I CANNOT TELL A LIE

I had a dream last night that I needed to perform “Baby Got Back” for some serious purpose (like a preventing-the-end-of-the-world purpose; like Jeff Goldblum as Quirky Scientist was there, dumbing it down for me, and I slowly repeated it back to him, but in that sassy yet streetwise way that I have, when – oh snap! –it suddenly made sense how the fate of the world depended on me) – and then I could not remember the first line of the song.

Re: Beastie Boys

There are several historic musical moments that are probably destined to make my generation (hitting our mid-30s/early 40s now) the most annoying generation to hear wax poetic about the music of our youth since the Baby Boomers. One of those moments is the mainstreaming of rap and hip-hop: Licensed To Ill (along with Run DMC’s King of Rock) was one of the first albums I felt I little afraid of, that I had to listen to quietly and hide from my parents, because music was dangerous and misunderstood, and prompted soul-churning debates among my elementary school and junior high nerd cohort about what constitutes “music” – while Bon Jovi could clearly play their instruments, the Beastie Boys were “just saying stuff”. My first (ironic airquote) “band” (unairquote) started in the 4^th grade, reaching our commercial peak in the sixth – at which point we decide we should actually learn to play instruments, prompting me to pick up a guitar for the first time. We reached the lunchroom consensus that “rap” was not “music” and therefore we did not like it – and almost immediately we started writing raps. Licensed to Ill was funny, groundbreaking, dumb, and exhilarating. I once had a cassette with Paul’s Boutique on one side and I have no idea what on the other, because I fast-forwarded through Side B every time to get back to Paul’s Boutique. Check Your Head challenged expectations during a time of ever-changing expectations, inspired everyone I knew to start wearing stocking caps year-round, and was a great record. Ill Communication was one of the albums that completely defined the Summer of 1994, my first summer after high school, in all its wonder and awfulness. My 20s arrived and with it a black cloud of depression – not the cool, teenage, Cure-listening, “this makes me more interesting” sort of depression, but a seemingly groundless and frequently debilitating void. I hid it from everyone I cared about, until about four years later, temping at a pharmaceutical I wrote to my brother: “I’ve been depressed.” I spent a little time working for my dad, primarily driving around replacing the fire extinguishers in a drugstore chain in all grayest cities in Upstate New York. It afforded my long hours in the van by myself, which was exactly what I wanted. Drifting between radio stations, I heard “Intergalactic” for the first time. It was that weird drifting time for the collective pop culture of music – hearing the song, which resemble nothing so strongly as the rhymes we wrote in my sixth grade band, with the time honored but dated flow of “Lead-MC-says-a-line, Everyone-else-shouts-the-last-word/the-rhyme” – I assumed I was hearing a Fun Lovin’ Criminals song. My cohort was graduating college and we were all deep in the funk of post-collegiate what-to-do, despite the fact that it was the Late 90s Internet Boom, and we gathered regularly at a local bar that serve 50-cent juice glasses of the local brewery’s bilgiest bilge, playing shuffleboard. Most of my friends were about to enter the cocoon of Law or Medical school – for the next couple years we’d have relateable stories for each other about middle-class subsistence living, but ultimately they emerged as doctors and lawyers, all at once burning the sweatshirts of their undergad universities and buying houses outside Boston about the same time that I – pursuing the music dream without any real gusto – moved into a hallway. Over juice glasses of beer, my friend Ryan, always savvier and smarter than me, explained to me why Hello Nasty was a great record – but it was too late. The nineties – our Goonies-time of chasing buried treasures hidden beneath the ordinariness of our lives – were nearly over, and I simultaneous hit the moment where I didn’t really care for the Beastie Boys and talking about music became a thing I did with my friends instead of listening to it. And so the Beastie Boy has taken me from the first flush of love at 11 years old, through danger, through angst, through unexpected beauty, and there I was at 22 – jaded and unhappy. Looking back, on my involvement in music as a very young man (say 16-26), I realize that I didn’t have the fire, the energy, the good taste, the skill, or the desire for it. Released from those dreams, as a person in my mid-late 30s – I can acknowledge how happy it makes me to be content with being a fan and a dilettante. But I was involved in the music scene, wherever I lived, and I’ve met some very talented people, people much more knowledgeable and skilled than me. Still, even the most famous band that ever travelled in my orbit is just barely famous - making their living on their fifth mediocre album of increasingly banal pop-punk; yet they were the ones who “made it” and in them I can very clearly see a drive for success and slightly brighter spark of talent than anyone else possessed. To that end, I cannot imagine how wonderful it must have felt to live life as Adam Yauch – to be there for those exhilarating moments (the birth of hip-hop, the birth of hardcore, the alternative explosion) and to have leapt into the fray in those moments, to literally be one of the people pointing the direction that the future of music would take. Perhaps because the Beastie Boys so frequently acknowledge – from the plain-spoken, self-centered, and boastful podium of hip hop – that they’re incredibly lucky; that they’re professional goofballs; that they won the lottery, I'm not bitterly envious. Their swaggering always belied an ever-present nervous shrug of “why me?”  As fans we wordlessly answered – in the face of their innovation, their refusal to play it boring or safe, and their open invitation to join them for the length of a record – “because you’re great.”

