Most bands have been in this situation – You've got to share the bill with five other acts, the venue provided pizza, but everyone has to share the backstage area, and your band is stuck in the opening slot. The house lights are still up, so you can see the layout of the crowd, along with the sound guy giving you the finger as you turn up your amp to a suitable level. The people in the crowd don't know this, but you know exactly why everyone is where they are. Here's a breakdown of the crowd, and the bullshit excuses they concoct for being there.
Stage Left: Close friends and girlfriends/boyfriends of the band who snuck backstage and didn't pay to get in by claiming to be roadies. Not all stagehands are burly men – some can be women in leggings and knee-high boots.
When asked why they're there: "OK, I'm not a roadie, I'm an official band photographer!"
Stage Right: Members of the other bands mentally critiquing the hell out of the performers. "The drummer looks like he started playing yesterday, the guitarist can't shred worth a shit, and their bassist… well he's ok I guess." They also look at your equipment and compare it to theirs. "Sure that Marshall JCM 800 is nicer than my Crate Combo, but tone doesn't matter when you can play with as much soul as I do".
When asked why they're there: " Oh, we're huge supporters of local music. These guys really tear it up; their drummer looks like he's been playing for years."
Front Row/Leaning Against the Stage: People who want to fuck the singer.
When asked why they're there: " They're my favorite band ever! They're going to be seriously famous one day, and I'm a great friend of the band. Just ask them, they invite me to every one of their parties; I'm even really close with their girlfriends. Aren't they just so great?" (They also tend to have very creepy smiles.)
Middle/General Standing Room: Tough guys and people you wouldn't expect to be at the show trying to start mosh pits at inappropriate times. Girls who came with their boyfriends are often in this area, because they don't care enough to get into the show, but still want to be seen looking cool.
When asked why they're there: " I figured I would come to at least one of their shows – I mean, I went to high school with the drummer" or " My boyfriend/girlfriend really likes them, and I'm just tagging along because I love doing things he/she loves with him/her.
Back Row/Bar Area: People who came for the drink specials, hipsters who think your band sold out by playing this show, and family members.
When asked why they're there:
"Dude, DOLLAR SHOTS!"
"Man, I saw these guys back when they were playing house parties and releasing cassettes. I'm just here to show my disapproval of their desire for fame and write about it on my favorite blog. It's called PopSense; my name's Arian."
"Oh, I just love hearing my baby sing! I remember Christmas '98, when we bought him a Backstreet Boys karaoke machine; he just sang his little heart out!"
Standing Against the Wall: People who aren't on the bill, but probably in a band, and probably playing the next show. They're generally doing the same thing as the people standing at Stage Right. They don't necessarily dislike the band; they just dislike the fact that it's not them onstage.
When asked why they're there: " I'm just waiting for my friend's band to come on. These guys are good, but wait until you hear [the next band]! My band is playing here next week; you should come check us out. I think you'd love our sound."
Bathroom: People trying to deactivate the smoke alarms, the neighborhood drug dealer trying to make some easy money, and girls prettying up after noticing one bead of sweat on their brow.
When asked why they're there:
Men's room: "I don't know who's playing, but I do know that you won't find a better deal on Ecstasy anywhere in the city, so buy some pills or beat it asshole."
Women's room: "Fuck! My leggings are torn! I look like a whore now." (For the record – the birthday cake on your face makes you look like a whore. The torn leggings are actually cool.)
Outside the Club: Kids whose fake ID's were rejected by the bouncer.
When asked why they're there: " Seriously, it's real! Raphael Donatello is my real name! I'm from Intercourse, Pennsylvania and I was born in 1987. I'm old enough to be here, now let me in before I call my older brother – he's friends with the owner!"
Monday, February 9, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
An Open Letter to Warner Music Group
To Whom It May Concern:
The other day, I was perusing YouTube (as I often do in lecture halls), searching for something to keep myself entertained. I had come across a video that I hadn't seen in a while – "Dead Star" by Muse. As I put my headphones on and clicked the link, I was startled to discover that there was no audio. Surely my speakers were broken or my headphones were in the wrong input – but no. My Macbook wasn't failing me and my ears weren't deceiving me. There was actually no audio.
Being an Art/Film major, I was flabbergasted. Your grand, artistic statement of taking out the music in music videos not only brought back the golden sentiment of the silent film, but also called back to the rebellious and wild Surrealists. Rene Magritte looked at a pipe and said, "Ceci n'est pas un pipe". You looked at a music video and said, " Ceci n'est pas un chanson". The statement is profound, if not utterly genius.
My friends think you're all assholes for doing this. They think that you're a good-for-nothing borderline monopoly whose outdated techniques and failure to adapt to a changing musical world left you bitter and cynical toward your consumers, but they just don't get it. I understand you. I understand art. I have been so inspired by your brilliance that I've begun to apply your method to my everyday happenings. I've taken all the sleeves off my sweaters, stripped my car of its interior, and only use the camera setting of my phone. It's minimal. It's surreal. It's pure genius. I thank you WMG for all that you've done, and hope that your future artistic endeavors prove to be as respectable as this one.
Regards,
Arian Murati
The other day, I was perusing YouTube (as I often do in lecture halls), searching for something to keep myself entertained. I had come across a video that I hadn't seen in a while – "Dead Star" by Muse. As I put my headphones on and clicked the link, I was startled to discover that there was no audio. Surely my speakers were broken or my headphones were in the wrong input – but no. My Macbook wasn't failing me and my ears weren't deceiving me. There was actually no audio.
Being an Art/Film major, I was flabbergasted. Your grand, artistic statement of taking out the music in music videos not only brought back the golden sentiment of the silent film, but also called back to the rebellious and wild Surrealists. Rene Magritte looked at a pipe and said, "Ceci n'est pas un pipe". You looked at a music video and said, " Ceci n'est pas un chanson". The statement is profound, if not utterly genius.
