Overly Active Brain

How do I reconcile...

2011-04-26T04:40:00.007-04:00

Ever-burgeoning intellectual curiosity with a visceral hatred of any and all totalizing schemes? A deep-seated aversion to structure with a desire to control it? An instinctive resistance to stability with a fear of ambiguity? Yesterday and tomorrow? This and that? Nihilism and giving a shit?

A desire to do with a refusal to be?

the blathering continues

2010-03-14T01:58:00.002-05:00

If a blog reemerges in the middle of the night and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I certainly don't hear anything. I don't know who I'm talking to. I've made a search of...well, both rooms. It's just me.

It's strange, this daylight savings thing. Most of the year, I feel as if I'm racing the clock. Actually, that isn't entirely accurate; I feel as if I'm being pursued by time. I can elude it for a while, ducking into a pint of something strong or one of those jaunty tunes I used to write. But the seconds, the minutes, the hours...they're always there, lurking, pushing their inevitability on me. Temporality is just so fucking insistent. Tonight, I actually lose an hour. It's gone. This day has only 23 of them. But I'm just excited to get more daylight tomorrow. Today is the shortest day of the year, the one day when I actually have fewer hours at my disposal, and I am relatively unhindered by my chronophobic tendencies. Works for me. Now if only the future didn't become the past so quickly...

It's official

2009-04-09T16:05:00.000-04:00

As of last night at 8:00, I no longer hate Ohio.

Printer, why must you antagonize me so?

2009-01-22T15:08:00.007-05:00

That noise - that godawful noise. It's downright apocalyptic, a cacophony of cringeworthy screeches and buzzy grinding sounds, harsh and unsettling, like nails on a chalkboard for the digital age. The message is crystal-clear: Something is really, really fucked. What monumental catastrophe could possibly have brought about such a hullabaloo?

You need paper.

subtracting days

2008-12-23T03:13:00.004-05:00

Was I really present that day if, a few weeks later, it left me with nothing other than a little more sag here, more droop there, and one less day to be alive?

- William Least-Heat Moon

new songs

2008-11-11T02:19:00.001-05:00

http://www.myspace.com/thepjexperience

A couple of these have become Sloan Brothers songs, and a couple are just my own demos. Check them them out if you're so inclined.

1-2-3-4

2008-11-07T05:05:00.004-05:00

Up to and throughout the medieval period, moving from the C to the F# note was widely considered not just discordant, but "sinful." That's right....it was actually a sin to play an F# after a C.

This stems back to the Pythagorean belief that harmonic ratios govern not only music, but all of the cosmos. To the Pythagoreans, reality itself is mathematical, and numbers constitute the true nature of things. The first four positive integers 1, 2, 3, 4 - called the tetraktys - were considered sacred, the foundation of the the soul and the material world. Reality might be fluid and changing, but the relationships between numbers (and musical notes) were thought to remain eternal. To violate these relationships was to violate the eternal, immutable order of the universe.

What we hear as melodic or harmonious, then, was believed to be governed by mathematical relationships. Why does a great song sound the way it does? It's the relationship among the participating elements. Certain songs really resonate with us...possibly because we're hard-wired to hear those notes in that particular way. Why do all pop songs use the same basic chord structures? Why do all country songs sound the same? Why do all blues song use virtually the same 12-bar progression? Some chord progressions have been done to death, but that's only because of their intrinsic tunefulness, the elements of which are based on pre-scientific order. I've heard "Blitzkrieg Bop" about a million times, but I still crank that tune whenever it comes up on my Ipod. It continues to be pleasing to my ears...perhaps because that I-IV-V chord progression is bigger than all of us.

This is one (of many) reasons I approach artists who claim to be "original" with extreme skepticism. It's good to be distinctive, to find your own voice, but contrived attempts to to subvert these basic precepts tend to result in unlistenable dreck.

What's awesome about all this: when the Ramones first counted off back in the mid 70s, perhaps they weren't just ushering in a new era in rock n' roll. They also may have been returning the "sinners" (prog rock, I'm looking in your direction) to the natural order of things.

perhaps we can?

2008-11-05T00:44:00.007-05:00

That was one hell of a speech. I've never seen anything like it.

After an African-American news anchor (an anchor I watched for years back in Detroit) broke down and started crying on the air, I nearly lost it myself.

Whether or not Obama can deliver the goods remains to be seen. Right now, it's irrelevant. It's not about him.

I just watched my country - a country only 54 years removed from segregation - elect a black president.

Holy shit.

I miss Detroit tonight.

Did you see that?

2008-10-20T02:35:00.001-04:00

Neither did I.

headache from hell

2008-10-17T03:39:00.009-04:00

Today, my brain literally hurts. Someone make it stop.

I get horrible migraines. It's always the same thing: pain through the neck and back of my head that feels like it's piercing my eyeballs from behind. The pain is excruciating. If I lay down, recline, or tilt my head back in any way, it hurts even more. Nausea, feverish waves, chills...sometimes I even puke...all from a goddamn headache. It's a good thing I only get about 6-8 of these per year, because I'm basically incapacitated when this happens. These things knock me on my ass.

