I have to be honest; I’ve never quite understood the mentality that disses a one-hit wonder. You know what I mean by one-hit wonder: a band or artist primarily defined by one well-known, often irritating (and usually chart-topping) song. For some odd reason, these musicians - some of whom are actually quite talented - are the object of ridicule, derision, scorn, spontaneous street pantsings, and, from time to time, unprovoked drive-by’s with acid-filled super-soakers.
But seriously, what’s the point of making fun of a one-hit wonder? That’s one more hit than most of us will ever have. Krist, at least the one-hit wonders have accomplished SOMETHING with their lives, even if it’s just giving dads everywhere an excuse to get drunk and wipe out on the dance floor at weddings. I have literally heard guys who live in the subterraneous cavern below their mom’s basement mock on one-hit wonders for being “losers,” right before they enter their 348th straight hour of playing Guitar Hero: Pretending Aerosmith Is Still Relevant Edition.
Isn’t mocking on a one-hit wonder sort of like saying, “Awww, dude, you only had hot, sweaty, all-night sex with Halle Berry ONCE??? You’re so LAME!!!” You might as well tell a lottery winner, “What, you only hit the 100,000 dollar New Jersey Powerball once in 1986? How come you haven’t won the lottery since then? Are you some kind of LOSER?!!!” Or, why don’t you just tell the doctor who ends up curing cancer, “Yeah, that’s nice. Now let’s get cracking on AIDS, big brain!!!” (Ok, that last one might be stretching the analogy a bit.)
My point is simple: If your greatest accomplishment in life is knowing when to pull the nachos out of the 7-11microwave before they burn, or remembering the names of every actor to ever play Doctor Who (and the years they played him), then you should probably think twice before razzing the guy who got a pretty sweet payday for singing “Rock Me Amadeus.” (Besides, that guy’s dead. Hasn’t he got enough problems without worrying about you?)
Heck, even if you’re amazingly successful in your field, you should back off the one-hit wonder. All you’re doing by mocking these pop culture punchlines is revealing your own insecurities and petty jealousies. Look, we all KNOW you’d give biker Satanists handwritten directions to your mom’s nursing home if you could somehow be the guy who sang “We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off,” so don’t even try to deny it! What’s that? You’re denying it??!?. You f&#%ing liar.
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that we as a culture shouldn’t strive for rapturous strokes of transcendent artistic achievement and BLAH BLAH BLAH all that happy horse pucky. I’m just saying we should appreciate the one-hit wonder for what it is and be brave enough to admit that we kinda dug A-ha’s “Take on Me” long before it became all ironic and hipster cool to do so. Also, we shouldn’t assume that a band has no musical value just because their record company made them put out one cheesy single way in the day. In other words, respect the one-hit wonder!
Except for “Break My Stride,” of course. That song blows.
*Note: I reject the definition that classifies legendary rock bands or famous cult bands as one-hit wonders based on their failure to crack the top 40 charts more than once. A true one-hit wonder’s song should almost be “bigger” than they are. For example, Right Said Fred is a one-hit wonder. Jimi Hendrix is not.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
Come, They Told Me, Rumpa-pum-pum, Rumpa pum-pum, Rumpa-pum- Bappity-bappity-BIPPITY! Crash! Crash ! CRASH!!! Boppity-boppity-BOP-bop-BOP-bop-BASH!!!
Early this morning I was walking around silently warbling “The Little Drummer Boy” like some kind of Bing-Crosby-possessed lunatic and I eventually got to wondering: Is it me, or is drumming NOT really something you’d want to be doing for a newborn messiah? I really have to question the wisdom of this timeless classic.
There he is, sleeping all peacefully with sparkly blue light beaming down on his cherub-like little head, and then suddenly YOU come busting in and go all Neil Peart 2112 on his most-holy baby butt. Does that sound like a good idea to you? You ever wake a NORMAL baby up with some loud noises like drums? He doesn’t smile approvingly at you; he wails his damn fool head off.
And why does the little drummer boy say, “I have no gifts to bring”? He’s got the drum, doesn’t he? What, you’re not willing to give up your most cherished instrument for your LORD and SAVIOUR made flesh??? I can see it now: “Oh, yeah, I know you’ve come to save me from my sins and grant me eternal life, but this is ONE WICKED DRUM!!! I can’t part with this baby; Carl Palmer signed this bad boy during the Brain Salad Surgery tour!!!” I think God might be a little unhappy with that. To be frank, incensed is a better word.
Hey, enjoy playing your drums little drummer boy…IN HELL!!! HO HO HO! Merry Christmas! And take your rhythm section of satanic, cloven-hoofed barn animals with you. Yeah, maybe next time, you’ll be more willing to part with the skins. Not that God is a vengeful god, or anything. He’s just not down with the prog rock and all.
Happy Holidays folks. Rock on in 7/16 time!
There he is, sleeping all peacefully with sparkly blue light beaming down on his cherub-like little head, and then suddenly YOU come busting in and go all Neil Peart 2112 on his most-holy baby butt. Does that sound like a good idea to you? You ever wake a NORMAL baby up with some loud noises like drums? He doesn’t smile approvingly at you; he wails his damn fool head off.
And why does the little drummer boy say, “I have no gifts to bring”? He’s got the drum, doesn’t he? What, you’re not willing to give up your most cherished instrument for your LORD and SAVIOUR made flesh??? I can see it now: “Oh, yeah, I know you’ve come to save me from my sins and grant me eternal life, but this is ONE WICKED DRUM!!! I can’t part with this baby; Carl Palmer signed this bad boy during the Brain Salad Surgery tour!!!” I think God might be a little unhappy with that. To be frank, incensed is a better word.
Hey, enjoy playing your drums little drummer boy…IN HELL!!! HO HO HO! Merry Christmas! And take your rhythm section of satanic, cloven-hoofed barn animals with you. Yeah, maybe next time, you’ll be more willing to part with the skins. Not that God is a vengeful god, or anything. He’s just not down with the prog rock and all.