My friends think you're all assholes for doing this. They think that you're a good-for-nothing borderline monopoly whose outdated techniques and failure to adapt to a changing musical world left you bitter and cynical toward your consumers, but they just don't get it. I understand you. I understand art. I have been so inspired by your brilliance that I've begun to apply your method to my everyday happenings. I've taken all the sleeves off my sweaters, stripped my car of its interior, and only use the camera setting of my phone. It's minimal. It's surreal. It's pure genius. I thank you WMG for all that you've done, and hope that your future artistic endeavors prove to be as respectable as this one.
Regards,
Arian Murati
Monday, January 26, 2009
Urban Decay
My friends are horrible people. Whenever we have to drive into a run-down neighborhood, I’m almost always the one who has to get out of the car, approach the homeless guy, look casual while he’s buying our booze, and overpay him for his services. The reason? According to one of my friends, the answer is twofold:
1. I was raised in lower income neighborhoods than they were
2. I look foreign
I was born in Hackensack. I was raised in Passaic, and later Garfield. My parents wanted me to go to better schools and moved into the whitest, scared-of-black-people-est suburb ever: Wyckoff. The fact that I come from a working-class background does not make me compatible with homeless people. When three pale-faced teenagers pull up, appear to argue for a bit in the car, and one person finally walks out, the following conversation will not take place between a homeless man and myself-
Me:
“Good day my friend! I’ve come here to offer you a sum of money in exchange for your services. You see, I’m underage, and cannot walk into the liquor store behind you to purchase a 30 case of Miller Light so that my friends and I can drive back into the suburbs, drink it, and attempt to seduce women at the party. But of course you know this, because you stand out here every day waiting for people like me. This is how you make money, and I like your business ethic.”
Homeless Man:
“Well, I certainly appreciate it. I’ve set up shop here daily for a few years now, as this is prime real estate. It’s not too far into the city, so your friends have a manageable escape route in the event of a sudden gang shooting. I’ve also made a deal with the manager; one in which I give him a portion of my earnings so he doesn’t tell local law enforcement about this situation. I can tell that you, unlike your friends in the car, have had experience in a neighborhood like this. You can certainly fit in around here. You and I should meet up sometime; maybe discuss some of Descartes’ views on rationalism.”
In a much less comical way, the first assumption is wrong. I do, however, look foreign. I could pass off as being French or from anywhere in Eastern Europe, so my friend is half right. Either way, it doesn’t help in a dangerous situation, like the one I’m about to tell you about.
It was my first “college” party. If your definition of “college party” is a party at the parentless house of a friend of a friend who was a college student, then this was a college party. What was originally a plan to go to the shore for the night ended up being a night of debauchery and dangerous maneuvers, and partially the reason why I don’t walk up to homeless people to ask for a favor without totally assessing my surroundings. This is a half-story-half-advise column article.
One day, during the summer going into my junior year of high school, a close friend of mine invited me to go down the shore (that’s how we say “go to the beach” around here, fuck off) with him and a few friends. I’ve never been much of a beachgoer, but I agreed to go. A few days before the scheduled trip, my friend got a phone call from a friend of his, who informed him that his parents were going away for the weekend, and he was having a party. Never one to skip a beat, he convinced me to go with him and party like it was 1999. Excited, I packed my stuff ahead of time for the first time ever, and prepared myself for my first college party.
Fast forward a bit, and we’re there. I expected togas, naked women, and enough beer to drown a frat. In all reality, there was none of that. When we arrived, there were only a handful of people there (most of them my age), only three girls, and no beer. Allow me to reiterate: NO BEER. I lied to my parents about my whereabouts for this? I was immediately regretting this decision, but was assured that we were going on a beer run. We all crammed into two cars and made our way to Trenton, a city that I had only been to on school trips, and was now about to enter a world of trouble. At this time, I also realized that we were nowhere near Sandy Hook.
As we drove closer and closer to Trenton, the buildings became more in need of renovation, and light posts were scarce. The city that I remember was home to our state government was now a decaying, dangerous hellhole. As we pulled up to the liquor store, my younger brother, and my buddy’s younger brother were sitting in the back seat, looking rather uncomfortable.
“I’ll keep the car running. You stay in the driver’s seat just in case anything happens”-he says to me. I didn’t have my license yet, but a learner’s permit was good enough for him. The second car pulled up behind us, so it was go time. The two oldest guys get out of the cars and walk into the liquor store, but only one went in and my friend came back to his car. I then slid back over to the front passenger seat. A man meandered over to the car and stood there for a bit. I didn’t move a muscle. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. Everyone in the car sat still as he walked right up to the window and started knocking. Not just any window, but my window. He started yelling in gibberish and demanded that I roll down the window and buy something called a “red top” from him for five dollars. He kept saying “red tops” as if I knew what they were. I turned to my friend in the driver’s seat (he had control of the windows) and told him to keep the windows up drive away. He, in fact, did the exact opposite. He kept the car stationary and opened my window. Did I mention that my friends were horrible people? The window wasn’t fully open, but there was enough space to reach in and inflict a decent amount of bodily harm. The conversation that followed went something like this:
Red Top Man:
“[Incoherent consonant sounds] Five dollars, man, five dollars, I got the red tops.”
Me:
“No man, I don’t need any. We’re just waiting here for my friend to come out of [the liquor store].
Red Top Man:
“Yo just listen to what I got. I got the best ones around, man, and just five dollars, get some quick man. You know, I’ll be selling these all night man.”
