Falling Over the Line... Ass First!

It has come to my attention, thought a recent discussion with my mother, that I collect four things: CDs, band t-shirts, ticket stubs and underwear. Admittedly, one of these things is not like the others, but lets set aside the undies for, perhaps, a later blog. The three that remain, when added together, would suggest that I am infatuated with live music.
All my recreational funds, or ‘beer money’ as my dad likes to call it, goes towards consuming music at its various points of purchase. My friends often question how I can afford it, to which I reply that my clothing style – faded, holey jeans and band t-shirts – is less emblematic of wanting to seem ‘rock n’ roll’ and more symptomatic of the rock and roll lifestyle itself.
I’ll see anything or anyone if there is cash in my pocket to pay for the ticket (except Gwar and the like – I prefer not to be splattered in faux-blood and spit upon.) From Bon Jovi to Bad Religion, from Snow Patrol to the Arctic Monkeys, from Willie Nelson to Christina Aguilera and back again, I have seen a wallet-seizing amount of shows. But I have never, ever crossed the line from enthusiastic audience member to groupie – until two weeks ago Thursday:

September 13th, 2007 -- Mute Math @ the Dinwoodie Lounge

I, ever so uncharacteristically, forgot to pick up the tickets. I panicked, but the day, at least so far, had a sense of destiny to it, a quality that can only be described as providential. As fate would have it, upon our arrival at the Dinwoodie Lounge there was a will call list at the door - so I, along with my two companions, Candace and Michelle, rocked on!
Inside the place was packed. Lights, set deep into the ceiling, gave the Lounge a tiny twinkle. I surveyed the scene, checking for the beer gardens, the merch desk and stage visibility. For my 5’6” stature, the majority of my follow fans seemed to be prohibitively tall guys, which I think you can explain by the fact that Mute Math's song 'Typical' was stolen for use as the Transformers’ theme song. Boys with toys, eh? But such things as actually being able to see the performance were to be handled later – first we drink!

Less dedicated fans milled about the jardin. I got in line to get a bevy and was greeted by a bright eyed bartender. I smiled.
“Rye and coke, please” I said.
She smiled. Then she picked up a clear bottle with a clear liquid inside. I stopped her.
“Oh. I said rye and coke.”
“You want dark rye?” she asked. Another smile. I thought about how to respond. Her big blue eyes were clearly far too innocent to know the difference between rye and rum.
“Yes. The dark rye. Please.”
She looked at the labels of a couple bottles, finally finding ‘the dark rye’ and I got my drink.

Again I say fortune was on our side, as we found a spot within the confines of the beer gardens, right at the side of the stage.
From our position we saw the stage in its entirety, albeit sideways. A standing bass lay down near the rear. Bass drums were cradled above the ground in stands with mallets placed near by, waiting. The drummer’s kit was, a-traditionally, placed to the side on the stage, instead of near the back. Curious as to how they were going to navigate the organized chaos that was their set-up, we watched most intently.

To be continued...

Top Three Audiences!!

Artists, writers, musicians, actors etc. are all open targets for scrutiny. The logic being that if you want to present your wares to the public, you also sign some invisible contract saying you are willing to be lambasted by anyone with an internet connection and is cocky enough to think they're opinion carries some sort of weight.

Now critics can be helpful. If they're good at what they do, they point us all in the right direction, leading us towards a good play or a good book--making sure your money is well spent. Or, alternatively, they help us avoid duds.

But our moods and how we allow ourselves to respond to the artistic material we are presented with can effect our opinions. ie. a headache, or a series of unfortunate events, can leave a CD smashed into a thousands little pieces against our steering wheel.

This is especially true in the context of a live concert. Musicians have noted time and time again that they 'feed off the audience,' and so if the audience has a collective headache, the band can only do so much. So with this in mind, and the desire to give all those hard working, hyper-sensitive (and that's why we love 'em) musicians a break I present to you my top three audiences. Time to turn the tables:

The Forty-Year-Old Women Audience:

They are the best. They haven't been out in far to long and considering the various responsibilities you collect every time you reach another decade, they won't be out again anytime soon. It took many a phone call to find a babysitter, and they're always twenty minutes late because they couldn't get away from work on time. Not to mention rush hour.

While you may find one or two hardcores at random shows about town, this audience will consolidate at arena extravaganzas put on by their favourite band from their twenties. Try Bryan Adams or Bon Jovi.

Having long since left high school, they don't care what anybody thinks. They are fully aware that they are here for a good time and not a long time. They are loud, cause they haven't been loud in years, but respectful, cause they are adults after all. And if you're lucky you can come along for the ride.

Punks:

This seems counter-intuitive. Punks are badasses right? Well yes, but they are also the most aware of just how much damage a good show can do. They've all lost shoes, broken glasses, sprained ankles or rearranged their facial structure on someone else's shoulder, so they are extra sensitive to their surroundings.