SOMETHING SOMETHING BURT WARD… THIS THING WRITES ITSELF

We had a baby. From what I’ve heard – and now learned firsthand in the couple weeks – this changes everything. Indeed, I have picked up a guitar about three times in the past two weeks and only when baby is sleeping. The sweet albeit modestly appointed recording space I’d begun putting together – as the oasis, the “me time” escape, the geographical separation of family and music – has been getting more use storing boxes (from car seats, strollers, etc.) than as a home studio. This was probably inevitable. When my wife and I met, working as summer camp counselors, seven years ago, the head counselors described – as staff orientation ended – that the coming weeks would be “the longest days of the shortest summer of your life”. With parenthood the days are ten times longer; the summers will inevitably be shorter.

Eventually, I’m sure we’ll reclaim some semblance of personal time from parenthood. Not much, I’m sure – but I’m actually excited about the prospect of forced time limits on my long-standing Achilles’ Heel of interminable recording, mixing, and remixing. My friends who have some to parenthood before me still make music – the drummer of my last “serious” band toured for three years while raising a 2-5 year old and having another child in that time. I would inevitably be a poor, frustrated, and distracted parent if I failed to continue doing things I love and sharing that aspect of life with my child.

For now though, the Kiddo is King. We sleep in short shifts, we cry unexpectedly, we are thrilled by wet diapers (after an early dehydration scare, you’ve never seen two people give a child with more encouragement for regularly peeing himself), we shower baby with praise over his 1lb weight gain at his two-week pediatric check-up, we survive on water and saltines and the meals that arrive in foil and take-out containers. In the end, I hope that fatherhood makes me a better and more prolific musician – providing me a reason to try to be happy and satisfied with my music and a reason to get things done, in order to get on to the more important job at hand.

MURDERGRAM

I often forget it sometimes but The Misfits' Walk Among Us is one of my favorite albums. I'm not sure exactly how  - because on many, many levels its just terrible. Bad production, bad lyrics, bad playing, bad conceptual idea for a band. Oh god, its awful. But even as I write this, while listening to Walk Among Us straight through for the first time in probably 10 or 12 years (via Spotify), I'm laughing and smiling and utterly transported (I'm off to Narnia! Thanks, Glenn!).

Already past the age of taking The Misfits seriously - in 1999, done with college, living alone for the first time, working a temp job with a giant pharmaceutical company - some friends of mine bought me a copy of Walk Among Us after I looked after their two-year old son one afternoon. The preceding year, I had only listened to one cassette in my car - Radiohead's Ok Computer on one side, Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique on the other. I always fast-forwarded through the Ok Computer side - not sure why. Paul's Boutique is another one of those albums that's absolutely genius but captures some growing pains - the Beasties weren't yet doing ironically terrible lyrics: Paul's Boutique frequently features rhymes that are bad and sincere. The point is that I was obsessing; I was unhappy with music and life in general, and looking backwards. I didn't get TV in my apartment and I was scared to be there by myself, because I'd just seen the Blair Witch Project and The Sixth Sense, so I just listened to The Misfits and read comic books until I was too tired to stay awake anymore.

Holy crap - Spotify's constant commercials are horrible. Their business model must be based on annoying people into paying for their service. Ok - every song on this album is awesome and horrible. Such a come-hither velvety croon on the lyric "collect the heads of little girls and put them on my wall."Also, it takes like 22 minutes to listen to this whole album. I think a brilliant musical undertaking would be reworking all the lyrics to Walk Among Us so that they actually become the romantic-movie cliches that all the horror-movie cliches seem to partially imply.

CRANKYPANTS

In reading over my posts from the past year or so, I noticed I've gone from "moderately cranky" to "super cranky". Considering I pretty much write about myself and music, that's kind of alarming, indicating a much deeper level of unhappiness than I think I'd actually admit to. In the past six months, we've started looking to leave Texas; however, in the current economic climate, and as grown-ups, we can't simply uproot, throw out clothes in a duffle bag and just go. So for the first time in my life, I'm being tortured by the itch to leave a place and the inability to do so. So also, for the first time in my life, my crankiness seems tied to broader Concerns About Life, rather than Generalized Failure as an artist/ musician/ whatever.

But I finished my three songs (see previous post) and that was a load off my back. I did something; I whittled some little sliver off the fencepost of my ambition. The immediate effects - well - I can't really tell. I'm not really any happier I guess, but at this point, music hasn't been a daily focus of my life. But also, I'm not as cranky - on a daily basis - as this blog might lead you to believe.

R.E.M. BREAK UP

Arguing “This is Awesome” vs. “This Sucks” about REM’s “Stand” song and video in my junior high cafeteria drew philosophical lines in my head and heart that went way beyond music and – for better or worse – went on to define my life in probably too many ways. Like many folks, I’ve probably written off REM for at least ten years – but watching this video reminds me how much I love them. Absolutely fell in love with these guys in the last 30 seconds of the video – when they make their only appearance: the bad haircuts, the anti-fashion, the genuine human ugliness of their faces that so clearly separated them from Jon Bon Jovi and George Michael. I remember my best friend in high school calling up after he’d bought Automatic for the People to describe it to me, song by song, and telling me “Everybody Hurts” was the “worst, dumbest, cheesiest song you’ve ever heard – except its incredible.” Though I kind of wish they’d called it quits before Mike Mills started wearing Nudie suits or maybe when Bill Berry quit, that was their decision. Enjoy your break-up, you amazing bastards.