Happy Holidays folks. Rock on in 7/16 time!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Review: Kaiser Chiefs, Off with Their Heads (B-Unique)
What the…? Another Kaiser Chiefs album? Wasn’t the last one like three weeks ago? What are these guys trying to prove? ARE THEY TRYING TO MAKE ME LOOK BAD??!!?!? Hmmm, let me check…holy crap. OK, “Yours Truly, Angry Mob” actually came out way back in February 2007. That’s almost two years! Well, that’s still relatively quick compared to most bands, but hell… I must be getting older because 21 months seems like 21 nano-seconds these days.
Anyway, enough about my daunting mortality; let’s talk about the album. First off, let me say that it IS refreshing to have a band pump out albums with Woody-Allen-like regularity when every other band outside of country music seems to take their pansy-ass time between discs.
What the Kaiser Chiefs seem to be doing here is harkening back to a more “innocent” time (the 60’s) when quartermaster-like record companies treated musicians like their own personal b-words and forced them to generate a full album’s worth of product every few months or so, or at least until the artists went batsh*t crazy and suffered career-crippling nervous breakdowns. (Ah, good times!) This pressurized approach generated both some of the most startlingly inspired and drop-dead brilliant music ever created by man and some of the most disposable throwaway crap to ever foul up a turntable. So, which camp do you think the Kaiser Chiefs and their abbreviated time-table approach land in?
Well, I wouldn’t call this the most brilliant music ever made by man, but YEE-HAW it sure is hooky fun, in a mod-rocker, new wavey sort of way. Sadly, you wouldn’t necessarily know it from the lead-off track, “Spanish Metal,” which, quite frankly, stinks. This song bursts out of the gate all blustery and shrill before meandering into a so-so melody and almost non-existent chorus. I’m not exactly sure why this track is first on the album; maybe the Chiefs wanted to trick everyone into thinking they suck real bad so the next track would seem even more uber-awesome by comparison.
If that was the strategy, it pays off big time because uber-awesome is what the next track is! “Never Miss a Beat” (the first single) is everything “Spanish Metal” should be: big, boisterous fun with a slightly menacing edge and hooks galore. The throbbing, vaguely terrifying intro quickly gives way to a pressure-cooker melody before eventually erupting into Kim-Wilde-ish glee in the chorus. At that point, huge, swirling keyboard lines threaten to devour your brain as Ricky Wilson bellows, “Never miss a beat! Beat! BEAT! BEAT!!” like it actually means something.
Ironically, the riot-inducing maelstrom of music on “Never Miss a Beat” belies some kind of thinly-veiled but cheeky message (I think) about being cool, staying in school, and not doing drugs. It’s sort of like Nancy Reagan (or Margaret Thatcher) telling you to “just say no” before she mercilessly tramples you to death with her Doc Martens. Seriously though, I’m totally fine with this more “polite” approach to rock music. The Kaiser Chiefs wisely eschew tired, played-out “RAAAAWK” clichés in favor of huge dollops of melodic British drollness. Hmmmm. Okay, maybe they’re both pretty played out at this point, but I’ll take the latter over the former any day, unless we’re talking about some pretentious crap from Morrissey, of course.
After “Never Miss a Beat” ends its crumpet-crushing reign of terror, we’re treated to nifty tracks like “Like It Too Much,” which reminds me of Gary Numan in the verses, but quickly morphs into a quirky XTC number in the chorus. “Good Days and Bad Days,” which you’ll be doomed to sing for weeks (or until someone shoots you in the face), is like The Kaiser Chiefs doing Howard Jones’ chipper new-wave optimism shtick without the little shirtless ball-and-chain dude. And yeah, while it’s easy to make these kinds of comparisons, “Off with Their Heads” never feels derivative or (god help us) ironic thanks to the up-to-date production and seamless songcraft on display.
Other highlights include the happy-go-lucky (!) chorus of “Addicted to Drugs” and the strum and drang coda to “Half the Truth.” Honestly, there are no real naff tracks in the lot, although “Can’t Say What I Mean” seems to be trying to convince me it’s a lot more exciting than it really is, and oh, yeah, “Spanish Metal” is ready for the scrapheap, as we’ve already discussed. So, even though this album is pretty damn good, I can’t really give it classic status, for a couple of reasons.
First of all, while the Kaiser Chiefs are above-average songwriters - and that fact alone is enough to distinguish them from many of their peers – they don’t really have a unique enough vision beyond banging out the hookiest rock songs they can (with some clever wordplay thrown in the mix). “Well, what’s wrong with that?” you may ask. (Or you may have already stopped reading this review and are now 12 porn sites away.)
While there’s obviously nothing wrong with cranking out super-catchy pop/rock nuggets, history tells us those bands always need a little extra “something”- a sensibility, a gimmick, a subtext, a flavor – that helps set them apart from the pack and give them longevity. Hell, even Cheap Trick had that dude with all the wacky guitars. Whatever it is, people just need that little extra “x” factor which makes the whole greater than the sum of its parts and an album more than a collection of really good songs. I haven’t seen that emergent property in the Kaiser Chiefs yet, but it could still be there. I’m definitely willing to give them a little more time based on “Off with Their Heads.”
The second reason I can’t give this album classic status is a result of the band’s efforts to rush it out so quickly. No, there are no sloppy performances. The problem is the disc only runs 35:40! And two minutes of that is spent on “Spanish Metal.” Sure, way back in the 60’s thirty to thirty-five minutes was fine for an LP. Since the advent of CD’s, I just can’t see any album being less than 45 minutes, even if that means having to wait an extra few months for the final product.
If you think I’m being unfair, you’re probably right. But shortening your disc so you can get it our quicker seems like a cheat to me. Yeah, I’d rather have 35 minutes of solid material as opposed to 70 minutes of pointless jams and crappy filler songs, but can’t we meet halfway (across the sky)? I’ll endure a little Trey-Anastasio-ing if it means I’m getting my full 12 bucks worth. I don’t want those a-holes at Best Buy thinking they got one over on me (especially that jerk who says “Hello” every time I walk in the damn door).
Look, either way, I’m recommending the album, so don’t get in a snit over it. “Off with Their Heads” is pretty damn good and hopefully the Chiefs’ next one will be even better…and longer.
