrow's rant as just an old codger longing for the days of "Fibber McGee and Molly." There's lots of old, "classic" comedy that I don't find all that classic.)
I got XM radio two Christmases ago. I'm a male, ergo I'm a gadget freak, and I may have a more serious case of that affliction than most males. If I had the bucks, my entire house would be a series of switches, relays, displays, receivers, etc. This is how badly I'm afflicted: I get a warm feeling when I look at the big external hard drives sitting on my computer desk. And that warm feeling continues when I look at the other, unattached hard drives that back up the attached hard drives. Help. Please?
But I digress. As if that surprises anyone.
I loved XM from the start. I loathe 99% of what is played on "terrestrial" radio. I'm not a music snob, either. Okay, I'm not a complete music snob. The popularity of a group doesn't turn me off. I don't lose interest in a group as soon as they're discovered by the general public. I'm on record as defending both Hootie and Blowfish and the Gin Blossoms, for crying out loud. I just don't like what I hear from commercial, "American Idol"-influenced music.
Other than music, I'll listen to a little sports talk during college football season, but for the rest of the year, it's dead to me. Don't care much for political talk, either, since I get a full dose from the blogs in my Google Reader.
So satellite radio was a wonder from the start. I could tune in rebroadcasts of Casey Kasem/Shaggy doing his Top 40 thing from the seventies. I could actually hear country artists like Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash, as well as Webb Wilder and Southern Culture on the Skids. I could experiment with other, newer stuff, although I rarely did.
Strangely, where I spent the majority of my time was on the comedy and old radio channels. I've been a comedy fan since I was a wee future blogger listening to my parents' Jerry Clower and Brother Dave Gardner LPs. I still consider a truly great comedy performance to be the purest art imaginable. (More on that tomorrow.)
Although, as I expected, most of the comedy wasn't all that great, there were some gems. Old Stan Freberg and Bob and Ray routines, Demetri Martin (hey, some of this you can Google for yourself), Mitch Hedberg, Steven Wright, and George Carlin before he turned into the cranky old guy. (More on that tomorrow, too.)
Over on the classic radio channel, I discovered Frank Sinatra as "Rocky Fortune" and Jack Webb as "Pat Novak, For Hire." If you don't like lines like, "Some mornings you can't trust yourself with a razor," and "She sauntered in, moving slowly from side to side like 118 pounds of warm smoke," then you're no child of mine.
But that was then, this is now. When the merger hit, my music channels received an overabundance of disk jockeyness. I don't know what's hard to understand about not paying $12.95 a month to NOT hear DJs talk over the intro or outro of a song I like, but evidently, the folks at SiriusXM still don't get it. And I'm talking about DJs like Alan Hunter and Nina Blackwood, people I love for the warm, golden-era MTV memories they inspire in me. But even they shouldn't talk over the beginning to "Electric Avenue." I'm not paying to hear SOME Eddy Grant, I'm paying to hear ALL the Eddy Grant.
Not only that, but the stupid practice of giving the time as "4 east, 1 west" continued. Because the coolness is all about the abbreviationness, I guess.
Over on the comedy channels, they transmogrified everything, and all for the worse. Now, I get "Blue Collar Comedy," which is about 95% Jeff Foxworthy, Ron White, Bill Engvall, and Larry the Cable Guy. I was a Foxworthy fan before it was cool to be one, and, while he still has his moments, he's mostly played out, in my estimation. White has his moments, too, but I don't think he's going to prove to be a comedy mother lode, and appears to be a tad on the jerkish side. (Side note: White was the grand marshal for what was then a Busch race at Talladega Superspeedway a few years ago. He came into the media center at the track and stood in the doorway, as if to say, "I'm here. Let the worship commence." The only problem was, he came in a few minutes after Will Ferrell, who was there promoting "Talladega Nights," had come in and held a press conference. Nobody, and I mean not one soul in a media center full of writers with gobs of column inches to fill, said anything to White.)
Engvall's okay, but not great, and Larry, well, I like to keep this a mostly upbeat blog, so let's just not go there. The rest of that channel is mostly forgettable second-raters.
I also get "Raw Dog" comedy, which--brace yourself--plays cuts with cuss words in them. And that's about all you can say about it, because there's precious little in the way of good comedy bits to be heard there.
Look, I can listen to rough language and laugh. Maybe even more than I should. When I was but a teen, I bought Richard Pryor's double LP, and flat wore the grooves off that thing. (And if my mother had only known what I was listening to...) I've since outgrown a fascination with cuss words, but I can listen to some rough language without getting the vapors, is what I'm saying.
But Raw Dog, or maybe Rawdog, since I don't know and don't care which, just glories in cuss words like an intergalactic Beavis and Butthead. Their promos don't feature quick, funny clips, just people cussing or being mocking. And that's nothing. Anybody can cuss, and anyone can be a smart-aleck. You have to produce the funny to get my admiration, and Raw Dog doesn't do much of that.
The old radio show channel stayed pretty much the same, but I can download literally hundreds of hours of that programming for free at Archive.org and other sites, then put it on an MP3 player or MP3 disc, either of which could keep me entertained from Canada to Tierra del Fuego, and with none of the shows I don't like. Sorry, classic fans, but I don't think much of quite a bit of those "classic" shows, especially the comedy ones. I know that as a rule, humor doesn't age all that well, but even grading things like "The Great Gildersleeve" on a curve doesn't produce a passing grade, in my estimation.
Of course, I can also fill up an MP3 player or CD with hundreds of hours of what I have stored on all my hard drives (my lovely, wonderful hard drives), so the upshot is that, between what I've got and what satellite radio doesn't provide, there's absolutely no reason for me to pay $12.95 a month to mine an occasional gem from mountains of garbage. See you, satellite radio. It was good while it lasted, but it's gone.
Update: The promised Dexateens review will be posted this afternoon. Stay tuned.
Update to the Update: No, it won't. Instead, my review will be published in next Friday's City Scene section of the Birmingham News. Which is way better than being published here. So stay tuned, just stay tuned at a different station, as it were.
I got XM radio two Christmases ago. I'm a male, ergo I'm a gadget freak, and I may have a more serious case of that affliction than most males. If I had the bucks, my entire house would be a series of switches, relays, displays, receivers, etc. This is how badly I'm afflicted: I get a warm feeling when I look at the big external hard drives sitting on my computer desk. And that warm feeling continues when I look at the other, unattached hard drives that back up the attached hard drives. Help. Please?
But I digress. As if that surprises anyone.