Me:
“Um, actually we’re just making a U-turn. (I signal to my friend to drive)
We turned around in the liquor store parking lot. The guy was still standing there talking to himself, and I was understandably furious at my friend. We circled the block a few times, waiting for the guy I didn’t know to come out with the beer. After about ten minutes, he walks outside with another man, who is carrying only one case of beer. The man opens his trunk and places the case inside. He was paid for his unnecessary services, and everyone drove off. When we all got back to the house, all sides of the experience were discussed. While I was trying to avoid getting stabbed, my acquaintance (he was bumped up to this status) in the liquor store had made numerous rookie mistakes. He looked nervous, he hesitated, and he folded under pressure. A man followed him around the store, and he paid the guy just to leave him alone. He tipped the cashier who didn’t card him, and then paid the guy who put the case into the trunk. That was why he couldn’t buy more beer. If that was how all college parties started, I wasn’t all that interested in attending any more.
The rest of the night wasn’t that bad. Everyone sat around, had a few drinks, and watched television. After a dispute over the stereo, a drunken musical debate ensued. The girls wanted to listen to Avenged Sevenfold. I politely informed them that Avenge Sevenfold sucked. Their rebuttal was a collective “You’re a fag for not liking them.” I followed this by stating the obvious. “ You’re only pretending to like them because the guys you’re trying to get with like them. I bet you’d be saying the same thing if they were wearing Cindy Lauper shirts.” I was met with silence and a few confused looks. I should have used someone less obscure than Cindy Lauper as an example.
After a few hours of sleep, we packed up our things and left for the shore in the morning. On the ride there, I heard Minus the Bear for the first time. “Pachuca Sunrise” was on one of my brothers’ mixtapes, and I just loved it. I enjoyed a typical day at the beach: getting sunburned, digging the deepest hole possible in the sand, and only going waist deep into the water. On the way back home, we stopped at a Wawa, where I purchased a liter or “Orange Drink”. It was the greatest orange-flavored anything I’ve ever had. I would live in the shore region just for Wawa. Actually, no I wouldn’t. I hate the shore.
Nowadays, whenever the story comes up, my friend will deny putting my supple torso in danger of getting stabbed, but everyone else who was in the car has my back. What is the lesson of this story? If you’re going to the inner city to purchase liquor because you’re underage, be smart about it. That’s pretty much it. Just keep your cool. You only end up in dangerous situations because you put yourself in them. Oh, and obviously, if you have a foreign-looking friend, they’re always the best ones to send outside, because they fit in. The fact that I look French worked very well in Trenton.
1. I was raised in lower income neighborhoods than they were
2. I look foreign
I was born in Hackensack. I was raised in Passaic, and later Garfield. My parents wanted me to go to better schools and moved into the whitest, scared-of-black-people-est suburb ever: Wyckoff. The fact that I come from a working-class background does not make me compatible with homeless people. When three pale-faced teenagers pull up, appear to argue for a bit in the car, and one person finally walks out, the following conversation will not take place between a homeless man and myself-
Me:
“Good day my friend! I’ve come here to offer you a sum of money in exchange for your services. You see, I’m underage, and cannot walk into the liquor store behind you to purchase a 30 case of Miller Light so that my friends and I can drive back into the suburbs, drink it, and attempt to seduce women at the party. But of course you know this, because you stand out here every day waiting for people like me. This is how you make money, and I like your business ethic.”
Homeless Man:
“Well, I certainly appreciate it. I’ve set up shop here daily for a few years now, as this is prime real estate. It’s not too far into the city, so your friends have a manageable escape route in the event of a sudden gang shooting. I’ve also made a deal with the manager; one in which I give him a portion of my earnings so he doesn’t tell local law enforcement about this situation. I can tell that you, unlike your friends in the car, have had experience in a neighborhood like this. You can certainly fit in around here. You and I should meet up sometime; maybe discuss some of Descartes’ views on rationalism.”
In a much less comical way, the first assumption is wrong. I do, however, look foreign. I could pass off as being French or from anywhere in Eastern Europe, so my friend is half right. Either way, it doesn’t help in a dangerous situation, like the one I’m about to tell you about.
It was my first “college” party. If your definition of “college party” is a party at the parentless house of a friend of a friend who was a college student, then this was a college party. What was originally a plan to go to the shore for the night ended up being a night of debauchery and dangerous maneuvers, and partially the reason why I don’t walk up to homeless people to ask for a favor without totally assessing my surroundings. This is a half-story-half-advise column article.
One day, during the summer going into my junior year of high school, a close friend of mine invited me to go down the shore (that’s how we say “go to the beach” around here, fuck off) with him and a few friends. I’ve never been much of a beachgoer, but I agreed to go. A few days before the scheduled trip, my friend got a phone call from a friend of his, who informed him that his parents were going away for the weekend, and he was having a party. Never one to skip a beat, he convinced me to go with him and party like it was 1999. Excited, I packed my stuff ahead of time for the first time ever, and prepared myself for my first college party.
Fast forward a bit, and we’re there. I expected togas, naked women, and enough beer to drown a frat. In all reality, there was none of that. When we arrived, there were only a handful of people there (most of them my age), only three girls, and no beer. Allow me to reiterate: NO BEER. I lied to my parents about my whereabouts for this? I was immediately regretting this decision, but was assured that we were going on a beer run. We all crammed into two cars and made our way to Trenton, a city that I had only been to on school trips, and was now about to enter a world of trouble. At this time, I also realized that we were nowhere near Sandy Hook.
As we drove closer and closer to Trenton, the buildings became more in need of renovation, and light posts were scarce. The city that I remember was home to our state government was now a decaying, dangerous hellhole. As we pulled up to the liquor store, my younger brother, and my buddy’s younger brother were sitting in the back seat, looking rather uncomfortable.