NEW RECORDINGS: ENJOY THE SUMMER...

Enjoy The Summer, It Will Pass By Quickly
Download at Bandcamp | SoundCloud

You're Not Dangerous At All by Sinners, Repent!

The Boys Won't Sleep by Sinners, Repent!

Summertime by Sinners, Repent!

These are the first three songs I'm releasing from the Enjoy The Summer, It Will Pass By Quickly collection. There are going to be more songs, but they'll come piece by piece over the next couple years. It seems like a reasonable way to release an album in these wild days of the not-too-distant future. Flying cars and nanobots and 4th-dimensional record releases. These three songs represent a concerted effort I've made over the past couple months to undo my own bad habits by finishing and releasing my recordings. I had originally intended to complete 5-7 songs and have them properly mastered - but in the interest in handing in my half-assed homework for C- instead of an incomplete F, here are the first three. More will follow. Eventually.

I probably can't adequately stress the importance of "summer" to my childhood and adolescence (which is why, instead, I'm writing a bunch of songs about it). Economy, entertainment, enlightenment, romance, hate, heartbreak, etc. all spun from the summer. My childhood/teenage friends and I - reunited by social media, trading pithy commentary on major life-events and posting YouTube videos of Smurfs or whatever - have been getting a bit misty-eyed and nostalgic about growing up in our very small towns. Its all very quaint and simple and endearing and intangibly American in retrospect, instead of being suffocating, small-minded, boring, frustrating and invariably tragic like it was at the time. In writing these songs, I'm trying to walk the line between the blind pessimism and solipsistic worldview of youth and the selective memory and broad forgiveness of adulthood.

As an adult, its a well-earned right to enjoy a summer day by cracking a beer or stealing away somewhere cool and quiet with your sweetheart - and which is wonderful. As a teenager, it was impossible to crack a beer or find 15-minutes on a couch with your sweetheart without getting hassled - so when you did, that was wonderful, too. But let's not all turn into weeping softies about it, OK?

Specific thanks to Nash Grey and Chris Patterson, who wrote sweet guitar licks for "You're Not Dangerous At All", and Chris Cloud  and Ross who let me record vocals and mix at their house, in the only air-conditioned room, and helped with handclaps and enthusiasm.

CAR STEREO

My car stereo is broken. It’s a small miracle that the car is not (completely) broken. Considering it sat in various driveways in North Carolina from 2001-2005 without being driven – until the day I replaced the battery, started it up, and drove it away to California (thanks to Jon, Greg, Dylan, Matt, and Danny for their extreme patience). The air-conditioning is broken and that’s a pretty big deal, since we’ve spent most of our time since 2005 in the desert in California and in central Texas.

The radio works; the cassette player doe not. Leftover cassettes we have, in the car: a Pogues album (Rum Sodomy and The Lash), one tape of Bruce Springteen Live 1975-1985, The Clash's London Calling, the Violent Femmes debut album, a dub of The Muppet Movie Soundtrack that I made – at sixteen years old – in my first wave of nostalgia, a mix cassette my wife’s roommate made for her 22nd birthday, a demo cassette by a Buffalo band called MEGAWEAPON (the caps were part of their name; they were awesome), and I think a dub of Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris was floating around for a while. If you try to play a cassette, the car stereo makes a dangerous, squealing sound.

The back speakers of the stereo are completely busted. They buzz and distort, and have thereby totally influenced the way that I think music should sound. Unable to play my cassettes, and un-in-love with the iPod, I resort to listening to the Oldies station (which now includes various REO Speedwagon songs and Phil Collins' solo repertoire) or Austin’s NPR station, KUT (KUT has a tendendency to play an insultingly high percentage of songs on the subject of how awesome it is to live in/ be from/ fall in love in/ have a sweetheart from/ be a river flowing through/ have exes in/ be returning to Texas (subtlety is not Texas’ strong suit). All the frequent commercials on the Oldies station are no better, urging me to buy gold or call a toll-free number to get out of debt, and the playlist is predictably shallow.

But show little faith, there's magic in the night: out driving in the dark, once the traffic has eased and the air has cooled, this stereo sounds just right for listening to Oldies and an Oldies show on KUT called “Twine Time” (Saturday, 7 PM – 11PM). The music comes out distorted and compressed and fucked up, and therefore rendered brand new, through my car stereo speakers. Those round, old bass lines and kick drums really thump and rattle around and burn– even more than usual, beyond 50s and 60's production – dirty and cruel and ugly all over. Where I grew up, the Oldies station was the only one that managed to follow you into the mountains; I remember a girl I loved – in the way only a teenager trying to be complicated can love – well, she made her feelings known, in no uncertain terms. She was trying to be complicated and in love, too; some boy who lived farther away and brooded more convincingly and petulantly than I, she loved him. I drove away from her house and some botched last kiss when the Tennessee Ernie Ford song “Sixteen Tons” came on the radio. To this day, there are few songs I associate so completely with heartbreak as “Sixteen Tons”. I suppose I’m lucky it wasn’t “Band on The Run”.