I loved XM from the start. I loathe 99% of what is played on "terrestrial" radio. I'm not a music snob, either. Okay, I'm not a complete music snob. The popularity of a group doesn't turn me off. I don't lose interest in a group as soon as they're discovered by the general public. I'm on record as defending both Hootie and Blowfish and the Gin Blossoms, for crying out loud. I just don't like what I hear from commercial, "American Idol"-influenced music.
Other than music, I'll listen to a little sports talk during college football season, but for the rest of the year, it's dead to me. Don't care much for political talk, either, since I get a full dose from the blogs in my Google Reader.
So satellite radio was a wonder from the start. I could tune in rebroadcasts of Casey Kasem/Shaggy doing his Top 40 thing from the seventies. I could actually hear country artists like Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash, as well as Webb Wilder and Southern Culture on the Skids. I could experiment with other, newer stuff, although I rarely did.
Strangely, where I spent the majority of my time was on the comedy and old radio channels. I've been a comedy fan since I was a wee future blogger listening to my parents' Jerry Clower and Brother Dave Gardner LPs. I still consider a truly great comedy performance to be the purest art imaginable. (More on that tomorrow.)
Although, as I expected, most of the comedy wasn't all that great, there were some gems. Old Stan Freberg and Bob and Ray routines, Demetri Martin (hey, some of this you can Google for yourself), Mitch Hedberg, Steven Wright, and George Carlin before he turned into the cranky old guy. (More on that tomorrow, too.)
Over on the classic radio channel, I discovered Frank Sinatra as "Rocky Fortune" and Jack Webb as "Pat Novak, For Hire." If you don't like lines like, "Some mornings you can't trust yourself with a razor," and "She sauntered in, moving slowly from side to side like 118 pounds of warm smoke," then you're no child of mine.
But that was then, this is now. When the merger hit, my music channels received an overabundance of disk jockeyness. I don't know what's hard to understand about not paying $12.95 a month to NOT hear DJs talk over the intro or outro of a song I like, but evidently, the folks at SiriusXM still don't get it. And I'm talking about DJs like Alan Hunter and Nina Blackwood, people I love for the warm, golden-era MTV memories they inspire in me. But even they shouldn't talk over the beginning to "Electric Avenue." I'm not paying to hear SOME Eddy Grant, I'm paying to hear ALL the Eddy Grant.
Not only that, but the stupid practice of giving the time as "4 east, 1 west" continued. Because the coolness is all about the abbreviationness, I guess.
Over on the comedy channels, they transmogrified everything, and all for the worse. Now, I get "Blue Collar Comedy," which is about 95% Jeff Foxworthy, Ron White, Bill Engvall, and Larry the Cable Guy. I was a Foxworthy fan before it was cool to be one, and, while he still has his moments, he's mostly played out, in my estimation. White has his moments, too, but I don't think he's going to prove to be a comedy mother lode, and appears to be a tad on the jerkish side. (Side note: White was the grand marshal for what was then a Busch race at Talladega Superspeedway a few years ago. He came into the media center at the track and stood in the doorway, as if to say, "I'm here. Let the worship commence." The only problem was, he came in a few minutes after Will Ferrell, who was there promoting "Talladega Nights," had come in and held a press conference. Nobody, and I mean not one soul in a media center full of writers with gobs of column inches to fill, said anything to White.)
Engvall's okay, but not great, and Larry, well, I like to keep this a mostly upbeat blog, so let's just not go there. The rest of that channel is mostly forgettable second-raters.
I also get "Raw Dog" comedy, which--brace yourself--plays cuts with cuss words in them. And that's about all you can say about it, because there's precious little in the way of good comedy bits to be heard there.
Look, I can listen to rough language and laugh. Maybe even more than I should. When I was but a teen, I bought Richard Pryor's double LP, and flat wore the grooves off that thing. (And if my mother had only known what I was listening to...) I've since outgrown a fascination with cuss words, but I can listen to some rough language without getting the vapors, is what I'm saying.
But Raw Dog, or maybe Rawdog, since I don't know and don't care which, just glories in cuss words like an intergalactic Beavis and Butthead. Their promos don't feature quick, funny clips, just people cussing or being mocking. And that's nothing. Anybody can cuss, and anyone can be a smart-aleck. You have to produce the funny to get my admiration, and Raw Dog doesn't do much of that.
The old radio show channel stayed pretty much the same, but I can download literally hundreds of hours of that programming for free at Archive.org and other sites, then put it on an MP3 player or MP3 disc, either of which could keep me entertained from Canada to Tierra del Fuego, and with none of the shows I don't like. Sorry, classic fans, but I don't think much of quite a bit of those "classic" shows, especially the comedy ones. I know that as a rule, humor doesn't age all that well, but even grading things like "The Great Gildersleeve" on a curve doesn't produce a passing grade, in my estimation.
Of course, I can also fill up an MP3 player or CD with hundreds of hours of what I have stored on all my hard drives (my lovely, wonderful hard drives), so the upshot is that, between what I've got and what satellite radio doesn't provide, there's absolutely no reason for me to pay $12.95 a month to mine an occasional gem from mountains of garbage. See you, satellite radio. It was good while it lasted, but it's gone.
Update: The promised Dexateens review will be posted this afternoon. Stay tuned.
Update to the Update: No, it won't. Instead, my review will be published in next Friday's City Scene section of the Birmingham News. Which is way better than being published here. So stay tuned, just stay tuned at a different station, as it were.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Jacob's first Easter
Easter Sunday weather was amazingly nice here in Jacobzona. (Not so much for The Lovely Missus, who had to work, unfortunately.) Mama Dunn and I took him on the back porch, which is actually a back slab, but "porch" sounds so much better and more Southern. I might start calling it a back veranda before too long. And on the back slab, he played in the sun, watched the dogs chase each other around the yard, and generally experienced new experiences like only a 10-month-old can.
The absolute pinnacle came when the wind kicked up and blew his hair backwards like he was sticking his head out of a car window. He turned into the wind, put both hands up, palms out (the "Stick 'em up"pose, I mean), and grinned like a mule eating briars, as we say in South Alabama. That, friends and neighbors, is happiness.
Of course, I had neither the still nor the video camera to capture that happiness, but it probably wouldn't have mattered if I did. He's not old enough to understand what exactly a camera is, but he's plenty old enough, and male enough, to instinctively know that buttons and electronics = fun. So I have to sneak around like a KGB dad to get any spontaneous pictures.
He's not only experiencing new things, but he's getting bigger, too. Why, he already weighs
0.2090909090909 Jennifer Anistons. Or, if you prefer a more traditional measurement, 368 human eyeballs, which I don't have to tell you is 1.630107374464 spider monkeys.