“I’ll keep the car running. You stay in the driver’s seat just in case anything happens”-he says to me. I didn’t have my license yet, but a learner’s permit was good enough for him. The second car pulled up behind us, so it was go time. The two oldest guys get out of the cars and walk into the liquor store, but only one went in and my friend came back to his car. I then slid back over to the front passenger seat. A man meandered over to the car and stood there for a bit. I didn’t move a muscle. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. Everyone in the car sat still as he walked right up to the window and started knocking. Not just any window, but my window. He started yelling in gibberish and demanded that I roll down the window and buy something called a “red top” from him for five dollars. He kept saying “red tops” as if I knew what they were. I turned to my friend in the driver’s seat (he had control of the windows) and told him to keep the windows up drive away. He, in fact, did the exact opposite. He kept the car stationary and opened my window. Did I mention that my friends were horrible people? The window wasn’t fully open, but there was enough space to reach in and inflict a decent amount of bodily harm. The conversation that followed went something like this:
Red Top Man:
“[Incoherent consonant sounds] Five dollars, man, five dollars, I got the red tops.”
Me:
“No man, I don’t need any. We’re just waiting here for my friend to come out of [the liquor store].
Red Top Man:
“Yo just listen to what I got. I got the best ones around, man, and just five dollars, get some quick man. You know, I’ll be selling these all night man.”
Me:
“Um, actually we’re just making a U-turn. (I signal to my friend to drive)
We turned around in the liquor store parking lot. The guy was still standing there talking to himself, and I was understandably furious at my friend. We circled the block a few times, waiting for the guy I didn’t know to come out with the beer. After about ten minutes, he walks outside with another man, who is carrying only one case of beer. The man opens his trunk and places the case inside. He was paid for his unnecessary services, and everyone drove off. When we all got back to the house, all sides of the experience were discussed. While I was trying to avoid getting stabbed, my acquaintance (he was bumped up to this status) in the liquor store had made numerous rookie mistakes. He looked nervous, he hesitated, and he folded under pressure. A man followed him around the store, and he paid the guy just to leave him alone. He tipped the cashier who didn’t card him, and then paid the guy who put the case into the trunk. That was why he couldn’t buy more beer. If that was how all college parties started, I wasn’t all that interested in attending any more.
The rest of the night wasn’t that bad. Everyone sat around, had a few drinks, and watched television. After a dispute over the stereo, a drunken musical debate ensued. The girls wanted to listen to Avenged Sevenfold. I politely informed them that Avenge Sevenfold sucked. Their rebuttal was a collective “You’re a fag for not liking them.” I followed this by stating the obvious. “ You’re only pretending to like them because the guys you’re trying to get with like them. I bet you’d be saying the same thing if they were wearing Cindy Lauper shirts.” I was met with silence and a few confused looks. I should have used someone less obscure than Cindy Lauper as an example.
After a few hours of sleep, we packed up our things and left for the shore in the morning. On the ride there, I heard Minus the Bear for the first time. “Pachuca Sunrise” was on one of my brothers’ mixtapes, and I just loved it. I enjoyed a typical day at the beach: getting sunburned, digging the deepest hole possible in the sand, and only going waist deep into the water. On the way back home, we stopped at a Wawa, where I purchased a liter or “Orange Drink”. It was the greatest orange-flavored anything I’ve ever had. I would live in the shore region just for Wawa. Actually, no I wouldn’t. I hate the shore.
Nowadays, whenever the story comes up, my friend will deny putting my supple torso in danger of getting stabbed, but everyone else who was in the car has my back. What is the lesson of this story? If you’re going to the inner city to purchase liquor because you’re underage, be smart about it. That’s pretty much it. Just keep your cool. You only end up in dangerous situations because you put yourself in them. Oh, and obviously, if you have a foreign-looking friend, they’re always the best ones to send outside, because they fit in. The fact that I look French worked very well in Trenton.
Existentialism On The Parkway
The following inner monologue takes place on the Garden State Parkway. It’s a hot August afternoon. Rush hour traffic spans for miles, and the sun is beating down on my car. The times are relative.
5:08 – Everyone knows you can’t hit the Parkway without running into traffic somewhere. I’ve been driving for a while now- I’m surprised this hasn’t started sooner. At least I’ve got some good CD’s to keep me company.
5:11- Holy shit it’s hot. I’d like to turn on my air conditioner, but I don’t want to waste gas – but if I open my windows, I’ll smell nothing but tires and sweaty families on their way to Seaside Heights. Whatever, I’ll just turn on the A/C for a bit.
5:15 – “WOOOOAAAAHHHHH, WE’RE HALFWAY THERREEE, WOOO- OAAAHH, LIIIIVIN ON A PRAAAYERRR, TAAKE MAH HAAND, AND WE’LL MAKE IT I SWEAAAR!” I can’t believe this is on the radio. How cliché. I don’t care. I’m singing it anyway. I bet half the people around me are as well. I just don’t want to look. I hate being caught singing in the car, so I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Eh, maybe I’ll have a quick look around.
5:18- Fuck tolls. Seriously. How is it that we’re still paying off highways that were built fifty years ago? Look at all those assholes just breezing by in the EZ Pass lane. They don’t know what it’s like to wait. They just drive around, without a care in the world, unaware of us blue-collar exact-changers. They’ll see. They’ll all see. Once this traffic lets up, I’ll be weaving between those minivans and sedans like it’s nothing. Oh, you’re too good to wait with the rest of us? FEEL THE WRATH OF MY HONDA FIT.
5:22- It’s letting up! It’s letting up! It’s letting up!
5:24- Fuck me- Bumper to bumper.
5:28 – How many bumper stickers do you need?! Let’s see, you’re into Jesus, John McCain, and saving souls. Your “abortion is murder” sticker really gets the point across, but the “Jesus is my backseat driver” sticker is both overkill and entirely unfunny. First of all, you’re implying that your supposed lord and savior is that annoying guy from the office giving you directions to his house because his car is in the shop; he’s offering you a quicker route that you know is totally longer, but you drive anyway upon his insistence just to shut him up. Second of all, everyone clearly thinks you’re crazy. Do you really expect to convert people like that? Traffic is in a stand-still, maybe I’ll get out and talk to you about my beliefs. “Here you are ma’am. It’s a copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus. I think you might like it. Also, it’d be great if you came to Planned Parenthood with me. My girlfriend is having her fifth abortion, and we’re having a party.” Alright, we’re moving now. I’m taking this too far; I’ll just cut her off. Enjoy my Obama/Biden sticker.