I’m mixing new songs this week and I endeavor to replicate the harsh sounds of my car stereo: distorted bass, blurred mid-range, abrasive treble. There are three songs. Two will be new to everyone. One of them will be familiar to folks I played music with in 2010. I’m mixing it myself and as quickly and carelessly as my obsessions and compulsions will allow. I recorded these songs completely on my own; the guitars, the vocals, the keyboards, the bass, the drums, the percussion. I thought about getting other people to help – some nice backing vocals, a little cello, some live drums interspersed with loops – but the longer I worked on my own, the more appropriate it felt to finish that way. Catholic guilt and unfulfilling penance; personal suffering and a search for absolution. My last serious band broke up in 2003 – all that time, in various forms and permutations, I’ve been working on Sinners, Repent! (sometimes very seriously; sometimes in broken, tearfully-hiccupping failure) and frustratingly our recorded output is presently six complete songs (which is completely my fault - I've dragged people into the studio nearly every year since 2006). These three new songs are not even mixed yet, so I may be cursing them to falter forever in their incomplete state, just by writing this post. I frequently believe that my every prospective action is cursed, and thus I am extremely successful at fulfilling all my self-inflicted curses. I'm attempting to foil my usual curses by inflicting myself instead with the Curse of a Bad Mix and a Mediocre Mastering Job – for now it is better than the Curse of Inaction.

Wish me luck.

TOILETS IN THE BACKYARD

The recordings I'd been making had hit a wall: I've sat in our little apartment with my headphones on, writing drum loops, direct recording keyboards and bass, and singing quiet little scratch tracks. No matter how much our neighbor's battalion of small dogs howl every moment that she's away, I can't bring myself to record electric guitars and monotonous jangley percussion without fear that the guy upstairs - who shouts at his TV during sporting events with the volume and passion of a man being carnally-mauled by bear - will come knocking on my door, demanding I either play "Poundcake" by Van Halen or shut the crap up.

Luckily, my friend Chris lives out in a wilder part of Austin - with bigger yards and deader lawns. Chris's house has a big yard: they've dug a firepit in the way back, and for some reason there are a lot of toilets scattered around, Duchamp-style. "Come on over and make all the noise you want!" says Chris. The house is falling to pieces - Chris and his roommate live there for pennies on the dollar, provided they make extensive repairs that would make the place livable for anyone besides two dudes in their mid-twenties, except their landlord refuses to actually tell them to repair anything. There is one AC unit in a window, but it has to be turned off every time you hit "record". Its pretty brutal - with Texas temps in the 100s - but it also focuses my mind on the task at hand. I recorded vocals and percussion for two songs last Saturday, then we drank beers and played "Honky Tonk Women" and "King of Road" and some Bob Dylan songs on acoustic guitars. Chris is an enthusiastic host and a wildly supportive fan of his friends' music. When I play him a song I need help putting handclaps on, he clutches the headphones over his ears and says "Can I just listen to that once more, just so I can enjoy it, without having to think about handclaps?" Chris is a music fan whose outlook and fandom is unscathed by negativity or worn down by years of scenester bitchiness; its absolutely refreshing for a walking pile of crankiness like myself to witness.

PERFECT DAY

Ok – Austin finally delivered (after four years) a day that lived up to the hype. It was our anniversary this week, but work and other responsibilities prevented us from celebrating on the day. Usually, we go to the fancy sushi restaurant, dressed in nice clothes, and pretend that we’re adults. That wasn’t going to happen this year.

Yesterday things came together though and I took a personal day from work. It was all pretty unassuming, by Austin’s rootin’-tootin’, Yosemite-Sam-firing-his-pistols standards. We went to get breakfast tacos at Taco Deli, which was not insanely busy. We avoided major traffic by taking shortcuts through the city that inexplicably worked out. We went swimming at high noon, as temperatures were over 100 degrees, at a pool that wasn’t completely overcrowded. We were having a great time and being more relaxed than comes naturally to either of us. The smell of chlorine and sunscreen reminded my of the summer I spent being a lifeguard with some of my best friends – and that even on the most stressful day of that job, I was less stressed than I’ve felt any time in the past five years. My hair dried into a brillo-stiff mat that reminded me of being on swim team in high school (which was hard work but really rewarding – we were League Champions! Not that anyone in our football/basketball-obsessed school cared).

Continuing on a nostalgic roll we went to see Super 8 at the Alamo Drafthouse – and the Spielberg-y retro-stylings of the film reminded me of my older brothers taking me to see E.T. when I was a little kid (I was terrified yet transfixed – at E.T. But Super 8 was good old-fashioned fun). We found out that next weekend nearly the entire cast and the creators of Party Down are coming to Austin for a marathon-screening of the series - how boss is that? Passing some time before the movie started, I walked over the vintage guitar store – being a left-handed guitarist, perusing the stock at music stores has never held the thrill for me that it does for my peers, because I can’t play any of the guitars except the one shitty lefty Strat that all stores keep on hand to appear inclusive. But today – on Awesome Day – there was a perfectly-beat-to-shit, left-handed Gibson Les Paul Special hanging on the wall (I’m a little sad to admit that I demurely plugged into a Vox AC30 and jangled out some chords for ten minutes, rather than rolling all the knobs to 11 and unleashing the Kraken of my awesome talent). Nonetheless, the guitar played beautifully and in some ways made my long-term relationship with Fender Telecasters seem childish, shallow, and unadventurous. I very rarely nerd out about musical equipment, because its pointless and lame, but obviously I’ve already written as much about this guitar as the rest of our anniversary day, so I indulged myself. From my perspective as visual designer, I think that the Les Paul Special is one of the most beautifully simple and elegant guitars ever made. Anyone with $1,500 to spare, or who would like to buy everything else I own so that I can get this guitar, feel free to get in touch.