Yep, I've been playing around with Weirdconverter.com. My undying admiration to whomever works one of their conversions into a board meeting. "Simpson, you're proposing we produce a flange grommet that's 0.1111111111111 Weinermobiles long? That's insane! The minimum flange grommet length in the company handbook is 1.028571428571 giraffe's necks, you madman!"
Returning to Jacob, which would make a great novel title that would surely be an Oprah pick, he no longer naps in the swing. (Unnecessary aside that will be explored later: Why the Oprah worship? Honestly, doesn't that scare somebody besides me?) He's graduated to the crib, which I'd estimate is about 0.127000012065 T-Rexes long. The bad thing about that is the necessity of walking out of the room while he cries (doesn't like sleep, that boy), even though he usually only cries a few minutes before conking out. And I can't fathom that fighting of sleep. My grown-up, quasi-insomniac self just can't process being an organism that not only is allowed to sleep whenever the mood strikes, but the sleeping experience is also accentuated in every way possible. Would you like some plinky music? Or maybe crickets chirping, and a slightly creepy female voice saying, "It's nap time." (Seriously. He has such a device.) And here's your blankie, your hugging doggy, and an assortment of pacifiers. Look, the nap-enhancement device also projects a nighttime scene of floating teddy bears on the ceiling or wall. The wall that's been painted in kiddy colors, so that your sleeping experience is conducted in a coccoon of nurturing.
And still he fights it. Go figure young'uns, huh?
Before I leave, an apology. I had promised a review of The Dexateen's new CD "Singlewide," but other plans interfered. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have it up. As a peace offering, I offer you the seventies greatness of Telly Savalas singing "Who Loves Ya Baby?" complete with soul sister backing vocals and lyrics like, "Just know I don't care if there's gray in your hair. If there's hair at all, I think that's just great." Enjoy.
As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.
The absolute pinnacle came when the wind kicked up and blew his hair backwards like he was sticking his head out of a car window. He turned into the wind, put both hands up, palms out (the "Stick 'em up"pose, I mean), and grinned like a mule eating briars, as we say in South Alabama. That, friends and neighbors, is happiness.
Of course, I had neither the still nor the video camera to capture that happiness, but it probably wouldn't have mattered if I did. He's not old enough to understand what exactly a camera is, but he's plenty old enough, and male enough, to instinctively know that buttons and electronics = fun. So I have to sneak around like a KGB dad to get any spontaneous pictures.
He's not only experiencing new things, but he's getting bigger, too. Why, he already weighs
0.2090909090909 Jennifer Anistons. Or, if you prefer a more traditional measurement, 368 human eyeballs, which I don't have to tell you is 1.630107374464 spider monkeys.
Yep, I've been playing around with Weirdconverter.com. My undying admiration to whomever works one of their conversions into a board meeting. "Simpson, you're proposing we produce a flange grommet that's 0.1111111111111 Weinermobiles long? That's insane! The minimum flange grommet length in the company handbook is 1.028571428571 giraffe's necks, you madman!"
Returning to Jacob, which would make a great novel title that would surely be an Oprah pick, he no longer naps in the swing. (Unnecessary aside that will be explored later: Why the Oprah worship? Honestly, doesn't that scare somebody besides me?) He's graduated to the crib, which I'd estimate is about 0.127000012065 T-Rexes long. The bad thing about that is the necessity of walking out of the room while he cries (doesn't like sleep, that boy), even though he usually only cries a few minutes before conking out. And I can't fathom that fighting of sleep. My grown-up, quasi-insomniac self just can't process being an organism that not only is allowed to sleep whenever the mood strikes, but the sleeping experience is also accentuated in every way possible. Would you like some plinky music? Or maybe crickets chirping, and a slightly creepy female voice saying, "It's nap time." (Seriously. He has such a device.) And here's your blankie, your hugging doggy, and an assortment of pacifiers. Look, the nap-enhancement device also projects a nighttime scene of floating teddy bears on the ceiling or wall. The wall that's been painted in kiddy colors, so that your sleeping experience is conducted in a coccoon of nurturing.
And still he fights it. Go figure young'uns, huh?
Before I leave, an apology. I had promised a review of The Dexateen's new CD "Singlewide," but other plans interfered. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have it up. As a peace offering, I offer you the seventies greatness of Telly Savalas singing "Who Loves Ya Baby?" complete with soul sister backing vocals and lyrics like, "Just know I don't care if there's gray in your hair. If there's hair at all, I think that's just great." Enjoy.
As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.
Friday, April 10, 2009
As we left the music blogging that day...
Day five of our music blogathon (I trust you've all made your pledges by now) brings to a close our weeklong spree of music posts. And, since I spent yesterday's post talking about bad lyrics, I thought it only fair that I spend today's talking about great ones.
A few words of caution are in order. These are lyrics that I, Jim Dunn, selfmade music putz, find memorable. That doesn't mean time, all of music criticdom, or you personally will find them quite so memorable, and that's fine. Just as I don't find Hemingway all that great (and I'm not trying to be "that guy"), it's quite all right for you to read what lyrics have made a permanent home in my head and scoff, audibly and forcefully, at my choices. I likes what I likes, and you likes what you likes, and the world will keep on spinning either way.
Also, stay tuned to this blog for a review of Tuscaloosa's The Dexateens' forthcoming CD "Singlewide." I got a promo copy of it yesterday, and I'll be slinging up a review of it Monday.
Now, onward to the first type of memorable lyric, which I'm calling...
1. The Creative Writing Harrumph. This is a turn of phrase that expresses, through symbolism, pithiness, or just crystallized genius, what would otherwise be well nigh inexpressible. It's the kind of thing that would earn you a "Harrumph" from a creative writing class, if most members of a creative writing class weren't swirling pools of need that refuse to belch forth much in the form of compliments.
Here's an example of a CWH. In the Drive-by Truckers' song "The Day John Henry Died," Jason Isbell sings of John Henry, "He knew the perfect way to hold a hammer was the way the railroad baron held the deed." That's artistry, is what that is. You get the imagery of both the fabled steel-driving man holding a sledge and the tight-fisted ways of the railroad barons he worked for in one tightly crafted line. Harrumphs all around.
The Gin Blossoms (who, he asserted in an aside, were one of the nineties' most underrated bands) had a few CWHs. In their "Mrs. Rita," Robin Wilson sings, "There's no swimming in the bottle, it's just someplace we all drown." Twelve words that express a lifetime of watching, and participating in, dissipation by alcohol, without either romanticizing alcoholism or being heavyhanded in their criticism. Harrumph.