*** (three out of five stars)
Anyway, enough about my daunting mortality; let’s talk about the album. First off, let me say that it IS refreshing to have a band pump out albums with Woody-Allen-like regularity when every other band outside of country music seems to take their pansy-ass time between discs.
What the Kaiser Chiefs seem to be doing here is harkening back to a more “innocent” time (the 60’s) when quartermaster-like record companies treated musicians like their own personal b-words and forced them to generate a full album’s worth of product every few months or so, or at least until the artists went batsh*t crazy and suffered career-crippling nervous breakdowns. (Ah, good times!) This pressurized approach generated both some of the most startlingly inspired and drop-dead brilliant music ever created by man and some of the most disposable throwaway crap to ever foul up a turntable. So, which camp do you think the Kaiser Chiefs and their abbreviated time-table approach land in?
Well, I wouldn’t call this the most brilliant music ever made by man, but YEE-HAW it sure is hooky fun, in a mod-rocker, new wavey sort of way. Sadly, you wouldn’t necessarily know it from the lead-off track, “Spanish Metal,” which, quite frankly, stinks. This song bursts out of the gate all blustery and shrill before meandering into a so-so melody and almost non-existent chorus. I’m not exactly sure why this track is first on the album; maybe the Chiefs wanted to trick everyone into thinking they suck real bad so the next track would seem even more uber-awesome by comparison.
If that was the strategy, it pays off big time because uber-awesome is what the next track is! “Never Miss a Beat” (the first single) is everything “Spanish Metal” should be: big, boisterous fun with a slightly menacing edge and hooks galore. The throbbing, vaguely terrifying intro quickly gives way to a pressure-cooker melody before eventually erupting into Kim-Wilde-ish glee in the chorus. At that point, huge, swirling keyboard lines threaten to devour your brain as Ricky Wilson bellows, “Never miss a beat! Beat! BEAT! BEAT!!” like it actually means something.
Ironically, the riot-inducing maelstrom of music on “Never Miss a Beat” belies some kind of thinly-veiled but cheeky message (I think) about being cool, staying in school, and not doing drugs. It’s sort of like Nancy Reagan (or Margaret Thatcher) telling you to “just say no” before she mercilessly tramples you to death with her Doc Martens. Seriously though, I’m totally fine with this more “polite” approach to rock music. The Kaiser Chiefs wisely eschew tired, played-out “RAAAAWK” clichés in favor of huge dollops of melodic British drollness. Hmmmm. Okay, maybe they’re both pretty played out at this point, but I’ll take the latter over the former any day, unless we’re talking about some pretentious crap from Morrissey, of course.
After “Never Miss a Beat” ends its crumpet-crushing reign of terror, we’re treated to nifty tracks like “Like It Too Much,” which reminds me of Gary Numan in the verses, but quickly morphs into a quirky XTC number in the chorus. “Good Days and Bad Days,” which you’ll be doomed to sing for weeks (or until someone shoots you in the face), is like The Kaiser Chiefs doing Howard Jones’ chipper new-wave optimism shtick without the little shirtless ball-and-chain dude. And yeah, while it’s easy to make these kinds of comparisons, “Off with Their Heads” never feels derivative or (god help us) ironic thanks to the up-to-date production and seamless songcraft on display.
Other highlights include the happy-go-lucky (!) chorus of “Addicted to Drugs” and the strum and drang coda to “Half the Truth.” Honestly, there are no real naff tracks in the lot, although “Can’t Say What I Mean” seems to be trying to convince me it’s a lot more exciting than it really is, and oh, yeah, “Spanish Metal” is ready for the scrapheap, as we’ve already discussed. So, even though this album is pretty damn good, I can’t really give it classic status, for a couple of reasons.
First of all, while the Kaiser Chiefs are above-average songwriters - and that fact alone is enough to distinguish them from many of their peers – they don’t really have a unique enough vision beyond banging out the hookiest rock songs they can (with some clever wordplay thrown in the mix). “Well, what’s wrong with that?” you may ask. (Or you may have already stopped reading this review and are now 12 porn sites away.)
While there’s obviously nothing wrong with cranking out super-catchy pop/rock nuggets, history tells us those bands always need a little extra “something”- a sensibility, a gimmick, a subtext, a flavor – that helps set them apart from the pack and give them longevity. Hell, even Cheap Trick had that dude with all the wacky guitars. Whatever it is, people just need that little extra “x” factor which makes the whole greater than the sum of its parts and an album more than a collection of really good songs. I haven’t seen that emergent property in the Kaiser Chiefs yet, but it could still be there. I’m definitely willing to give them a little more time based on “Off with Their Heads.”
The second reason I can’t give this album classic status is a result of the band’s efforts to rush it out so quickly. No, there are no sloppy performances. The problem is the disc only runs 35:40! And two minutes of that is spent on “Spanish Metal.” Sure, way back in the 60’s thirty to thirty-five minutes was fine for an LP. Since the advent of CD’s, I just can’t see any album being less than 45 minutes, even if that means having to wait an extra few months for the final product.
If you think I’m being unfair, you’re probably right. But shortening your disc so you can get it our quicker seems like a cheat to me. Yeah, I’d rather have 35 minutes of solid material as opposed to 70 minutes of pointless jams and crappy filler songs, but can’t we meet halfway (across the sky)? I’ll endure a little Trey-Anastasio-ing if it means I’m getting my full 12 bucks worth. I don’t want those a-holes at Best Buy thinking they got one over on me (especially that jerk who says “Hello” every time I walk in the damn door).
Look, either way, I’m recommending the album, so don’t get in a snit over it. “Off with Their Heads” is pretty damn good and hopefully the Chiefs’ next one will be even better…and longer.
*** (three out of five stars)
Friday, November 21, 2008
Signs That You and Your Band Blow, Part 1
Does your music suck? If you’re a serious musician, you’ve probably asked yourself this question at least once in your life. That is, unless you’re an arrogant tool like the dudes in Oasis or something. (They don’t have to ask that question because they know the Beatles and the Kinks don’t suck.) With that in mind, I’ve taken it upon myself to draw up a handy-dandy cheat sheet for determining whether you are flirting with musical suck-osity. See that? I’ve got your backs, folks.