5:35- Oh, wonderful. It’s raining now. I really don’t understand why people think it’s impossible to drive in these conditions. “Oh, shit it’s raining, what do I do?! Maybe I’ll get as close to the middle divider as possible for a little while, then merge without looking. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Seriously, it’s just a little summertime rain, and someone always crashes. Traffic is going to be backed up for another three hours, pissing everyone off, and sparking a sleuth of horns and middle fingers in its general direction. The cop cars are going to weave between and/or part traffic, backing it up even more. Let’s try and stay positive.
5:38 – It’s not a crash. It’s construction. Four lanes are about to merge into one, and all hell is breaking loose. Why is it that they put up “Your Tax Dollars at Work” signs, when all this does is inconvenience me? I need a brighter outlook on things. Where is my cheerful mixtape?
5:40 – “ALL I WANNA DO ISSSS BIIIICYCLEE, BIIIICYCLEEE BIIIICYCLE, I WANT TO RIDE MY BIIIICYCLE.”
5:45 – Two more exits -Just two more exits. I can do this. Game face Arian, game face. I wonder if anyone around me is famous. Last year Chris cut off Redman on the way to Starland for the Silverchair show, which was fantastic. What if Jon Stewart were sitting idly in traffic next to me. Would I roll down my window and say hello? Do I give him a casual nod? Does he even live in New Jersey anymore?
5:51- Ok. Here’s my exit. Approach with caution. You don’t want these people to think you’re weak, and can’t handle the Parkway. Make it look like you’re supposed to be somewhere. What does that sign say? FUCK THIS ISN’T MY EXIT!
5:53- Where the hell am I? How do I get back on the Parkway? I don’t want to ask for directions. They’ll eat me alive out there. Alright, focus. You can do this. Find a U-Turn and kick it back onto the Parkway for one more exit. You’re an idiot for taking the wrong exit. Fuck you inner thoughts.
5:58- Found it! All I have to do is take this onramp, and go for one….damnit…traffic again.
6:00 – If I had the chance to meet Hannah Montana in person, I would tell her she sucks. I’m sure a lot of people really want to do that, but never have the guts to actually say it to her face. I really would. I’ve got nothing to lose. Could she sue me for slander if I’m not lying? Her dad pioneered the Appalachian mullet, what has she pioneered? Nothing. While I’m at it, I would demand that she take me to her keepers at the Disney Corporation and demand a Lion King remake.
6:03- Ok, I’ve taken the right exit. I’m home free.
6:04- “AAAND I’M GRIINDIN’ TILL I’M TIRED, CAUSE THEY SAY YOU AIN’T GRRIINDIN TILL YOU DIE, SO I’M GRIINDIN WIT MY EYES WIIIDE, LOOKIN’ T’FIND A WAY THROUGH THE DAY, A LIGHT FO THE NIIIGHT” I don’t relate to this song at all.
5:08 – Everyone knows you can’t hit the Parkway without running into traffic somewhere. I’ve been driving for a while now- I’m surprised this hasn’t started sooner. At least I’ve got some good CD’s to keep me company.
5:11- Holy shit it’s hot. I’d like to turn on my air conditioner, but I don’t want to waste gas – but if I open my windows, I’ll smell nothing but tires and sweaty families on their way to Seaside Heights. Whatever, I’ll just turn on the A/C for a bit.
5:15 – “WOOOOAAAAHHHHH, WE’RE HALFWAY THERREEE, WOOO- OAAAHH, LIIIIVIN ON A PRAAAYERRR, TAAKE MAH HAAND, AND WE’LL MAKE IT I SWEAAAR!” I can’t believe this is on the radio. How cliché. I don’t care. I’m singing it anyway. I bet half the people around me are as well. I just don’t want to look. I hate being caught singing in the car, so I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Eh, maybe I’ll have a quick look around.
5:18- Fuck tolls. Seriously. How is it that we’re still paying off highways that were built fifty years ago? Look at all those assholes just breezing by in the EZ Pass lane. They don’t know what it’s like to wait. They just drive around, without a care in the world, unaware of us blue-collar exact-changers. They’ll see. They’ll all see. Once this traffic lets up, I’ll be weaving between those minivans and sedans like it’s nothing. Oh, you’re too good to wait with the rest of us? FEEL THE WRATH OF MY HONDA FIT.
5:22- It’s letting up! It’s letting up! It’s letting up!
5:24- Fuck me- Bumper to bumper.
5:28 – How many bumper stickers do you need?! Let’s see, you’re into Jesus, John McCain, and saving souls. Your “abortion is murder” sticker really gets the point across, but the “Jesus is my backseat driver” sticker is both overkill and entirely unfunny. First of all, you’re implying that your supposed lord and savior is that annoying guy from the office giving you directions to his house because his car is in the shop; he’s offering you a quicker route that you know is totally longer, but you drive anyway upon his insistence just to shut him up. Second of all, everyone clearly thinks you’re crazy. Do you really expect to convert people like that? Traffic is in a stand-still, maybe I’ll get out and talk to you about my beliefs. “Here you are ma’am. It’s a copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus. I think you might like it. Also, it’d be great if you came to Planned Parenthood with me. My girlfriend is having her fifth abortion, and we’re having a party.” Alright, we’re moving now. I’m taking this too far; I’ll just cut her off. Enjoy my Obama/Biden sticker.
5:35- Oh, wonderful. It’s raining now. I really don’t understand why people think it’s impossible to drive in these conditions. “Oh, shit it’s raining, what do I do?! Maybe I’ll get as close to the middle divider as possible for a little while, then merge without looking. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Seriously, it’s just a little summertime rain, and someone always crashes. Traffic is going to be backed up for another three hours, pissing everyone off, and sparking a sleuth of horns and middle fingers in its general direction. The cop cars are going to weave between and/or part traffic, backing it up even more. Let’s try and stay positive.