James McMurtry deserves a Gold Harrumph Award for the opening lines to "Levelland." "Flatter than a tabletop, makes you wonder why they stopped here. Wagon must have lost a wheel or they lacked ambition one." In two lines, you're transported to a place with a lot of history, and not much else. Harrumph.
Moving on, we come to the second type of great lyric, which I'm calling
2. The Nifty Turn of Phrase. NTPs don't necessarily transport you mentally as much as CWHs. They're memorable just for the interplay between the words, or the rhyme scheme, or some other such facet that lodges them in your cortex. For instance, the Gin Blossoms' (told you they were underrated) "Lost Horizons" contains the lines, "She had nothing left to say, so she said she loved me. I stood there grateful for the lie." See? Nothing there that'll change the world or make a great t-shirt, but doggone it, that's good writing. And you do get the sad sack feeling of the protagonist, don't you?
Alliteration, assonance, and rhyme can help in the crafting of an NTP. For an example, let's go to an unlikely source: Jim Stafford. Yep, Mr. Yuk It Up in Branson Himself. I give credit where it's due, and his "Swamp Witch" is just studded with NTPs. (His "Cow Pattie," not so much.)
"Blackwater Hattie lived back in the swamp, where strange green reptiles crawl.
Snakes hang thick from the cypress trees, like sausage on a smokehouse wall.
Where the swamp is alive with a thousand eyes, an' all of them watching you.
Stay off the track to Hattie's shack in the back of the Black Bayou."
Didn't think the old boy had it in him, did you? Granted, "Swamp Witch" is an anomaly in the Stafford catalog, but give him credit for the good he did. Besides, he married super-sultry Bobbie Gentry, so he'll always have my admiration for that fact alone. (If you want to hear it for yourself, here it be.)
And, even though I mentioned these yesterday, I have to re-point out two gems from Warren Zevon. To wit, the alliteration of "Little old lady got mutilated late last night" from "Werewolves of London," and the sheer pithy genius of "Send lawyers, guns, and money."
This brings us to my third category, which I'm calling
3. The Universal Truth. UTs (not to be confused with UTIs, which are much less welcome) are those shining life lessons-in-a-second that just slap you across the face with their undying wisdom. The best example? In my smarmy opinion, it's the Rolling Stones' "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need." Can anyone argue with that? Nope. Didn't think so. Not that I advocate going to Keef and Mick for your philosophy or theology, but that's pretty airtight, if you ask me.
You can find UTs in the most unlikely of places. For instance, in "Let Her Cry," by Hootie and the Blowfish. (Stop groaning. HATB made great pop songs, and you know it. It's just become fashionable to slag on them. Pbbbtttttt, I say to that.) You're familiar with the setup, since that song got just a wee bit overplayed in the nineties. The protagonist is enduring a blues festival's worth of problems with his woman. But amidst the problems comes a ray of hope when he sings, "Let her go, let her walk right out on me. And if the sun comes up tomorrow, let her be."
It's that last sentence that makes this a UT. The protagonist has just straightened up, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and resolved to tough this situation out. Might as well, because the world will keep on spinning, and the sun will come out anyway.
Full disclosure: My appreciation for this lyric might have been influenced a tad by the fact that I got a mental tow out of the self-pity ditch from it years ago. That was a pretty tough breakup. For me, at least. She skipped merrily out the door.
Want another unlikely source for a UT? How about those noted philosophers The Offspring? (Relax, Dexter fans. I like them, and have several CDs, but you've got to admit they're not exactly breaking much new ground, lyrically.) Remember the moment the loser protagonist in "Self Esteem" began to get a clue that maybe he was being used? "The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care. Right?" There's hope for this young man, because when he said that aloud, he began to realize how much of a schmuck he'd been.
I could go on with more examples, and probably come up with a few more categories, but I see by the clock on the wall that my time is almost up. Please post your categories and examples in the comments. I'm always interested in what others think about things like this.
And, as we close out the first annual music-blogging week, I'll leave you with some lines that exemplify CWHs, NTPs, and UTs, transcending time with the sheer lyrical genius that you and I will forever be richer for the hearing thereof.
"Everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, footloose!"
A few words of caution are in order. These are lyrics that I, Jim Dunn, selfmade music putz, find memorable. That doesn't mean time, all of music criticdom, or you personally will find them quite so memorable, and that's fine. Just as I don't find Hemingway all that great (and I'm not trying to be "that guy"), it's quite all right for you to read what lyrics have made a permanent home in my head and scoff, audibly and forcefully, at my choices. I likes what I likes, and you likes what you likes, and the world will keep on spinning either way.
Also, stay tuned to this blog for a review of Tuscaloosa's The Dexateens' forthcoming CD "Singlewide." I got a promo copy of it yesterday, and I'll be slinging up a review of it Monday.
Now, onward to the first type of memorable lyric, which I'm calling...
1. The Creative Writing Harrumph. This is a turn of phrase that expresses, through symbolism, pithiness, or just crystallized genius, what would otherwise be well nigh inexpressible. It's the kind of thing that would earn you a "Harrumph" from a creative writing class, if most members of a creative writing class weren't swirling pools of need that refuse to belch forth much in the form of compliments.
Here's an example of a CWH. In the Drive-by Truckers' song "The Day John Henry Died," Jason Isbell sings of John Henry, "He knew the perfect way to hold a hammer was the way the railroad baron held the deed." That's artistry, is what that is. You get the imagery of both the fabled steel-driving man holding a sledge and the tight-fisted ways of the railroad barons he worked for in one tightly crafted line. Harrumphs all around.
The Gin Blossoms (who, he asserted in an aside, were one of the nineties' most underrated bands) had a few CWHs. In their "Mrs. Rita," Robin Wilson sings, "There's no swimming in the bottle, it's just someplace we all drown." Twelve words that express a lifetime of watching, and participating in, dissipation by alcohol, without either romanticizing alcoholism or being heavyhanded in their criticism. Harrumph.
James McMurtry deserves a Gold Harrumph Award for the opening lines to "Levelland." "Flatter than a tabletop, makes you wonder why they stopped here. Wagon must have lost a wheel or they lacked ambition one." In two lines, you're transported to a place with a lot of history, and not much else. Harrumph.
Moving on, we come to the second type of great lyric, which I'm calling
2. The Nifty Turn of Phrase. NTPs don't necessarily transport you mentally as much as CWHs. They're memorable just for the interplay between the words, or the rhyme scheme, or some other such facet that lodges them in your cortex. For instance, the Gin Blossoms' (told you they were underrated) "Lost Horizons" contains the lines, "She had nothing left to say, so she said she loved me. I stood there grateful for the lie." See? Nothing there that'll change the world or make a great t-shirt, but doggone it, that's good writing. And you do get the sad sack feeling of the protagonist, don't you?