I would like to stress, however, that these signs are not across-the-board or conclusive. It is possible to possess one or more of these qualities and STILL be in a good band. So please don’t send me angry missives trying to prove that you - or famous band X – are utterly awesome and really do rule the cosmos despite an unhealthy predilection for zebra striped codpieces and WhiteSnake covers (or whatever).
Consider this a general guideline! If you find yourself nodding your head and chuckling, “That’s sooooo me” to more than two things on the list, you may want to take a moment to gaze pensively in the mirror, look deep within your soul, and honestly ask yourself, “Do I suck big ass?” If the answer is a resounding, “Yeah, you kinda do, a-hole,” then it may be time to seriously rethink your career path.
So, without further ado, here are some of the more glaring signs of suckiness to watch out for, if you can see anything at all looking through those silly fake emo glasses you’ve been wearing.
1) When people ask what type of music your band plays, you answer (more or less), “We play good old-fashioned, no-holds-barred, back-to-basics rock and roll.” For some odd reason, “no-holds-barred, back-to-basics rock and roll” always seems to sound like crappy Kiss outtakes.
2) Someone in your band smells like an odd mix of SlimJims and patchouli and has actually “followed” another band around the country for more than four shows on one tour. Extra points if he had a parent dying in the hospital at the same time.
3) You appear on the cover of Rolling Stone with your lead singer lunging at the camera while making a screaming face. The headline proclaims, “Real Rock Is Back…Honest! We Mean It This Time!” As usual, no one is convinced.
4) The words “astronomy,’ “dilettante,” or “extrapolate” are featured prominently in the chorus of your first single. Extra points if you try to rhyme the word “dilettante” with “boysenberry croissant.”
5) More than one out of every 100 of your songs in your repertoire is in a time signature other than (straightforward rock rhythm) 4/4. Corollary: If you have less than 5,000 songs total and more than even one of them is in the tricky 7/4 time signature (and you don't have the word "Combo" or "Trio" in your band name) you’re teetering dangerously close to wearing an invisible sign that says, “I need to be taken out back and beaten with a rusty pipe.”
6) Your band photo consists of four portly dudes decked out in black clothes and scowling at nothing in particular. At least one band member’s arms are firmly crossed because he’s pissed off about something (either the impending fiery Apocalypse or he’s gotta pull a double shift at KFC). Extra points if your band features a “hot chick” (hot relative to the rest of the band, that is) looming in the foreground and decked out in an all-leather bodice she bought on sale at Hot Topic. Extra, extra points if any of these words appear within the first 5.6 seconds of every song you play: dark, black onyx, swords, bloodletting, tormented, or Elizabeth Bathory. In fact, it’s probably a safe bet that I just named the first 6 songs on your debut CD.
7) Your band name is cloying, twee, or trying WAY too hard to be clever. If your name is anything like “Planes Have Left the Aquarium,” “The 16th Century Basket Weaver Convention,” or “Does Mirabelle Adore Meringue?” you’re way overdue to rethink your strategy. If you read this and immediately started wondering if those are fake band names you might be able to use, it’s time to hang up the instruments forever.
8) Your album was made after 1999 and it boasts (ironically or otherwise) the 50’s/60’s “retro look.” That is, all the songs are listed on the cover along with the words “in glorious hi-fidelity stereo.” Likewise, the band members are all wearing tacky bowling shirts and piled in a phone booth with hula hoops around their necks (or something). This was really cute and clever for awhile there in the 90’s, but isn’t it sort of overdone at this point?
9) During rehearsal, you’ve actually reprimanded your guitarist for sounding “too much like the Clash, and not enough like Nickelback.” Earn extra points if no one busts out in convulsive fits of laughter after these words are uttered.
10) You’re a female pop star who seems hell-bent on telling your ex how you don’t need him, and you’re gonna key his car, or blow up his house, or engineer a bio-virus to kill every last descendant of his loins, and oh-boy-oh boy-he-BETTER-be-sorry-he-messed-with-you! Like anything else, the “spurned female anthem” was kinda novel at one time, but now it’s way played out. My reaction whenever I hear these songs is “Me thinks thou doest protest too much!” After all, nothing sounds more needy than someone who has to loudly announce she doesn’t need her ex, right? If you were really over it, wouldn’t you spend your time singing about something else, like floor tiles? Trust me, that guy you’re so mad at isn’t ruing the day he met you. More likely he’s taking some perverse delight in the fact he messed you up so bad you’ve gotta sing a “revenge” song on the radio while he practices getting it on with his new girlfriend in time to the chorus.
11) You still think flipping the bird to photographers makes you “edgy” and “rebellious,” something it clearly hasn’t been since, oh, November 1979. You’re not Johnny Cash or a member of the Sex Pistols; move on. (Avril Lavigne, are you taking notes?)
12) People say you sing “real country” and epitomize what “country is all about,” and yet somehow your latest single sounds like an over-blown Diane Warren/Chicago power ballad from 20 years ago, albeit sung with a Southern accent and featuring an extremely obnoxious lap steel guitar.
13) Your record label re-releases your first CD before your second one has even hit the shops. Nothing screams “Let’s milk this cash cow one last time before the public wises up and realizes that he sucks big time” like the cynical reissue that materializes before most people have even gotten past track 5 on the original CD. Of course, the only bonus material on your “deluxe” package is a crappy demo-that-should-have-remained-a-demo and a lame video that everyone has already watched a billion times on youtube.
14) Your “indie” sound is so anemic and whispery that even Starbucks has to pass on it as being “too soft.”
15) You think Nirvana “saved” rock and roll.
16) You and your band spend roughly 2 hours fixing your hair and about 2 seconds tuning your instruments. (Thanks to our friend Nick over at http://www.frigginfabulousradio.com/ for this one.)