After the movie we went to my favorite restaurant in Austin – Frank – which is, as the name implies, a hot dog restaurant. Now, there are absolutely better and tastier restaurants in Austin and I only ever get a plain hotdog with waffle fries, but I’m very fond of Frank. Probably mostly because it is where I take friends when they come to visit; its my little concession to Austin’s love of trumpeting “Hey, Check It Out – Austin’s Wild and Crazy.” Yes, I’m happy to say "yes, indeed, check it out: we’ve got a restaurant that just serves hot dogs; isn’t Austin a wild and weird place?" Also, its cheap enough that visitors don’t feel stressed by (a) picking up the check (b) letting us pick up the check (c) eating out again after having spent two-months-salary at the super-swish sushi restaurant the night before. We first went here during the World Cup a while back and we ate hotdogs and drank beer and watched a sport that Americans love freedom too much to appreciate (though I must admit that while Texans are crazy about football, they are also refreshingly crazy about fútbol). The staff at Frank is really friendly and kind and the bathrooms are nicer than most restaurants in its price range (which is important since my stomach problems have dictated the longevity and comfort of all our outings the passed few weeks).

After our late lunch we went to water the plants and pick up the mail at our friend Liz’s house. One of the major factors in how much we enjoyed this day lies in the fact that Liz is letting us borrow her car while she’s in El Salvador (where she does good deeds). Driving through a 100-degree day in the climate-controlled cockpit of her late model Toyota makes Texas so much more bearable than driving around in my un-air-conditioned 1995 Chevy Cavalier. We sprawled on her couch (we also can’t fit a couch in our new apartment and had to give ours to Goodwill – A couch! Liz, do the luxuries of your life never cease?) and watched a few episodes of our favorite guilty-pleasure television series (which a friend, aware of our embarrassing quirks, informed me was finally on Netflix) while eating homemade oatmeal and peanut butter chip cookies. We also did some laundry (thanks, Liz). We went home, ate leftovers for dinner, and went to sleep.

This might be pretty bland stuff, but it was my favorite day that we’ve ever spent in Austin TX.

AFFLUENT WHITE KIDS CELEBRATE SUCCESSFUL GENTRIFICATION OF UNPOPULAR NICHE MUSIC CULTURE

---

I'm writing this preface in retrospect. I read about and watched some video and listened to some performances from the "Our Band Could Be Your Life" show in Brooklyn (which you are required to refer to as "Brooklyn" now and not just "New York", which smacks of the pomposity of "Manhattan" getting all specific about being "Manhattan" in the 1980s. I'm still cranky about that). Then I wrote the following screed in a particularly dark hour. I think that my own involvement in indie culture for the past 15 years (as an enthusiastic/reticent/self-hating fan and failed musician) makes me reluctant to make such unkind observations, based largely on upsetting friends, acquaintances, and relations still actively  involved in the increasingly interconnected and psuedo-professional "scene" and whatever their feelings might be. Of course, even writing the preceding sentence makes me scratch my head, since I'm sure I spend more time thinking about their feelings than they spend thinking about mine - since I've bankrupted out of that particular Monopoly game and have little to offer. Still its worth noting that my unbalanced and unfairly negative opinion of indie rock is based primarily on a couple dozen people who were pricks rather than the hundreds who were kind.

Without further ado, my rant about "Our Concert Could Be Your Life" or whatever it was called:

Our Concert Could Be Your Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uqww-dIya2Q
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqsDRD_4j7Q&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QglS4p-72c&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHMNRAkASsw&feature=related
http://pitchfork.com/news/42604-report-our-band-could-be-your-concert/

I'd like to reiterate that the crux of my frustration and resulting contempt for the self-congratulatory sanitization here is simple jealousy. There's some other frustration that I can't quite articulate - mostly about how the American Punk/Indie Scene was really emotionally damaging and wholly noninclusive place for me from 18-24 years old (from 25+, I just became bitter and scornful towards it - which the kind of endlessly unattractive quality in a person that I like to cultivate in order to remain friendless). I've watched some YouTube videos of these performances and focusing solely on the audience for a second: isn't this a bit of theater? Spouting expected behaviour - in response to Black Flag, Minor Threat, Big Black, The Replacements. - is this a posture of excitement, of violence, of wall-toppling liberation that the audience is invoking? This is the same audience who would spend $20 to watch a St. Vincent show with an air of arm-crossed indifference and clock-watching ennui - yet they start shoving each other and shouting along for The Replacements?