Alliteration, assonance, and rhyme can help in the crafting of an NTP. For an example, let's go to an unlikely source: Jim Stafford. Yep, Mr. Yuk It Up in Branson Himself. I give credit where it's due, and his "Swamp Witch" is just studded with NTPs. (His "Cow Pattie," not so much.)
"Blackwater Hattie lived back in the swamp, where strange green reptiles crawl.
Snakes hang thick from the cypress trees, like sausage on a smokehouse wall.
Where the swamp is alive with a thousand eyes, an' all of them watching you.
Stay off the track to Hattie's shack in the back of the Black Bayou."
Didn't think the old boy had it in him, did you? Granted, "Swamp Witch" is an anomaly in the Stafford catalog, but give him credit for the good he did. Besides, he married super-sultry Bobbie Gentry, so he'll always have my admiration for that fact alone. (If you want to hear it for yourself, here it be.)
And, even though I mentioned these yesterday, I have to re-point out two gems from Warren Zevon. To wit, the alliteration of "Little old lady got mutilated late last night" from "Werewolves of London," and the sheer pithy genius of "Send lawyers, guns, and money."
This brings us to my third category, which I'm calling
3. The Universal Truth. UTs (not to be confused with UTIs, which are much less welcome) are those shining life lessons-in-a-second that just slap you across the face with their undying wisdom. The best example? In my smarmy opinion, it's the Rolling Stones' "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need." Can anyone argue with that? Nope. Didn't think so. Not that I advocate going to Keef and Mick for your philosophy or theology, but that's pretty airtight, if you ask me.
You can find UTs in the most unlikely of places. For instance, in "Let Her Cry," by Hootie and the Blowfish. (Stop groaning. HATB made great pop songs, and you know it. It's just become fashionable to slag on them. Pbbbtttttt, I say to that.) You're familiar with the setup, since that song got just a wee bit overplayed in the nineties. The protagonist is enduring a blues festival's worth of problems with his woman. But amidst the problems comes a ray of hope when he sings, "Let her go, let her walk right out on me. And if the sun comes up tomorrow, let her be."
It's that last sentence that makes this a UT. The protagonist has just straightened up, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and resolved to tough this situation out. Might as well, because the world will keep on spinning, and the sun will come out anyway.
Full disclosure: My appreciation for this lyric might have been influenced a tad by the fact that I got a mental tow out of the self-pity ditch from it years ago. That was a pretty tough breakup. For me, at least. She skipped merrily out the door.
Want another unlikely source for a UT? How about those noted philosophers The Offspring? (Relax, Dexter fans. I like them, and have several CDs, but you've got to admit they're not exactly breaking much new ground, lyrically.) Remember the moment the loser protagonist in "Self Esteem" began to get a clue that maybe he was being used? "The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care. Right?" There's hope for this young man, because when he said that aloud, he began to realize how much of a schmuck he'd been.
I could go on with more examples, and probably come up with a few more categories, but I see by the clock on the wall that my time is almost up. Please post your categories and examples in the comments. I'm always interested in what others think about things like this.
And, as we close out the first annual music-blogging week, I'll leave you with some lines that exemplify CWHs, NTPs, and UTs, transcending time with the sheer lyrical genius that you and I will forever be richer for the hearing thereof.
"Everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, footloose!"
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Day four of the first Annual Music-Blogging Week
As I retroactively announced yesterday, this is Music-Blogging Week (and you didn't even think to buy your celebratory tortilla shell, did you?), so here's the fourth installment. It's a topic that has already been covered, and excellently, by Dave Barry, but I think I've stayed away from all his examples. Herewith begins our exposition of a subject near and dear to my heart: dumb rock lyrics.
Now, although I love popular music, I have no delusions about the majority of the songs being anything but confections, and I don't have a problem with that. Break most popular songs, even classic, venerated songs, into their component parts, and you'll usually get to a pretty simplistic, borderline stupid core. Let's take the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever," which contains lines like, "No one, I think, is in my tree. I mean, it must be high or low." Or what about Bob Dylan's "Absolutely Sweet Marie," with its "Well, I got the fever down in my pockets." Dude, I had pocket fever once, and I thought I was going to die. Then I just took off my pants, and everything got better.
It's not just rock, of course. John Lee Hooker's "Boom Boom" includes these lines:
"Boom, boom, boom, boom
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh, oh, oh, oh
How, how, how, how
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Now, now, now, now."
If you've ever heard the song, you know it's impossible to remain seated, or at least remain seated and still, when you hear it. Man gets right down to your spine with the beat and that voice. It's a great song, but that's not exactly Shakespeare. So there's some stupidity, weirdness, artiness, what have you, in plenty of songs that are otherwise great. I'm not talking about them.
I'm also not going to get into the "There's a bathroom on the right," school of misheard lyrics, although there's a rich vein there, too. I'm talking about moments where either the songwriters just had a weak moment that exposed their not-smartiness, or just didn't care enough to work harder.
For instance, there's the Marshall Tucker Band's "Fire on the Mountain." Great song. It was an AM radio staple in the seventies, and I still listen regularly to it now. But this part has always bugged the incipient grammar Nazi in me.
"Shot down in cold blood by a gun that carried fame
All for a useless and no-good, worthless claim."
Hate to break it to the boys from South Carolina, but useless, no-good, and worthless are all synonyms. It's redundant, repetitive, supernumerary. Whoa. I just became Jackie Chiles for a second. Work hard, boys, is what I'm saying.
Back in the seventies, as a trombone-playing member of the Samson High School Band (*cough* first chair *cough*), I loved Earth, Wind & Fire. Danceable songs with a horn section? I'm there, dude. At least, I was. But even back then, when I wasn't quite a full-blown grammar Nazi, one of their songs always bugged me. Specifically, "After the Love Is Gone," and not just because it was a slow love song. What bothered me was the line, "Never knew that what was wrong, oh baby, wasn't right." Really? Then you probably need to be told that what's hot isn't cold, what's young isn't old, and what's dead isn't alive. Should have paid better attention in English, my friend.
Bad Company thought enough of the song "Bad Company" to name their band after it, or vice versa. I don't really know which. Either way, if a song is also your band's name, you need to stomp a mudhole in it, brand-wise. Big Country, for instance, made what I consider to be the quintessential almost-bagpipe-containing song by a Scottish band of the eighties with "In a Big Country." But in their eponymous song, Bad Company wrote, "I was born, sixgun in my hand."