17) You’re appearing at venues that hold a maximum of 12 people – as long as everyone is anorexic and holding their breath – and you’re still smacking the hands of people in the front row like you’re Radiohead playing their final encore at MSG. You and your “fans” (aka friends who got roped into coming) are all gonna be standing at the bar 5 minutes after the show anyway; if you really want to touch their hands I’m sure you can do it then.
18) You think that making anything “lo-fi” automatically gives it a DIY charm that can overcome your same-two-chords-every-time songs, ironically monotonous singing voice, and painfully “clever” lyrics that compare love to shopping in a thrift store, or some such bullsh*t.
19) You write overwrought, melodramatic lyrics about spiritual longing and man’s isolation in the universe. Extra points if you mention dolphins. (Oops.)
20) You’ve put out 5 albums and they all sound exactly the same (and your name is not The Ramones or AC/DC). However, on your most recent album, you added a 5 second string intro to one track, a backwards guitar solo on another, and 10 seconds of yodeling to the final song. Other than that, it’s musically identical to everything else in your oeuvre. As a result of your superficial additions, the major critics have hailed you as “expanding your sound,” “growing by leaps and bounds,” and “exhibiting a startling new maturity.” In reality, the Beatles grew more between writing lines 1 and 2 of “Love Me Do” than you’ve grown in the past 25 years.
Mind you, these traits are not exhaustive… so don’t breathe a sigh of relief just because you don’t recognize yourself on the list! There’s still a chance you’re dangling directly above the gaping maw of musical mediocrity and it’s hungrily waiting to slurp you down, pseudo-goth eyeliner and all. However, after reading over this list you will hopefully begin to glean a general sense of what constitutes full-blown awfulness (basically, anything I don’t like, it would seem) and strategically avoid those pitfalls in the future.
Or don’t. Hell, you’ll probably be more successful if you DO posses all these traits. Look where it got hacks like Chris Daughtry and Green Day. I guess you need to ask yourself, what’s more important: making billions of dollars and having millions of adoring fans, or winning the approval of some curmudgeonly online a-hole with a blog no one reads?
I think the choice is clear.
I would like to stress, however, that these signs are not across-the-board or conclusive. It is possible to possess one or more of these qualities and STILL be in a good band. So please don’t send me angry missives trying to prove that you - or famous band X – are utterly awesome and really do rule the cosmos despite an unhealthy predilection for zebra striped codpieces and WhiteSnake covers (or whatever).
Consider this a general guideline! If you find yourself nodding your head and chuckling, “That’s sooooo me” to more than two things on the list, you may want to take a moment to gaze pensively in the mirror, look deep within your soul, and honestly ask yourself, “Do I suck big ass?” If the answer is a resounding, “Yeah, you kinda do, a-hole,” then it may be time to seriously rethink your career path.
So, without further ado, here are some of the more glaring signs of suckiness to watch out for, if you can see anything at all looking through those silly fake emo glasses you’ve been wearing.
1) When people ask what type of music your band plays, you answer (more or less), “We play good old-fashioned, no-holds-barred, back-to-basics rock and roll.” For some odd reason, “no-holds-barred, back-to-basics rock and roll” always seems to sound like crappy Kiss outtakes.
2) Someone in your band smells like an odd mix of SlimJims and patchouli and has actually “followed” another band around the country for more than four shows on one tour. Extra points if he had a parent dying in the hospital at the same time.
3) You appear on the cover of Rolling Stone with your lead singer lunging at the camera while making a screaming face. The headline proclaims, “Real Rock Is Back…Honest! We Mean It This Time!” As usual, no one is convinced.
4) The words “astronomy,’ “dilettante,” or “extrapolate” are featured prominently in the chorus of your first single. Extra points if you try to rhyme the word “dilettante” with “boysenberry croissant.”
5) More than one out of every 100 of your songs in your repertoire is in a time signature other than (straightforward rock rhythm) 4/4. Corollary: If you have less than 5,000 songs total and more than even one of them is in the tricky 7/4 time signature (and you don't have the word "Combo" or "Trio" in your band name) you’re teetering dangerously close to wearing an invisible sign that says, “I need to be taken out back and beaten with a rusty pipe.”
6) Your band photo consists of four portly dudes decked out in black clothes and scowling at nothing in particular. At least one band member’s arms are firmly crossed because he’s pissed off about something (either the impending fiery Apocalypse or he’s gotta pull a double shift at KFC). Extra points if your band features a “hot chick” (hot relative to the rest of the band, that is) looming in the foreground and decked out in an all-leather bodice she bought on sale at Hot Topic. Extra, extra points if any of these words appear within the first 5.6 seconds of every song you play: dark, black onyx, swords, bloodletting, tormented, or Elizabeth Bathory. In fact, it’s probably a safe bet that I just named the first 6 songs on your debut CD.
7) Your band name is cloying, twee, or trying WAY too hard to be clever. If your name is anything like “Planes Have Left the Aquarium,” “The 16th Century Basket Weaver Convention,” or “Does Mirabelle Adore Meringue?” you’re way overdue to rethink your strategy. If you read this and immediately started wondering if those are fake band names you might be able to use, it’s time to hang up the instruments forever.
8) Your album was made after 1999 and it boasts (ironically or otherwise) the 50’s/60’s “retro look.” That is, all the songs are listed on the cover along with the words “in glorious hi-fidelity stereo.” Likewise, the band members are all wearing tacky bowling shirts and piled in a phone booth with hula hoops around their necks (or something). This was really cute and clever for awhile there in the 90’s, but isn’t it sort of overdone at this point?
9) During rehearsal, you’ve actually reprimanded your guitarist for sounding “too much like the Clash, and not enough like Nickelback.” Earn extra points if no one busts out in convulsive fits of laughter after these words are uttered.