Living in Austin TX - and surprising people with my negatory answer to the Austin-booster/SXSW-attendee rhetorical question of "Isn't Austin awesome?" - has only amplified my cynicism. The amazing thing about late-00's hipster culture is its myriad indicators: the glasses, the beards, the bikes, the denim cut-offs, the cowboy boots, the selvedge jeans, the tattoos (a friend of mine, recently turned 30, remarked "I'm so proud to be a woman born in the late 70s/early 80s and to have made it through my 20s without getting a lower back tattoo"), the continued popularity of Chuck Taylors (a shitty and increasingly badly-made sneaker; that's just a fact), the mustaches - my god - the fucking mustaches! The thing is: the signposts are so carefully codified, it would be a cinch to truly rebel. (Of course, then there's the quandry: I have beard, even as I write this I'm thinking "I'll shave this off when I get home tonight, so no one will mistake me for a hipster - I'm 35-years old! I was a scenester and a poser, sure, years and years before  hipsters." But by allowing hipster sartorial and grooming codes to dictate my appearance, I'm providing them enormous influence - even in a reactionary sense. I have a bike, but for fuck's sake, I wear a nerdly helmet and I have lots of flashing lights on it! I mean - we're still in Texas: every dumbfuck in giant, extra-wide pickup - with a sticker of Calvin kneeling before a cross and pissing on a Darwin fish - is embittered about the space on the shoulder you're taking up that rightfully and constitutionally belongs to the fifth and sixth wheel of their truck). Every hipster hurriedly denies their hipsterism - points to first growing a mustache in '99, declares "What? This vintage Bianchi frame? I just happened to find it at the Goodwill... I know... I couldn't believe it either!", swears up and down that they're wearing Chuck Taylors for the comfort - but who are they kidding, ever? And the word "hipster" has lost all meaning and was annoying and nonsensical to begin with, like "emo" or "grunge". I read somewhere recently that the underlying pejorative implication of "hipster" is the same that applied to "Yuppie" in the mid-80s. Really - what's wrong with being a young urban professional? Nothing really. But everybody hated the yuppies. So, perhaps I'm getting all use of the word "hipster" out of my system now.

I've recently come to believe that the fashionably-attired, academically-astute, music-connoisseur brand of hipster (last time I use the word, promise) that has become prevalent in the past 5 or so years is the modern equivalent of this: a truly dedicated Dave Matthews fan, circa 1996. Not in strict terms of musical taste but in terms of this is what happens when suburban jocks and 2nd-tier popular kids go to college. Its the modern equivalent - move to the city, smoke a little pot, untuck your shirt, leave behind a little nerdiness, snatch up a little cool, become blinkered and blindingly passionate about (largely mediocre) music, all while appearing to proclaim loudly and proudly - to the rest of the world, at least - that you're an unrepentant asshole.

And yes, I'm being a total dick. My outlook on music is completely shaped by how embittered I am. That's the joy I get from music these days - or at least that's how I interact with the music community, in the form of the Internet: because its become a weird, snide, elitist place where music criticism is more popular than music. So I wrap the squishy, glowing E.T. heart of my love of music in a crass, hard, cynical shell. Though mostly I'm jealous or unhappy that I'm not part of this continuum and these people are. I've been to shows or own records of almost all the bands that took part in this (as coverers and coverees). I actually wrote my Onion-y headline and subsequently this entire post in response to a friend of mine posting a link to the NPR story about "Our Band Could Be Your Concert" on his Facebook - perhaps with sincere interest, perhaps with a sneer; I don't know - but it felt too mean to be derisive of this kind of thing directly on his Facebook page (is that modern manners?) I didn't even try to go to a recent Arcade Fire show in Austin because I wasn't sure that I'd feel anything but anger and frustration at their carefully crafted sincerity and the audience's contractually weepy, emotional response; I'm skipping Fucked Up because I can't bear watching another generation of audiences go through the motions of being punk rock. I've often self-identified as "punk rock" - despite missing its American hey-day, despite never really playing music that explicitly qualified, despite having friends who would helpfully and studiously remind of all the  political, musical, and fashionable reasons that I really truly wasn't punk at all. The definition of "punk rock" as some nebulous, tough, American (and "punk" is a decidedly American music to me - just as its celebrated by Our Band...) version of "To Thine Own Self Be True" is significantly less popular than defining "punk rock" in terms of clothes and accessories and a few rows of magic-markered bins in the record store. But most of all, I'm just being a jerk about this and counting on the fact that no one cares what I say or write, and feeling sorry for myself about that. Some small part of me is worried that Ted Leo and Titus Andronicus are going to read this and come to my apartment and beat me up. They would probably be in the right, though it would a hilarious thin-armed slapfest all around.

LIVE MUSIC CRAPITAL OF THE WORLD

Dear reggae/whatever band that practices in that 2nd floor garage apartment from 8pm-midnight right behind our building: please stop getting high before you play - the 2-chord song you jammed on for the past two hours is not as interesting as you think and my anger is keeping me awake. Now you're done but you're all talking in loud voices. I'll bet at least one of you people just lit up an American Spirit something or other with a sense of post-coital satisfaction. Of course, I lack the backbone to go out on my walkway and tell you to shut-up, since such an outburst would cause all the tiny non-sheep-herding, non-hunting, non-frisbee-catching purse-sized dogs in our building to start yapping even more loudly than they were at the tooth-rattling sound of your bloodless, three-note major-chord bass runs and marginally competent drumming. Which is ridiculous, because if I did you'd probably all just apologize and look embarassed and call me "sir".