I understand hyperbole, symbolism, creative license, all that. But this isn't a case of Robert Earl Keen singing, "This old porch is a steamin' greasy plate of enchiladas, with lots of cheese and onions and a guacamole salad." This is a man claiming to have been the world's most difficult delivery as a child. "Mrs. Junkins, the good news is that you're fully dilated, and the baby is in perfect position. The bad news is, the ultrasound shows that he's packing heat."
Moving on, I must point out a shortcoming of one of my favorite songwriters ever. I recently named Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" as one of the five albums that defined me on Facebook. I still remember putting that LP on my cheap Panasonic stereo (that also recorded 8-tracks!), reading the lyrics sheet, and being mesmerized by Zevon's weirdness and ability. I still maintain that "Lawyers, Guns and Money" is the best, pithiest, song title in history, and that, "Little old lady got mutilated late last night" from "Werewolves of London" is the best alliteration ever in a rock song.
But Warren, bless him, wasn't infallible. In the song "Jungle Work," which I love, Zevon wrote, "We parachute in, we parachute out." I get the parachuting in part, but how exactly do you parachute out of a place, WZ? Is that a secret, Rusty Shackelfordesque technique known only by the NSA?
More than likely, all of these examples came about from a songwriter being pressed for time, or just worn out from trying to come up with good lyrics. That's why I've always appreciated Alice Cooper's honesty in "School's Out."
"Well we got no class
And we got no principles [or principals, depending on whom you cite].
We ain't got no intelligence.
We can't even think of a word that rhymes."
But my award for the all-time, gold-medal, world-class example for not-even-trying lyrics has to go to Oliver's "Good Morning, Starshine."
"Good morning starshine
The earth says hello
You twinkle above us
We twinkle below."
So far, so bad. It's insipid, but not epic stupid just yet. Yet.
"Good morning starshine
You lead us along
My love and me as we sing
Our early-morning singing song."
You know, most songs are singing songs, Frances.
But while the verses are insipid, the chorus is pure lyrical drivel.
"Gliddy glub gloopy
Nibby nabby noopy
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba nabba
Le le lo lo
Tooby ooby walla
Nooby abba naba
Early morning singing song."
I've rented a couple of "WKRP in Cincinnati" DVDs, and the commentary to them includes the fact that the ending theme (the part that sounds like it begins, "Hand to 'em bartender, what tonight I hit the hair") is just gibberish. The producers needed an end theme, and they told a band to just get in there and crank out something. The end product sounded like it was being sung by Boomhauer's musical cousin. (That's two "King of the Hill" references in one post. I am on fire, I'll tell you what.)
But I'm willing to bet that James Rado and Gerome Ragni, the writers of "Starshine" according to Wikipedia, actually meant to craft that "Tooby ooby walla" garbage. I have no problem seeing them hammering out lyrics.
"What about 'Sooby dooby dalla'?"
"No, no, man! This is supposed to be an anti-establishment song. You're talking pure corporationspeak. It should be 'Tooby ooby walla.' Now THAT's a lyric they'll be singing when the revolution comes."
"I'm hip, man."
The outro is not quite as Seussian, since they actually use real words, but then they string them together so it sounds like Nell singing Gershwin.
"Singing a song
Humming a song
Singing a song
Loving a song
Laughing a song
Singing a song
Sing the song
Song song song sing
Sing sing sing sing song."
It's good, but could you work a few more "sings" and "songs"? That'd make it really good.
I could go on ("MacArthur Park" and "Muskrat Love" spring to mind, although I think Dave mentioned them in his book), but I don't want this post to reach Michener length. Feel free to submit your own suggestions in the comments section. I'll post a follow-up if I get enough responses.
And now, I have to tooby ooby walla on outta here. Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the starshine. Ooby.
Now, although I love popular music, I have no delusions about the majority of the songs being anything but confections, and I don't have a problem with that. Break most popular songs, even classic, venerated songs, into their component parts, and you'll usually get to a pretty simplistic, borderline stupid core. Let's take the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever," which contains lines like, "No one, I think, is in my tree. I mean, it must be high or low." Or what about Bob Dylan's "Absolutely Sweet Marie," with its "Well, I got the fever down in my pockets." Dude, I had pocket fever once, and I thought I was going to die. Then I just took off my pants, and everything got better.
It's not just rock, of course. John Lee Hooker's "Boom Boom" includes these lines:
"Boom, boom, boom, boom
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh, oh, oh, oh
How, how, how, how
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Now, now, now, now."
If you've ever heard the song, you know it's impossible to remain seated, or at least remain seated and still, when you hear it. Man gets right down to your spine with the beat and that voice. It's a great song, but that's not exactly Shakespeare. So there's some stupidity, weirdness, artiness, what have you, in plenty of songs that are otherwise great. I'm not talking about them.
I'm also not going to get into the "There's a bathroom on the right," school of misheard lyrics, although there's a rich vein there, too. I'm talking about moments where either the songwriters just had a weak moment that exposed their not-smartiness, or just didn't care enough to work harder.
For instance, there's the Marshall Tucker Band's "Fire on the Mountain." Great song. It was an AM radio staple in the seventies, and I still listen regularly to it now. But this part has always bugged the incipient grammar Nazi in me.
"Shot down in cold blood by a gun that carried fame
All for a useless and no-good, worthless claim."
Hate to break it to the boys from South Carolina, but useless, no-good, and worthless are all synonyms. It's redundant, repetitive, supernumerary. Whoa. I just became Jackie Chiles for a second. Work hard, boys, is what I'm saying.
Back in the seventies, as a trombone-playing member of the Samson High School Band (*cough* first chair *cough*), I loved Earth, Wind & Fire. Danceable songs with a horn section? I'm there, dude. At least, I was. But even back then, when I wasn't quite a full-blown grammar Nazi, one of their songs always bugged me. Specifically, "After the Love Is Gone," and not just because it was a slow love song. What bothered me was the line, "Never knew that what was wrong, oh baby, wasn't right." Really? Then you probably need to be told that what's hot isn't cold, what's young isn't old, and what's dead isn't alive. Should have paid better attention in English, my friend.
Bad Company thought enough of the song "Bad Company" to name their band after it, or vice versa. I don't really know which. Either way, if a song is also your band's name, you need to stomp a mudhole in it, brand-wise. Big Country, for instance, made what I consider to be the quintessential almost-bagpipe-containing song by a Scottish band of the eighties with "In a Big Country." But in their eponymous song, Bad Company wrote, "I was born, sixgun in my hand."