5:38 – It’s not a crash. It’s construction. Four lanes are about to merge into one, and all hell is breaking loose. Why is it that they put up “Your Tax Dollars at Work” signs, when all this does is inconvenience me? I need a brighter outlook on things. Where is my cheerful mixtape?
5:40 – “ALL I WANNA DO ISSSS BIIIICYCLEE, BIIIICYCLEEE BIIIICYCLE, I WANT TO RIDE MY BIIIICYCLE.”
5:45 – Two more exits -Just two more exits. I can do this. Game face Arian, game face. I wonder if anyone around me is famous. Last year Chris cut off Redman on the way to Starland for the Silverchair show, which was fantastic. What if Jon Stewart were sitting idly in traffic next to me. Would I roll down my window and say hello? Do I give him a casual nod? Does he even live in New Jersey anymore?
5:51- Ok. Here’s my exit. Approach with caution. You don’t want these people to think you’re weak, and can’t handle the Parkway. Make it look like you’re supposed to be somewhere. What does that sign say? FUCK THIS ISN’T MY EXIT!
5:53- Where the hell am I? How do I get back on the Parkway? I don’t want to ask for directions. They’ll eat me alive out there. Alright, focus. You can do this. Find a U-Turn and kick it back onto the Parkway for one more exit. You’re an idiot for taking the wrong exit. Fuck you inner thoughts.
5:58- Found it! All I have to do is take this onramp, and go for one….damnit…traffic again.
6:00 – If I had the chance to meet Hannah Montana in person, I would tell her she sucks. I’m sure a lot of people really want to do that, but never have the guts to actually say it to her face. I really would. I’ve got nothing to lose. Could she sue me for slander if I’m not lying? Her dad pioneered the Appalachian mullet, what has she pioneered? Nothing. While I’m at it, I would demand that she take me to her keepers at the Disney Corporation and demand a Lion King remake.
6:03- Ok, I’ve taken the right exit. I’m home free.
6:04- “AAAND I’M GRIINDIN’ TILL I’M TIRED, CAUSE THEY SAY YOU AIN’T GRRIINDIN TILL YOU DIE, SO I’M GRIINDIN WIT MY EYES WIIIDE, LOOKIN’ T’FIND A WAY THROUGH THE DAY, A LIGHT FO THE NIIIGHT” I don’t relate to this song at all.
Say No To Local Music
For a state where Bruce Springsteen would win a gubernatorial election in a landslide (he couldn’t be reached to accept my nomination), New Jersey sure as hell produces some absolutely horrible bands nowadays. Jersey gave birth to Donald Fagen, Zakk Wylde, George Clinton, and a myriad of other musicians who would be considered irrelevant to every other band I mention in this piece. This decade has seen the rise of My Chemical Romance (who are NOT from Newark, no matter what they say), The Jonas Brothers (who will feel the wrath of my scorn in a later piece), and enough pop-punk clones to make Sid Vicious look like a competent bassist. But these “heavyweights” aren’t really the ones bringing us down, it’s the local bands. There are more bands in New Jersey than homeless people in Camden, stolen cars in Newark, and octogenarians at the Atlantic City slot machines combined, but enough with the clever comparisons.
Being that I’m a North Jersey guy, everything south of Trenton (with the exception of the shore region) might as well be a part of the Confederacy. Most of the bands I’ll be focusing on are from Bergen and Passaic counties, and I won’t use any specific names, because many of them are still very active, and still very talentless. Instead, I’ll be focusing on the “scene” as a whole, analyzing the ins and outs of a group of musicians (who just started bands), tagalongs (the ones who haven’t started bands yet), and their fans (who won’t start a band for at least another year).
Things start to get serious around 2004, when the locals started cramming en masse into VFW’s and Knights of Columbus halls to see the same five or six variations of the same band. Musically, these bands haven’t matured beyond sixteen, and thus, sound like Jimmy Eat World at a Blink-182 convention. These are men in their early to mid twenties singing about high school-era problems, and getting high school age responses. Most of the people at these shows are between the ages of 15 and 19, white, upper-middle class, and shockingly unaware of the homogeny. The girls do that odd sway maneuver while some of the guys try to get mosh pits started. The bands will play their sets, load their equipment back into their vans, and come back next week. Their friends will invite their friends, and the scene will grow with every passing show, until it becomes a parody of itself and the kids move on.
How did I get into this? I had two friends who were in bands, and one friend who just liked being places. I often found myself at these shows because my friends were there, and when you don’t have a license, you just tend to end up wherever there is something going on. At the time, I was just getting out of my life-consuming Nirvana phase, and entering my Black Flag phase, so needless to say, I wasn’t going to be all that interested in the music. Here’s the funny thing: The D.C. hardcore scene existed a decade before I did, and Kurt Cobain died when I was four. I was a lost-in-time punk rock enthusiast giving looks of disapproval to the clean-shaven, breakup-singing, tight pants-wearing guys onstage. I could not completely get my head around the fact that people actually liked these bands. When I got into arguments with people after shows, they often told me that these bands were bringing life back to the North Jersey scene, and that record labels would be swooping in soon to pick them up and spark a glut of “ I knew them back when…” people. Being completely outnumbered, the only rebuttal I had was calling them tools and/or emo. Emo was the greatest insult one could hurl at the scene. Apparently listening to Hawthorne Heights and photoshopping blood and stitches into every single MySpace profile picture you had was not emo. It was just being an “individual”. I’ll avoid using this term excessively, as it annoys me just as much to say it, but I digress.