RUMOURS… (No, no, its all true.)

My wife bought a copy of Fleetwood Mac's Rumours at the used record store a few weeks ago. It flared into a brief obsession for us. Its a great album - as many have pointed out before me - though I can remember it being held up as an example of unchecked 70's bloat and banality. On a personal note, I'm really disappointed that nobody showed me a picture of a young Lindsey Buckingham, circa Rumours, when I was in my early 20s. I totally could've pulled off that beard-and-curly-hair-helmet look. I probably could've convincingly worn a kimono as everyday wear as well.

THOSE POOR, DUMB KIDS

I love Arcade Fire. But, man, there is something about their whole schtick – the haircuts, the Amish-steampunk-great-depression costumes, the music-as-art-project mentality that permeates everything, the deification-by-Pitchfork, the private school in-joke wink of it all – that just rubs me the wrong way. As a graphic artist, I have to admit that some of it is sour-grapes jealousy: the Neon Bible stage set was gorgeous, the work-clothes and thrift store cocktail dress costumes are a smart take on rock band theatricality that’s way more Clash than (oft-sited) Bowie. And its not really their fault their popularity owes so much to the mid-decade influence of music blogs and a positive Pitchfork review.

But indie and punk music used to belong to dumb kids, and smart kids playing dumb. Now the Columbia and Northwestern diplomas seem de rigueur in indie music, as is a carefully curated academic stance regarding “what my band is about”. Its still cloaked in off-handed nonchalance, but its there. And those private school CVs come with another question attached: is indie rock becoming something only for rich kids?

Isn’t anyone ready for indie rock to get elemental and dumb and visceral again? This is, in part, an old person complaint, and I can barely contain my exasperation at the sound of my own generation rattling our dentures in service of lamenting the loss of Nirvana. Arguably, getting elemental and dumb and visceral again is what Arcade Fire accomplished – their debut album evoked arena-sized sincerity of U2 with more honesty and originality than Coldplay ever will. There was passion there that's elusive (or just more elusive than it should be) – and perhaps its not their fault that the evident passion was immediately co-opted, caged, and scrutinized by the music blog academia.

The descendents of The Beatles, The Stones, Pink Floyd, Zeppelin, Dylan, etc. – the touchstones of rock-n-roll – those types of artists exist in the periphery now, in indie-music. And the new music press exists completely online. Rolling Stone is in the business of diversifying their advertisements, selling energy drinks and vodka. MTV removed “music” from their fucking name.

In the arts, history does not repeat itself – while you can draw parallels between Kurt Cobain and John Lennon or between mid-1990s indie cinema and 1970’s American autuers, they’re always weak analogies. The “next big thing” is always the next new thing, no matter the parallels or level of influence at work. The Arcade Fire very thoroughly processes and reinterprets their ‘70s new-wave, Band-Aid ‘80s arena rock, and anachronistic Americana influences into something familiar – easily dissected and delineated, completely transparent – but honestly new. And that’s why slavishly “retro” artists never work or last: early Metallica shared a greater affinity with Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath than a band like Wolfmother does. Metallica’s music was built on the foundations of their heroes, it didn’t just propose a frame-by-frame recreation. The strict revivalists’ music is built on haircuts and fashion, and while their music can contain a visceral, invigorating punch – its lacks an authenticity beyond the authenticity it is carefully replicating.

Is it possible for poor people and dumb kids to make compelling rock music anymore? Does it even matter? Is there any incentive or drive (for the poor) to make interesting music if it doesn’t bring fame and wealth? Making compelling music doesn’t provide the time and money, and the attendant freedom that is the real ambition of a creative person. (The Beatles, today, would be signed to Matador or Merge and would be playing the 500-capacity club in some rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. Those people you see? With a Beatles shirt for everyday of the week, with John Lennon staring out at you from their poly-cotton blend? Those people would hate The Beatles today.) It brings poverty – and unless you’re already just slumming it, “Common People”-style, in the theme park of Indie Boheme, there’s no upside to trying to compete with Ivy League kids and their well thought-out concepts. And I think its to the detriment of music.

But who knows - maybe not.

THE STRANGER

[After dinner conversation tonight:]
"Do you want to go out to Half-Price and get copy of 'The Stranger'?"
"We have a copy of 'The Stranger'."
"The Billy Joel album?"
"No, the Camus book."
"Oh. well, I meant the Billy Joel album."

“NEW” SONGS & OLD DEMOS

About a year ago, and even a few months before that, we started planning to work on a new fancy-pants recording – analog, studio, engineer; lots of specialized vocabulary words. The long story > short version of events goes: we recorded and recorded and then ran out of money. And personally – as the songwriter/ point-person/ cheerleader for such a project – I ran out of steam. And patience. And confidence. And – again – money. However, we did make various demos. One is the straight-off-the-floor demo (“American Car”) – recorded head-to-toe moments after I wrote it. Two are full-band (“The Sin…” and “You’re Not Dangerous at All”) – recorded by SR 2.0 in preparation for our Big Orange sessions. And two feature my own half-assed cut-n-paste drumming and indecisive keyboard playing (“Waiting in the Night” and “What’s The World Coming To”). One last one (“Monster”) features about 25 seconds (from 1:35-2:00) of drum work by Matt Moulis, recorded about five minutes after I played him the song for the first time.