I understand hyperbole, symbolism, creative license, all that. But this isn't a case of Robert Earl Keen singing, "This old porch is a steamin' greasy plate of enchiladas, with lots of cheese and onions and a guacamole salad." This is a man claiming to have been the world's most difficult delivery as a child. "Mrs. Junkins, the good news is that you're fully dilated, and the baby is in perfect position. The bad news is, the ultrasound shows that he's packing heat."
Moving on, I must point out a shortcoming of one of my favorite songwriters ever. I recently named Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" as one of the five albums that defined me on Facebook. I still remember putting that LP on my cheap Panasonic stereo (that also recorded 8-tracks!), reading the lyrics sheet, and being mesmerized by Zevon's weirdness and ability. I still maintain that "Lawyers, Guns and Money" is the best, pithiest, song title in history, and that, "Little old lady got mutilated late last night" from "Werewolves of London" is the best alliteration ever in a rock song.
But Warren, bless him, wasn't infallible. In the song "Jungle Work," which I love, Zevon wrote, "We parachute in, we parachute out." I get the parachuting in part, but how exactly do you parachute out of a place, WZ? Is that a secret, Rusty Shackelfordesque technique known only by the NSA?
More than likely, all of these examples came about from a songwriter being pressed for time, or just worn out from trying to come up with good lyrics. That's why I've always appreciated Alice Cooper's honesty in "School's Out."
"Well we got no class
And we got no principles [or principals, depending on whom you cite].
We ain't got no intelligence.
We can't even think of a word that rhymes."
But my award for the all-time, gold-medal, world-class example for not-even-trying lyrics has to go to Oliver's "Good Morning, Starshine."
"Good morning starshine
The earth says hello
You twinkle above us
We twinkle below."
So far, so bad. It's insipid, but not epic stupid just yet. Yet.
"Good morning starshine
You lead us along
My love and me as we sing
Our early-morning singing song."
You know, most songs are singing songs, Frances.
But while the verses are insipid, the chorus is pure lyrical drivel.
"Gliddy glub gloopy
Nibby nabby noopy
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba nabba
Le le lo lo
Tooby ooby walla
Nooby abba naba
Early morning singing song."
I've rented a couple of "WKRP in Cincinnati" DVDs, and the commentary to them includes the fact that the ending theme (the part that sounds like it begins, "Hand to 'em bartender, what tonight I hit the hair") is just gibberish. The producers needed an end theme, and they told a band to just get in there and crank out something. The end product sounded like it was being sung by Boomhauer's musical cousin. (That's two "King of the Hill" references in one post. I am on fire, I'll tell you what.)
But I'm willing to bet that James Rado and Gerome Ragni, the writers of "Starshine" according to Wikipedia, actually meant to craft that "Tooby ooby walla" garbage. I have no problem seeing them hammering out lyrics.
"What about 'Sooby dooby dalla'?"
"No, no, man! This is supposed to be an anti-establishment song. You're talking pure corporationspeak. It should be 'Tooby ooby walla.' Now THAT's a lyric they'll be singing when the revolution comes."
"I'm hip, man."
The outro is not quite as Seussian, since they actually use real words, but then they string them together so it sounds like Nell singing Gershwin.
"Singing a song
Humming a song
Singing a song
Loving a song
Laughing a song
Singing a song
Sing the song
Song song song sing
Sing sing sing sing song."
It's good, but could you work a few more "sings" and "songs"? That'd make it really good.
I could go on ("MacArthur Park" and "Muskrat Love" spring to mind, although I think Dave mentioned them in his book), but I don't want this post to reach Michener length. Feel free to submit your own suggestions in the comments section. I'll post a follow-up if I get enough responses.
And now, I have to tooby ooby walla on outta here. Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the starshine. Ooby.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
I'm nothing if not wishy-washy. I am, aren't I?
I said yesterday that I wasn't going to turn this into a music blog, and I'm not. But that doesn't mean I can't blog about music two days in a row, does it? I'm researching the Big Book O' Blogging Rules to make sure, but in the meantime, I'm going to go with that truism that it's always easier to get permission than forgiveness, and press on.
Don't worry, though. I'm not going to continue my rant about how country music isn't country. Nope. Not gonna go on and on about how soulless and corporate and empty big-time country is, and how it's such a ridiculous travesty that artists who still craft music with heart are forced to travel in--
I just administered myself a Pattonesque face slap. I should be okay.
Despite the ridiculously cold weather here in Alabama (honestly, people, it snowed in North Alabama yesterday), I know that the spring/summer concert season is coming up soon, and I've been mentally kicking around a list of concert rules for quite a while. So, I figured this was as good a time as any to post it. Here goes.
1. Lynyrd Skynyrd was a great band. (I'm talking pre-plane crash Skynyrd, not the pseudo-Skynyrd that's been impersonating the band for years. Skynyrd died with Ronnie van Zant. ) And, before it was made into a rock and roll cliche, "Free Bird" was a great song. Still is, if you listen sans irony. Put on a pair of headphones and listen. The bass work in that song alone is epic.
So, now that I've established that, let me say: Don't ever, ever, ever yell, "Free Bird!" at a concert. It was at one time funny, and that one time was July 17, 1985, at an REO Speedwagon concert in Downers Grove, Illinois. Seconds later, it ran out of funny. Stop doing it.
2. Most acts have what is called a "set list." That means that they've actually put thought into what songs they're going to play, and when. They really don't need your yelling out song titles. With a lot of modern acts, changing the order of songs would require a complete reprogramming of the lip-syncing tracks and pyrotechnics, and they're not going to do that just because you don't think faux-Styx should play "Miss America" more often.
3. Despite what the inebriated woman next to me at the Poison/Cinderella concert a few years ago yelled, the band you don't like most likely doesn't, in fact, "suck." And if they do, they're not going to suddenly improve because you pointed out their shortcomings. (Although I do like to think that the horrible band I saw years ago in St. Louis called--no kidding--Beyond Repair did some soulsearching when, after they'd only played one song, somebody yelled out, "Take a break!") Allow me my musical tastes, and I'll reciprocate.
4. If the band asks you to sing along, or maybe even holds the microphone toward the crowd when they get to the chorus, feel free to sing along. Otherwise, you're allowed to sing the hook, and maybe a couple of the other words, and that's all. To once again reference faux-Styx, I don't mind you singing "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto." I do mind you caterwauling, "I am the modren man." I minded Dennis DeYoung singing that.
5. I don't care how much you like a band, they are not "your boys." If they were really "your boys," you'd be backstage, not sitting next to me, trying to see over that tall guy with the ironic cowboy hat. So if you refer to the lead singer, call him by his first AND last name, or alternatively, just his last name. He's not Mick, he's Mick Jagger, or maybe just Jagger. (It is all right to refer to U2's lead singer as "boh-no," however, because I like doing it that way.)