Whenever a new band would perform (often a variation on a combination of two bands that broke up last week with someone’s brother playing drums), new people would show up, and that meant the shows had to start being held in bigger places. The VFW halls were replaced by church auditoriums, and that’s when I noticed a stark difference between the local scene of today and the Punk/Hardcore scenes from previous decades – There was no element of danger. Everything was so inherently suburban. No one was rushing onstage to fight the lead singer, and no one was smashing beer bottles against the walls. People weren’t having sex in the bathrooms, and not once did I come across a needle. That’s all fine and dandy, but once you realize that these bands claim to be rock ‘n’ roll, it changes everything. Rock music is not rated PG-13 for mild language and sexual references. One place, though, became an epicenter for activity: the designated smoking areas. Smoking Newports essentially became a prerequisite for entry into the shows. No one was allowed to smoke in the venue, so smoking outside in courtyards and parking lots became no different than going to the bathroom. Many kids probably starting smoking just to look cool and be seen walking out to the smoking areas, and that’s when it all started to make sense to me.
This wasn’t a movement. This was a fashion statement. The attire, the attitude, and the aesthetics were all bullshit. People didn’t want to be scene. They wanted to be seen. The stage was set perfectly. This was a style of music that was easily digestible to the masses of bored teenagers in North Jersey, and consequently, attractive to anyone who wanted to be there. It wasn’t as abrasive as punk, nor was it as exclusive as indie, and the openness of it all proved to be beneficial for all those involved. The bands got paid, the kids got “cred”, and their parents didn’t have to worry about what they were up to. By the end of its run, everyone had been to a show. The preppy girls, the football players, and I swear I’ve seen a parent or two at one of the shows. As cool as everyone thought the openness was, it turned the entire scene into a joke. It was no longer cool to be there, because it turned into your high school cafeteria, and for someone like me, who never liked the music to begin with, this was great. Finally, my Grunge/Punk revolution was going to happen!
Well, not exactly. In fact, not at all. Desperate to make something out of a broken music scene, many of the bands that didn’t break up jumped on the next bandwagon: “Hardcore” – and not the cool kind (Minor Threat, Fugazi, etc.). The kind that involved gutteral screaming about who knows what, drop C tuning galore, and blast beats. Yeah man, awesome. Nothing says hardcore like going back to your parents’ house after a show, neglecting the fact that your father is a doctor, your mother is a lawyer, and writing a song about life on the streets. Brutal, dude. It seems as though this current scene is going strong, but it’s going to fall just like the last one. All the bands sound the same, all the concertgoers started bands, and no one is getting a record deal. I can think of maybe two bands that made it out of the North Jersey scene, got signed, and went on tour. I think only one of them is still around, but I could be wrong. The current scene is a bit more exclusive, as the music is a lot more aggressive, so the shows tend to be smaller, but more dedicated. But bear in mind, many of these hardcore bands and musicians were playing breakup ballads just a few short years ago. If (when) this scene falls apart, who knows what they’ll be playing next? I assume some of them will discover the wonderful world of dance-rock, and continue to get 15 year old girls to shake their still-illegal-for-awhile hips, and others will just abandon it altogether. To be honest, I don’t care. That scene will end, and the following one will pick up where it left off, and as usual, I’ll be left out of the loop and write about how much it sucks. Maybe I’m just elitist.
Being that I’m a North Jersey guy, everything south of Trenton (with the exception of the shore region) might as well be a part of the Confederacy. Most of the bands I’ll be focusing on are from Bergen and Passaic counties, and I won’t use any specific names, because many of them are still very active, and still very talentless. Instead, I’ll be focusing on the “scene” as a whole, analyzing the ins and outs of a group of musicians (who just started bands), tagalongs (the ones who haven’t started bands yet), and their fans (who won’t start a band for at least another year).
Things start to get serious around 2004, when the locals started cramming en masse into VFW’s and Knights of Columbus halls to see the same five or six variations of the same band. Musically, these bands haven’t matured beyond sixteen, and thus, sound like Jimmy Eat World at a Blink-182 convention. These are men in their early to mid twenties singing about high school-era problems, and getting high school age responses. Most of the people at these shows are between the ages of 15 and 19, white, upper-middle class, and shockingly unaware of the homogeny. The girls do that odd sway maneuver while some of the guys try to get mosh pits started. The bands will play their sets, load their equipment back into their vans, and come back next week. Their friends will invite their friends, and the scene will grow with every passing show, until it becomes a parody of itself and the kids move on.
How did I get into this? I had two friends who were in bands, and one friend who just liked being places. I often found myself at these shows because my friends were there, and when you don’t have a license, you just tend to end up wherever there is something going on. At the time, I was just getting out of my life-consuming Nirvana phase, and entering my Black Flag phase, so needless to say, I wasn’t going to be all that interested in the music. Here’s the funny thing: The D.C. hardcore scene existed a decade before I did, and Kurt Cobain died when I was four. I was a lost-in-time punk rock enthusiast giving looks of disapproval to the clean-shaven, breakup-singing, tight pants-wearing guys onstage. I could not completely get my head around the fact that people actually liked these bands. When I got into arguments with people after shows, they often told me that these bands were bringing life back to the North Jersey scene, and that record labels would be swooping in soon to pick them up and spark a glut of “ I knew them back when…” people. Being completely outnumbered, the only rebuttal I had was calling them tools and/or emo. Emo was the greatest insult one could hurl at the scene. Apparently listening to Hawthorne Heights and photoshopping blood and stitches into every single MySpace profile picture you had was not emo. It was just being an “individual”. I’ll avoid using this term excessively, as it annoys me just as much to say it, but I digress.