10) You’re a female pop star who seems hell-bent on telling your ex how you don’t need him, and you’re gonna key his car, or blow up his house, or engineer a bio-virus to kill every last descendant of his loins, and oh-boy-oh boy-he-BETTER-be-sorry-he-messed-with-you! Like anything else, the “spurned female anthem” was kinda novel at one time, but now it’s way played out. My reaction whenever I hear these songs is “Me thinks thou doest protest too much!” After all, nothing sounds more needy than someone who has to loudly announce she doesn’t need her ex, right? If you were really over it, wouldn’t you spend your time singing about something else, like floor tiles? Trust me, that guy you’re so mad at isn’t ruing the day he met you. More likely he’s taking some perverse delight in the fact he messed you up so bad you’ve gotta sing a “revenge” song on the radio while he practices getting it on with his new girlfriend in time to the chorus.
11) You still think flipping the bird to photographers makes you “edgy” and “rebellious,” something it clearly hasn’t been since, oh, November 1979. You’re not Johnny Cash or a member of the Sex Pistols; move on. (Avril Lavigne, are you taking notes?)
12) People say you sing “real country” and epitomize what “country is all about,” and yet somehow your latest single sounds like an over-blown Diane Warren/Chicago power ballad from 20 years ago, albeit sung with a Southern accent and featuring an extremely obnoxious lap steel guitar.
13) Your record label re-releases your first CD before your second one has even hit the shops. Nothing screams “Let’s milk this cash cow one last time before the public wises up and realizes that he sucks big time” like the cynical reissue that materializes before most people have even gotten past track 5 on the original CD. Of course, the only bonus material on your “deluxe” package is a crappy demo-that-should-have-remained-a-demo and a lame video that everyone has already watched a billion times on youtube.
14) Your “indie” sound is so anemic and whispery that even Starbucks has to pass on it as being “too soft.”
15) You think Nirvana “saved” rock and roll.
16) You and your band spend roughly 2 hours fixing your hair and about 2 seconds tuning your instruments. (Thanks to our friend Nick over at http://www.frigginfabulousradio.com/ for this one.)
17) You’re appearing at venues that hold a maximum of 12 people – as long as everyone is anorexic and holding their breath – and you’re still smacking the hands of people in the front row like you’re Radiohead playing their final encore at MSG. You and your “fans” (aka friends who got roped into coming) are all gonna be standing at the bar 5 minutes after the show anyway; if you really want to touch their hands I’m sure you can do it then.
18) You think that making anything “lo-fi” automatically gives it a DIY charm that can overcome your same-two-chords-every-time songs, ironically monotonous singing voice, and painfully “clever” lyrics that compare love to shopping in a thrift store, or some such bullsh*t.
19) You write overwrought, melodramatic lyrics about spiritual longing and man’s isolation in the universe. Extra points if you mention dolphins. (Oops.)
20) You’ve put out 5 albums and they all sound exactly the same (and your name is not The Ramones or AC/DC). However, on your most recent album, you added a 5 second string intro to one track, a backwards guitar solo on another, and 10 seconds of yodeling to the final song. Other than that, it’s musically identical to everything else in your oeuvre. As a result of your superficial additions, the major critics have hailed you as “expanding your sound,” “growing by leaps and bounds,” and “exhibiting a startling new maturity.” In reality, the Beatles grew more between writing lines 1 and 2 of “Love Me Do” than you’ve grown in the past 25 years.
Mind you, these traits are not exhaustive… so don’t breathe a sigh of relief just because you don’t recognize yourself on the list! There’s still a chance you’re dangling directly above the gaping maw of musical mediocrity and it’s hungrily waiting to slurp you down, pseudo-goth eyeliner and all. However, after reading over this list you will hopefully begin to glean a general sense of what constitutes full-blown awfulness (basically, anything I don’t like, it would seem) and strategically avoid those pitfalls in the future.
Or don’t. Hell, you’ll probably be more successful if you DO posses all these traits. Look where it got hacks like Chris Daughtry and Green Day. I guess you need to ask yourself, what’s more important: making billions of dollars and having millions of adoring fans, or winning the approval of some curmudgeonly online a-hole with a blog no one reads?
I think the choice is clear.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Phrased Out, Part 6: PERverted Language
Time for yet another installment in our never-ending examination of words/expressions that need to be banned from the English language, at least for a couple of millennia or so. Today we'll be looking at the word "per” (or the phrase “as per”).
I’m sure you all know this one. This is the one corporate toadies whip out every time they want you to do some petty job for them (usually something THEY should be doing), but they’re deathly afraid you’ll realize how pointless the request really is. So, instead of just ASKING you to do them a favor, they’ll try pulling rank and invoking the name of some higher-up in the vain hope you’re as scared of Joe or Jane Muckety-Muck as they are.
For example: “Per Mr. ScaryBossMan, stop working on that multi-million dollar project for our highest paying client and start scanning in pictures of me playing softball at the company picnic. Did I mention it’s per Mr. ScaryBossMan?”
Trust me, 99 out of 100 times the alleged superior isn’t even AWARE he’s being namechecked in a futile attempt to make it sound like the company’s imminent collapse or booming success is singularly dependent on whether or not you color-code the pointy cup receipts from 1978.
Basically, the boot-licker who exploits the word “per” knows his/her request sounds weak or trivial to begin with, so he/she feels the need to prop it up a little – you know, give it that extra “oomph.” A little memo Viagra, as it were. If the request really carried any weight, it would speak for itself and not need any help. For example, you’ve never seen a memo that said, “In the event of an all-consuming fire rapidly tearing through floor after floor of the office, all employees should get the hell out of the building as fast as their little feet can carry them…as per the CEO.”
Hence, to include the word “per” in a memo is pretty much the same as (a) implying the recipients are too freakin’ stupid to discern what merits their immediate attention, or (b) trying to force co-workers into wasting their time on really dumb, unimportant stuff by hiding behind the guise of sweeping, mandatory, executive edict. Either way, it's pretty lame. As per me.
In my view, a person either has authority over someone or he doesn’t. If he does, he shouldn’t need to bandy about words like “per.” If he DOESN’T have the authority, then he should just ask nicely for whatever he needs. He shouldn’t try to sound all bad-ass by throwing around the names of people who don’t know he exists and would be pretty pissed if they knew what he was up to.