The point is to have fun and let a little anger out at the concert so it doesn't spew itself all over their boss, their significant other or any other random human being they encounter. Really it's therapy - like Oprah, only black is always the new black.

It all equals that, in general, when you attend your local punk show, you are far more likely to be treated with respect (then say at the nearest hair-pulling, nail gashing, teen-queen concert), that is, if you treat those around you with respect. As the punk adage goes "If someone falls down, you pick 'em back up!"

The All Ages Rock Concert:

If you can get over the fact you can't carry your bevy just anywhere, there are plenty-o-advantage at the all ages show.

First, avoidance. You don't have to deal with the guy who is just there to drink with his buddies. That guy doesn't even know the name of the band he paid thirty bucks to see, that guy won't even be paying attention 2/3 of the time and that guy is only looking for a 'socially excepted' excuse to act like a jackass. And that guy isn't coming if he can't get shit faced.

Second, height. Kids are short. You can see over top of their tiny little bodies. Enough said.

Third, joy. The more you attend concerts the more jaded you get. The next show you see has to be even bigger and better then the last or else you walk away disappointed. But to young'uns this is all new, exciting and spectacular. No parents, it's dark, lots of people everywhere - it's enough to send them into a tizzy even before the band takes the strange. And excitement is infectious. If the kids around you are having a blast, you are far more likely to drop the blah-attitude you adopted somewhere in between show number 47 and 48, and join in. Plus they are loud enough for both of you, so while they're ripping at their vocal cords trying to show their appreciation, you can slip back into the beer gardens and the band won't be the wiser.

That's it. The audiences that make a concert ticket worth paying for. So next time you go to a show and it seems like your favourite musicians are struggling, take a look around. It could be you've stumbled onto a lame crowd, not a lame band.

Coming Soon... Top Three Worst Audiences!

On How I'm Planning on Meeting Al Gore...

I am sorry to say the 'Test Driving A Car Experiment' will be delayed. My driver called in sick. Remember me... I'm the one who hates driving.

On that note, I'd like to say there is nothing quite like publicly admitting your odd, socially stunting fears to a group of strangers within hours of meeting them. I think I'm going to start telling people I'm morally against cars - that it's against my enviroligion. Not only will people stop looking at me funny, it would be very au courant of me. Like wearing one of those little rubber bracelets. Maybe I should go test drive a bike? Maybe if I'm good I'll meet Al Gore?

Speaking of my new buddy Al, did anyone else notice that the bands at Live Earth were drinking out of plastic water bottles? Even if, as they said, they were the super biodegradable kind, wouldn't it have still been better to drink out of a Nalgene bottle or something similar? That's something I'd like to see - beat up, worn out Nalgene bottles with 'Dave Grohl' and 'Madonna' written across them in black Sharpie, complete with decorative Nirvana stickers on the side.

Just a thought.

Anyhoo... I'll be back with the 'earth murdering experiment' later.

On Stupidity and Ugly Honesty...

In the spirit of academic honesty I should probably introduce this blog by explaining it's title:

I stole it. I like to think I salvaged it - a kind of literary dumpster diving. It was stuck between the word 'need' and a period, nearly hidden, in an article on The National in Rolling Stone Magazine. The National's singer was describing his lyrical style:

The regrets and embarrassments are more interesting than running through fields holding hands. I need stupidity and ugly honesty. Otherwise it doesn't seem real.

I mentally plucked the phrase from it's place on the glossy white pages of Rolling Stone, with the intention of shining it up and finding a more prominent home for it someday. I always thought it would have been a great name for an album, but seeing as I won't be releasing an LP anytime soon, my blog will have to suffice.

I am, in fact, always collecting 'CD titles.' If you've known me long enough, you've probably contributed in someway; unwittingly removed of your words. I grab at sound waves (conversations, passing remarks, thoughtless sentences strewn away) and scribble them on post its, receipts, corners of notebooks - anything available before they bounce off into nothingness. Some of my favorites include:

My Mom Burnt My Toast and My Socks Are To Tight (clearly an album title patiently waiting for post-emo to be invented.)
It's Warm Cause it's Human (for a quirky singer-song writer.)
Abandoned in Panic (a socially aware, yet self-conscious punk band, mayhaps?)

There is a part of me that feels a little guilty about my thieving ways. (It should be noted that all contributors are aware of their, hmm... donations. Except The National.) But if taken in a larger context all the words I've ever written are stolen - from the way an aging man lurches a tired heart down the street. The way one of my film studies classmates uses his hands to physically push his point on to the class, only to turn his fingers in, adding a subtle caveat. The way my friend Saleena never misses a chance to laugh, always pointing out when my own words can be misconstrued and alternatively used. 'Squirreling' then, at least in my experience, is a necessary skill for a writer. Perhaps the only skill. Hopefully a forgivable kind of thieving.

Hey, Rolling Stone stole its name from Muddy Waters - kinda.

It should be noted that my friend Saleena wants to be a pirate when she grows up. Maybe she should give some thought to writing?