Whenever a new band would perform (often a variation on a combination of two bands that broke up last week with someone’s brother playing drums), new people would show up, and that meant the shows had to start being held in bigger places. The VFW halls were replaced by church auditoriums, and that’s when I noticed a stark difference between the local scene of today and the Punk/Hardcore scenes from previous decades – There was no element of danger. Everything was so inherently suburban. No one was rushing onstage to fight the lead singer, and no one was smashing beer bottles against the walls. People weren’t having sex in the bathrooms, and not once did I come across a needle. That’s all fine and dandy, but once you realize that these bands claim to be rock ‘n’ roll, it changes everything. Rock music is not rated PG-13 for mild language and sexual references. One place, though, became an epicenter for activity: the designated smoking areas. Smoking Newports essentially became a prerequisite for entry into the shows. No one was allowed to smoke in the venue, so smoking outside in courtyards and parking lots became no different than going to the bathroom. Many kids probably starting smoking just to look cool and be seen walking out to the smoking areas, and that’s when it all started to make sense to me.
This wasn’t a movement. This was a fashion statement. The attire, the attitude, and the aesthetics were all bullshit. People didn’t want to be scene. They wanted to be seen. The stage was set perfectly. This was a style of music that was easily digestible to the masses of bored teenagers in North Jersey, and consequently, attractive to anyone who wanted to be there. It wasn’t as abrasive as punk, nor was it as exclusive as indie, and the openness of it all proved to be beneficial for all those involved. The bands got paid, the kids got “cred”, and their parents didn’t have to worry about what they were up to. By the end of its run, everyone had been to a show. The preppy girls, the football players, and I swear I’ve seen a parent or two at one of the shows. As cool as everyone thought the openness was, it turned the entire scene into a joke. It was no longer cool to be there, because it turned into your high school cafeteria, and for someone like me, who never liked the music to begin with, this was great. Finally, my Grunge/Punk revolution was going to happen!
Well, not exactly. In fact, not at all. Desperate to make something out of a broken music scene, many of the bands that didn’t break up jumped on the next bandwagon: “Hardcore” – and not the cool kind (Minor Threat, Fugazi, etc.). The kind that involved gutteral screaming about who knows what, drop C tuning galore, and blast beats. Yeah man, awesome. Nothing says hardcore like going back to your parents’ house after a show, neglecting the fact that your father is a doctor, your mother is a lawyer, and writing a song about life on the streets. Brutal, dude. It seems as though this current scene is going strong, but it’s going to fall just like the last one. All the bands sound the same, all the concertgoers started bands, and no one is getting a record deal. I can think of maybe two bands that made it out of the North Jersey scene, got signed, and went on tour. I think only one of them is still around, but I could be wrong. The current scene is a bit more exclusive, as the music is a lot more aggressive, so the shows tend to be smaller, but more dedicated. But bear in mind, many of these hardcore bands and musicians were playing breakup ballads just a few short years ago. If (when) this scene falls apart, who knows what they’ll be playing next? I assume some of them will discover the wonderful world of dance-rock, and continue to get 15 year old girls to shake their still-illegal-for-awhile hips, and others will just abandon it altogether. To be honest, I don’t care. That scene will end, and the following one will pick up where it left off, and as usual, I’ll be left out of the loop and write about how much it sucks. Maybe I’m just elitist.
Five Hundred (or so) Words About KISS
Back in the 70's, KISS scared the living shit out of kids. They blew fire, looked like demons, and played obscenely loud rock music. Parents rallied against the band and their supposed satanic messages and family-destroying values. Kids dressed up like band members for Halloween and begged for concert tickets for their birthdays. Seeing them live was a rite of passage for any rebellious (or otherwise) teen in the seventies (I presume), and it's possible that an entire generation was conceived at or as a result of a KISS show. They were a larger-than-life spectacle, and they didn't have fans; they had a full-blown fucking army.
That was then. This is now. The average sixteen year-old can rock and roll all night and party ev-er-y day. In fact, that's the norm for most of the people I know. The parents that aren't divorced are too preoccupied with losing their jobs to speak out against rock music. Hannah Montana is a larger-than-life spectacle nowadays, and quite frankly, no one gives a shit about stage pyrotechnics anymore; it's completely expected. The idea of a band being crazy, out of control drug and sex addicts is not only normal - it's socially acceptable. Everything that was once rebellious and dangerous is now bland and played out.
I suppose that by now you can conclude that I'm not a KISS fan. You would be right. Their music never interested me, they looked like idiots onstage, and the idea of a band being a brand is something that I can't stand. If it can be sold, Gene Simmons will put the bands' logo on it and sell it. And the ridiculous thing is - people will actually buy whatever it is. In fact, if this piece were to get published, I would probably have to pay royalty fees for using the bands' and members' names. Even though I'm rallying against him, Gene Simmons will make money. I can never win.
Anyway, back to the point. Their fans were rabid, obsessive, and often completely insane. Not unlike Hannah Montana fans these days, they ruthlessly defended the integrity of the band, all the while buying into the scheme that gives the band enough money to move far, far away from their fans; behind gates and security posts. Many refused to believe that it was (and still is) a musical manifestation of free-market capitalism. I will admit though: KISS has only one boss- and that's the almighty dollar. Hannah Montana on the other hand, is owned by Disney, who in turn is ruled by the aforementioned dollar. Many would argue that they don't mind being looked at by these bands as dollar signs, and to them I say: Why the fuck are you reading this?
Because I'm from a different generation, I obviously will never fully understand the phenomenon that was KISS. I accept that. Here's what I think made them what they were: They were by no means a good bands, but they were a fantastic idea. They were an embodiment of what everyone wanted them to be - and that's what made them so appealing. Little kids thought the characters were badass. Teenage boys wanted to get with women, and Gene Simmons (somehow) slept with thousands. Others wanted to don capes and shred a flying-V guitar, and Paul Stanley did that. I don't think anyone really wanted to be a cat though, so I can't understand why anyone would have thought that Peter Criss was cool. All this, combined with the constant marketing was a revolutionary concept in the seventies, but not now. Almost no one of my generation would find a band like KISS to be as awesome as their parents did. Sure, they did a lot to establish what many of us today would call "the rock and roll lifestyle", but no one really cares anymore. Perhaps it's just me (and my obvious bias), or my generation's complete disregard for our forefathers, but KISS sucks, and that's that.
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