I have resisted posting the demoiest of my demos for a long time because they are frequently so “unpolished”. The rough edges are very rough and (often) easy fixes, but I grow to love/accept/overlook them. In the next couple months, I’m hoping to finish some new recordings (featuring a couple of these songs, some other old ones, and some new ones). I’ll pay attention to what I’m doing, get them mastered properly, maybe make people pay a nickel for them. Who knows. Someday I hope to complete the full-band SR2.0 "lost recordings" that we began last year. In the meantime, here’s some info and link to download – because I’m trying to not be so hung up on this stuff.

WASPS

We tried to go to the bar across the street from our house last night. It was about 6:00 p.m. The bar was already really crowded and the patio seating was set up for parties of six or more. It was just the two of us. I was mustering the courage to sit down at the last of these six-seaters. Just then a cadre of good-looking young people rode up on their bicycles, their hearts full of hope, and swooped past us to settled into these seats. The fashionably-tattooed waitress - who'd been avoiding eye contact with us - now promptly burst to life and scuttled to their table, seemingly relieved by the prospect of sassier patrons and a bigger tip.

We left and argued and then went to the gas station and bought a six-pack. We dragged two chairs out onto the walkway in front of our apartment and we drank our beer. A wasp is building its nest outside our door. At this time of year, there are wasps everywhere in this neighborhood.

THE 1990s

When confronted with 90s revivalism as “something-that’s-going-on” in music (in the form of winkingly sloppy indie bands making lo-fi records on their $3K laptops) – it makes me feel totally bored. Occasionally, I imagine it as a stylistic bent that I should be applying to my own work, since I’m a genuine article youth-of-the-1990s; I was there, I saw the fires, I wrote it down in a just-so composition notebook. However, the very thought of atonal octave guitars makes my stomach turn, and ultimately embracing that attitude gives me a momentary warm glow of condescension and feeling a little superior. Looking through that prism - this inability to couch my past in rose-tinted anecdotes of how awesome it was to hear Diary or Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain for the first time - stems from the fact that I emerged from the 1990s primarily feeling duped and thinking this thought: boy, we blew it.

WAYLAID

Waylaid. By: work (annual conference), moving (to a new address in Austin), sickness (chronic and a vicious, bed-riddening, thank-god-for-netflix flu/cold/virus), as well as the usual excuses. I’ve been reading Please Kill Me, a series of interviews following American punk rock from the Velvet Underground through New Wave, and I’m surprised that any of these people (Lou Reed, MC5, Iggy Pop, Television, Ramones, etc.) ever got anything done based on the amount of drugs they were all doing. Throughout my early- to mid-twenties my creativity was a sparsely wooded place; I was all fire and brimstone and misplaced energy, but my writing was sporadic and my process stilted. I wonder how my youthful “yeah” would handle my current backlog of musical claptrap – would my 21-year-old self, faced with a backlog of 60-odd songs, be slowed by sickness, work, or ennui? Or would I restlessly and joyfully tear through that four-chord pile of prospective anthems? In some manner, I’m admitting defeat: I don’t have the time or ambition to properly record these songs – this body of work that I have more pride in than anything musical I’ve done before. I’m a little frustrated about that, but not depressed about it or beaten by it. There’s nothing I can really do; rather, there is nothing I can really do that represents a reasonable return on investment. ROI – that’s an acronym I’ve learned since I grew up. It sounds clinical, and I’m not even talking monetarily: I mean, the investment of energy I would expend recording these songs, getting other people to play on them, completing the mixes, mastering them, and telling someone who might be inclined to listen – that expenditure (of time, energy, love) does not translate into an appropriate amount of peace of mind or personal satisfaction. This something I believe today. Tomorrow, it changes.

In my possession, I now have the 2” reel-to-reel tapes that represent the short-lived but not unproductive output of Sinners, Repent! Austin Version 2.0. There are six nearly-completed recordings here. At some point I’ll have them converted to digital track and record the final vocals, handclaps, and tambourines that ultimately defeated the sessions at Big Orange. Arguably, the economy defeated it to – I ran out of money. Its unlikely that these recording will surface for years. The lost recordings – spooky.

Here’s a song from those lost recordings called “American Car” - shored up by some home-recording:

AMERICAN CAR

American Car (Rough Demos) by Sinners, Repent!

AND FLEW AWAY INTO THE NIGHT

I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Kanye West. We were driving somewhere in one of his rich guy cars; a car so prestigious and rare I didn't even know the manufacturer, let alone the model. Its was purple - perhaps taken from Prince's garage. I was telling him that I thought his new work was bizarre and awesome, and he kind of shook his head. He said, "Man, I don't really want to talk about myself or my music, ya know?" - which made me realize that I must be dreaming. So I opened the sunroof and flew away into the night.