In the rare (VERY rare) instance that an underling DOES need to disseminate orders from Mount Olympus – the urgency of which cannot be immediately apprehended – I think the best course of action is to simply say, “Mr. VaguelyTerrifying asked that we handle this project next. Would you be able to do that for me?” Sure, it’s not as impersonally obnoxious as slapping a “per” in there, and yes, it saps the requester of precious seconds that could be used kissing backside or texting annoying abbreviations, but it is more - dare I say it? - POLITE.
Sadly, "polite" is a word that seems to have been banned a long time ago.
I’m sure you all know this one. This is the one corporate toadies whip out every time they want you to do some petty job for them (usually something THEY should be doing), but they’re deathly afraid you’ll realize how pointless the request really is. So, instead of just ASKING you to do them a favor, they’ll try pulling rank and invoking the name of some higher-up in the vain hope you’re as scared of Joe or Jane Muckety-Muck as they are.
For example: “Per Mr. ScaryBossMan, stop working on that multi-million dollar project for our highest paying client and start scanning in pictures of me playing softball at the company picnic. Did I mention it’s per Mr. ScaryBossMan?”
Trust me, 99 out of 100 times the alleged superior isn’t even AWARE he’s being namechecked in a futile attempt to make it sound like the company’s imminent collapse or booming success is singularly dependent on whether or not you color-code the pointy cup receipts from 1978.
Basically, the boot-licker who exploits the word “per” knows his/her request sounds weak or trivial to begin with, so he/she feels the need to prop it up a little – you know, give it that extra “oomph.” A little memo Viagra, as it were. If the request really carried any weight, it would speak for itself and not need any help. For example, you’ve never seen a memo that said, “In the event of an all-consuming fire rapidly tearing through floor after floor of the office, all employees should get the hell out of the building as fast as their little feet can carry them…as per the CEO.”
Hence, to include the word “per” in a memo is pretty much the same as (a) implying the recipients are too freakin’ stupid to discern what merits their immediate attention, or (b) trying to force co-workers into wasting their time on really dumb, unimportant stuff by hiding behind the guise of sweeping, mandatory, executive edict. Either way, it's pretty lame. As per me.
In my view, a person either has authority over someone or he doesn’t. If he does, he shouldn’t need to bandy about words like “per.” If he DOESN’T have the authority, then he should just ask nicely for whatever he needs. He shouldn’t try to sound all bad-ass by throwing around the names of people who don’t know he exists and would be pretty pissed if they knew what he was up to.
In the rare (VERY rare) instance that an underling DOES need to disseminate orders from Mount Olympus – the urgency of which cannot be immediately apprehended – I think the best course of action is to simply say, “Mr. VaguelyTerrifying asked that we handle this project next. Would you be able to do that for me?” Sure, it’s not as impersonally obnoxious as slapping a “per” in there, and yes, it saps the requester of precious seconds that could be used kissing backside or texting annoying abbreviations, but it is more - dare I say it? - POLITE.
Sadly, "polite" is a word that seems to have been banned a long time ago.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Sweet Nothings
Some random thoughts and observations on that most fattening of holidays, All Hallows' Eve...
*I’m really disheartened by what people have done to Halloween. It’s just too commercialized these days. I mean, Halloween is meant to be a serene and reflective time. The air is getting colder, the leaves are changing color, and the dead are rising up to terrorize the living and feast on their flesh. Meanwhile, Satanists are having ritualized orgies to honor their overlord and master, the dark beast. And all Hershey’s cares about is selling more candy? Man, that just makes me sad. I really feel like we’ve lost something.
*Remember when you were a kid, and you wanted to dress up as Batman or Wonder Woman or Aqua-man or Spider-man (or whoever) and you’d have to settle for one of those lame-ass store bought costumes with a picture of the hero ON the chest? What the hell was THAT crap? Everyone knows the real Spider-man didn’t have a picture of HIMSELF on his costume! I think Dr. Octopus would probably pee himself laughing if he ran into Spider-man wearing his own picture on his torso. That is, right before he pummeled the webslinger to DEATH for being such a freakin’ pansy! I wouldn’t be caught DEAD in one of those get ups. Damn it, if I couldn’t look like the REAL Strawberry Shortcake, then forget about it, know what I’m saying?
*Speaking of costumes, what about that time you dressed up as Scooby Doo in the official Scooby Doo costume and you were all psyched because you begged your mom to get it for you, and you thought you looked totally bad-ass? And then you walked to the first house and some lady goes, “OH MY! There’s a wolf at the door! HENRY! COME LOOK AT THE WOLF!” Didn’t you just want to grab the clueless old crone by the collar and go, “HEY! GRANDMA! I’m SCOOBY DOO! GET IT RIGHT!!! SCOOBY DOO!!! What, you never seen a HANNAH-BARBARA cartoon??? SCOO-BEE-FREAKIN’- DOO!!!! Like it says on the FRONT! NOW GIVE ME THE DAMN SNICKERS BAR!!!!”
*One more thing about costumes: I think it would be a kick to dress your kids up in totally anachronistic characters, and then insist they picked them out themselves. You know, dress your 5 year old daughter up as the 1920’s comic strip heroine “Winnie Winkle” and insist that YOU were pushing for “Sharpay” from High School Musical. For extra points, get REALLY pissed if anyone mistakes her for “Tillie the Toiler.”
*Halloween is the perfect time for fears and phobias. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking how could an unbridled, testosterone-fueled he-beast like myself possibly be afraid of anything? Er… what’s that? You weren’t thinking that at all? Well why not? Ah, go eat some Mary Jane candy bars, why doncha. Anyway, it’s time for a confession. Ever since I was little, I’ve kind of had an irrational fear of giant squids. Yeah, you read that right. Squids. The giant kind. I don’t know what it means, so don’t ask me. I suspect it’s probably some kind of weird sexual thing, like every other phobia and fear out there. Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have had sex with that giant squid back in the day.