6. Ditch the cigarette lighter. It's 2009, people. You hold up your cell phone when you want to encourage an encore now.
7. That cell phone camera of yours isn't going to take a decent picture from 30 rows back, in the dark, with the lead singer jumping around. Give it up. It won't record decent video or sound, either. I don't know what Rerun was thinking when he took that cassette recorder to that Doobie Brothers concert.
8. That being said, artists, people like taking pictures of you. When they've taken them, they spread those pictures all over the Interwebs, and that generates what is called "positive publicity," which is a good thing. Let people take pictures. You might even encourage that kind of behavior.
9. Artists, we know you're tired of singing your hits. Do it anyway. The guy working at the Express Lube is tired of pulling oil drain plugs and skinning his knuckles getting to those oil filters, but he does it anyway, because it's his job. And he does it for a lot less than you're getting. So man or woman up, and perform it, even if it makes your hair hurt. And no medleys of your hits, either. Sing the whole thing.
10. Fans, if the act leaves and they don't turn on the house lights, they're coming back. (See the set list item, above.) They're only walking offstage for effect so that you'll clap and scream and maybe reach a good-enough fervor to buy an extra t-shirt or two. So don't start to leave unless you're really going to head to the car, because when you start to leave, then turn around when the band starts their inevitable encore, it just gums up the aisles for everybody.
11. We know you like the band you've come to see. There's no need to wear a t-shirt with their name on it to their concert, even if it's the one you bought in '82 and have worn every time you've seen the band.
12. You're never too old to rock. However, you dang sure can get too old to be overly demonstrative. If you're over 40, you can't play air guitar, actually headbang, or scream "ROCK AND ROLL!!!!!!!!" Sorry, but those are the rules. They hurt me, too.
13. If any members of the band you're seeing is wearing a t-shirt with their own band name on it, you must get up and leave immediately. That's pure toolish behavior, and we have to stamp it out.
Don't worry, though. I'm not going to continue my rant about how country music isn't country. Nope. Not gonna go on and on about how soulless and corporate and empty big-time country is, and how it's such a ridiculous travesty that artists who still craft music with heart are forced to travel in--
I just administered myself a Pattonesque face slap. I should be okay.
Despite the ridiculously cold weather here in Alabama (honestly, people, it snowed in North Alabama yesterday), I know that the spring/summer concert season is coming up soon, and I've been mentally kicking around a list of concert rules for quite a while. So, I figured this was as good a time as any to post it. Here goes.
1. Lynyrd Skynyrd was a great band. (I'm talking pre-plane crash Skynyrd, not the pseudo-Skynyrd that's been impersonating the band for years. Skynyrd died with Ronnie van Zant. ) And, before it was made into a rock and roll cliche, "Free Bird" was a great song. Still is, if you listen sans irony. Put on a pair of headphones and listen. The bass work in that song alone is epic.
So, now that I've established that, let me say: Don't ever, ever, ever yell, "Free Bird!" at a concert. It was at one time funny, and that one time was July 17, 1985, at an REO Speedwagon concert in Downers Grove, Illinois. Seconds later, it ran out of funny. Stop doing it.
2. Most acts have what is called a "set list." That means that they've actually put thought into what songs they're going to play, and when. They really don't need your yelling out song titles. With a lot of modern acts, changing the order of songs would require a complete reprogramming of the lip-syncing tracks and pyrotechnics, and they're not going to do that just because you don't think faux-Styx should play "Miss America" more often.
3. Despite what the inebriated woman next to me at the Poison/Cinderella concert a few years ago yelled, the band you don't like most likely doesn't, in fact, "suck." And if they do, they're not going to suddenly improve because you pointed out their shortcomings. (Although I do like to think that the horrible band I saw years ago in St. Louis called--no kidding--Beyond Repair did some soulsearching when, after they'd only played one song, somebody yelled out, "Take a break!") Allow me my musical tastes, and I'll reciprocate.
4. If the band asks you to sing along, or maybe even holds the microphone toward the crowd when they get to the chorus, feel free to sing along. Otherwise, you're allowed to sing the hook, and maybe a couple of the other words, and that's all. To once again reference faux-Styx, I don't mind you singing "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto." I do mind you caterwauling, "I am the modren man." I minded Dennis DeYoung singing that.
5. I don't care how much you like a band, they are not "your boys." If they were really "your boys," you'd be backstage, not sitting next to me, trying to see over that tall guy with the ironic cowboy hat. So if you refer to the lead singer, call him by his first AND last name, or alternatively, just his last name. He's not Mick, he's Mick Jagger, or maybe just Jagger. (It is all right to refer to U2's lead singer as "boh-no," however, because I like doing it that way.)
6. Ditch the cigarette lighter. It's 2009, people. You hold up your cell phone when you want to encourage an encore now.
7. That cell phone camera of yours isn't going to take a decent picture from 30 rows back, in the dark, with the lead singer jumping around. Give it up. It won't record decent video or sound, either. I don't know what Rerun was thinking when he took that cassette recorder to that Doobie Brothers concert.
8. That being said, artists, people like taking pictures of you. When they've taken them, they spread those pictures all over the Interwebs, and that generates what is called "positive publicity," which is a good thing. Let people take pictures. You might even encourage that kind of behavior.
9. Artists, we know you're tired of singing your hits. Do it anyway. The guy working at the Express Lube is tired of pulling oil drain plugs and skinning his knuckles getting to those oil filters, but he does it anyway, because it's his job. And he does it for a lot less than you're getting. So man or woman up, and perform it, even if it makes your hair hurt. And no medleys of your hits, either. Sing the whole thing.
10. Fans, if the act leaves and they don't turn on the house lights, they're coming back. (See the set list item, above.) They're only walking offstage for effect so that you'll clap and scream and maybe reach a good-enough fervor to buy an extra t-shirt or two. So don't start to leave unless you're really going to head to the car, because when you start to leave, then turn around when the band starts their inevitable encore, it just gums up the aisles for everybody.
11. We know you like the band you've come to see. There's no need to wear a t-shirt with their name on it to their concert, even if it's the one you bought in '82 and have worn every time you've seen the band.
12. You're never too old to rock. However, you dang sure can get too old to be overly demonstrative. If you're over 40, you can't play air guitar, actually headbang, or scream "ROCK AND ROLL!!!!!!!!" Sorry, but those are the rules. They hurt me, too.
13. If any members of the band you're seeing is wearing a t-shirt with their own band name on it, you must get up and leave immediately. That's pure toolish behavior, and we have to stamp it out.
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