*I loved that feeling of danger I would get when I went trick-or-treating in the suburbs as a kid. The sun would start going down, and we had already hit up everyone in our neighborhood for candy. Some of them twice. So we would start venturing over into the OTHER neighborhoods... It was never spoken, but there was always a clear line separating "home turf" from the "strange and alien worlds" of the suburbs we didn't know. We felt like we were really taking our lives into our own hands by crossing the "line," even though we were probably less than a quarter of a mile away in reality. The air would start getting colder and there was something very forbidden about it all. You never knew if the weird people who lived in the giant brown house at the end of a cul-de-sac no one ever went down were going to ax you to death and feed you to that dog barking its ass off in their backyard. And then, inevitably, you'd stay out too damn late and have to start making your way back in the dark. Sometimes, you'd knock on people's doors and you could barely find the way up to their house because they had the audacity to turn off their lights!!! Having a young, undeveloped noggin we didn't understand this was courtesy-speak for "It's time to stop trick-or-treating, kids." We were undeterred!!! How dare they turn off their lights at 10:30pm? Didn't they know Halloween officially runs until Midnight on All Saints Day!!??? Hey, spare the candy corn lady! I don't care if you gotta work in the morning. Bastards.
*The coolest person in the neighborhood back in the day would give out Marathon bars. They were like 19 feet long, I think. You could work on one of those a month or two, easy. Anything after the house giving out Marathon bars was truly anti-climatic. Snickers??? The "fun size?" They should have just called it the "lame size," for a little truth in advertising. And they're getting smaller too! I think nowadays they're roughly the size of, oh, an electron particle. The worst part of that is, the candy bar both exists and DOESN'T exist until you actually open your candy bag and look at it!!! That's quantum physics humour, kiddies.
Now get out there and invoke the wrath of evil spirits by emulating their form!
*I’m really disheartened by what people have done to Halloween. It’s just too commercialized these days. I mean, Halloween is meant to be a serene and reflective time. The air is getting colder, the leaves are changing color, and the dead are rising up to terrorize the living and feast on their flesh. Meanwhile, Satanists are having ritualized orgies to honor their overlord and master, the dark beast. And all Hershey’s cares about is selling more candy? Man, that just makes me sad. I really feel like we’ve lost something.
*Remember when you were a kid, and you wanted to dress up as Batman or Wonder Woman or Aqua-man or Spider-man (or whoever) and you’d have to settle for one of those lame-ass store bought costumes with a picture of the hero ON the chest? What the hell was THAT crap? Everyone knows the real Spider-man didn’t have a picture of HIMSELF on his costume! I think Dr. Octopus would probably pee himself laughing if he ran into Spider-man wearing his own picture on his torso. That is, right before he pummeled the webslinger to DEATH for being such a freakin’ pansy! I wouldn’t be caught DEAD in one of those get ups. Damn it, if I couldn’t look like the REAL Strawberry Shortcake, then forget about it, know what I’m saying?
*Speaking of costumes, what about that time you dressed up as Scooby Doo in the official Scooby Doo costume and you were all psyched because you begged your mom to get it for you, and you thought you looked totally bad-ass? And then you walked to the first house and some lady goes, “OH MY! There’s a wolf at the door! HENRY! COME LOOK AT THE WOLF!” Didn’t you just want to grab the clueless old crone by the collar and go, “HEY! GRANDMA! I’m SCOOBY DOO! GET IT RIGHT!!! SCOOBY DOO!!! What, you never seen a HANNAH-BARBARA cartoon??? SCOO-BEE-FREAKIN’- DOO!!!! Like it says on the FRONT! NOW GIVE ME THE DAMN SNICKERS BAR!!!!”
*One more thing about costumes: I think it would be a kick to dress your kids up in totally anachronistic characters, and then insist they picked them out themselves. You know, dress your 5 year old daughter up as the 1920’s comic strip heroine “Winnie Winkle” and insist that YOU were pushing for “Sharpay” from High School Musical. For extra points, get REALLY pissed if anyone mistakes her for “Tillie the Toiler.”
*Halloween is the perfect time for fears and phobias. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking how could an unbridled, testosterone-fueled he-beast like myself possibly be afraid of anything? Er… what’s that? You weren’t thinking that at all? Well why not? Ah, go eat some Mary Jane candy bars, why doncha. Anyway, it’s time for a confession. Ever since I was little, I’ve kind of had an irrational fear of giant squids. Yeah, you read that right. Squids. The giant kind. I don’t know what it means, so don’t ask me. I suspect it’s probably some kind of weird sexual thing, like every other phobia and fear out there. Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have had sex with that giant squid back in the day.
*I loved that feeling of danger I would get when I went trick-or-treating in the suburbs as a kid. The sun would start going down, and we had already hit up everyone in our neighborhood for candy. Some of them twice. So we would start venturing over into the OTHER neighborhoods... It was never spoken, but there was always a clear line separating "home turf" from the "strange and alien worlds" of the suburbs we didn't know. We felt like we were really taking our lives into our own hands by crossing the "line," even though we were probably less than a quarter of a mile away in reality. The air would start getting colder and there was something very forbidden about it all. You never knew if the weird people who lived in the giant brown house at the end of a cul-de-sac no one ever went down were going to ax you to death and feed you to that dog barking its ass off in their backyard. And then, inevitably, you'd stay out too damn late and have to start making your way back in the dark. Sometimes, you'd knock on people's doors and you could barely find the way up to their house because they had the audacity to turn off their lights!!! Having a young, undeveloped noggin we didn't understand this was courtesy-speak for "It's time to stop trick-or-treating, kids." We were undeterred!!! How dare they turn off their lights at 10:30pm? Didn't they know Halloween officially runs until Midnight on All Saints Day!!??? Hey, spare the candy corn lady! I don't care if you gotta work in the morning. Bastards.
*The coolest person in the neighborhood back in the day would give out Marathon bars. They were like 19 feet long, I think. You could work on one of those a month or two, easy. Anything after the house giving out Marathon bars was truly anti-climatic. Snickers??? The "fun size?" They should have just called it the "lame size," for a little truth in advertising. And they're getting smaller too! I think nowadays they're roughly the size of, oh, an electron particle. The worst part of that is, the candy bar both exists and DOESN'T exist until you actually open your candy bag and look at it!!! That's quantum physics humour, kiddies.
Now get out there and invoke the wrath of evil spirits by emulating their form!
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