Today was awful...12 hours of hell. It's still lingering even now. Why does this keep happening? I know that ongoing sinus problems exacerbate the problem, but I don't know the triggers.

Well, here's an interesting theory (posited by my Mom): my headaches are triggered by the full moon. Utter lunacy, right? I thought so, but here's the weird part: this is my third consecutive maddening migraine to occur during a full moon. Whoa. The worst one in recent memory occurred on New Year's Day, which was within a few days of the full moon.

A cursory internet search revealed that there are others with similar theories about lunar-induced migraines. What's more, a number of homepathic websites actually recommend, for "prevention of migraine headaches", to "take walks during a full moon."

Bullshit? Maybe...but you can bet I'll have my guard up the next time the moon is full.

addendum on the 97s show

2008-10-16T15:31:00.002-04:00

While watching Ken assault the guitar with aggressive tremolo picking, I realized what an influence he was my playing style...especially when Bolus left the Hat and I had to fill more space.

Besides providing a soundtrack to years of my life, the 97s have profoundly affected how I write songs and how I play them. I honestly think that I'm a better writer/player because of them.

That's "player"...not "playa"...

Old 97s in Detroit on Saturday

2008-10-15T03:05:00.001-04:00

Last weekend ruled. Two great shows, and (!!) I got to eat at Lafayette Coney Island, the mother of all Motor City roadfood. Two coney dogs with everything and cheese fries...that's how I roll.

As for the Old 97s, I don't what I can say about these guys that I haven't already said. I'm running out of superlatives to describe their awesomeness. Such an incredible live band. It was nice to see them in Detroit again; I hadn't been to St. Andrew's in years. Charlie Louvin was fun, too. I've seen the 97s rock no less than 7 shows - all great - but this was the first time I saw a legitimate old-school country traditionalist on the bill with them. Pretty cool. After the show, I hobnobbed with Murry. He was gracious, as always. Everybody loves Murry. Then, in a slightly more surreal and unexpected exchange, Ken and I discussed the rudiments of a Chinese basket job.

It was that kind of night.

The Ergs live in Toronto last Friday

2008-10-14T13:45:00.007-04:00

Amazing. The Ergs are probably the best punk band on the planet. Their sound is difficult to pin down...think early Replacements playing the entire SST catalog, except with better hooks and songwriting. I hadn't seen them in 5 years, and they've only gotten better. They tore through a frenetic set of all their "hits", pushing the limits of the puny sound system. There are few bands out there who can manage this kind of raw energy, let alone make it sound listenable. And here's the thing about the Ergs: they can flat out play. Not only do these boys write fantastic songs drawing on an encyclopedic array of classic influences, they also have the chops to play the shit out of anything. Watching this hyperactive trio hitting on all cylinders was electrifying. My only complaint: I wish they played one of their country tracks (the Tupelo-influenced "Country Skronk" is one of my favorite songs of all-time. Go listen to it right now. C'mon, it's like 99 cents on itunes, and it's so fucking good. Go!).

The bad news: the Ergs are breaking up. As sad as this is, I can say one thing with great certainty: this band is leaving at the top of their game.

Well done, Ergs. I'll miss you guys.

David Lowery is speaking to me...

2008-09-29T03:53:00.002-04:00

Everything seems to be up in the air at this time.

Robbie Fulks gets it

2008-09-28T15:43:00.001-04:00

I don't like the "wise" voice in songwriting. I don't like the voice of experience and wisdom that a lot of people go for—and it bugs me, that self-romanticizing "I've been everywhere, listen and learn from me" shtick. I've tried to avoid it, but in doing so, I've come up with plenty of slight songs about cars or Susanna Hoffs or whatever.

http://www.avclub.com/content/node/23403

Reminiscing...

2008-09-27T15:35:00.004-04:00

I've only ever been fired from one job.

A few years ago, I was fired from what was supposed to be a long-term substitute teaching position. After just a week on the job, I was called in to meet with the Assistant Principal. It takes a special kind of asshole to be an Assistant Principal, and I still can't imagine what kind of person would ever aspire to such ends. Anyway, here's how I remember it:

"Mr. Sloan, we've had a few complaints about your classroom."

This was news to me.

"Really?"

"Things have gotten a little loud in there."

"According to whom?"

"I don't want to get into all that. But this is a learning environment."

Obviously, another teacher had complained. But the implication was that learning only takes place when students are quiet and passive. Who believes that? Probably some shushing librarian. Stupid librarians. I didn't even know who it was and I was already pissed.

"Well," I responded, "learning isn't always a quiet activity...we're interactive, the kids and I...I like discussion. There's more to this than just keeping kids quiet."

"For you, there really isn't."

"Oh?"

I was becoming a bit worried about where this was going.

"So, umm...I can try and tone things down..."

"Well, I'm afraid that's not all...today a student dropped a textbook out of your window."

This was completely true. I had thought it was kind of funny. I had to suppress my own amusement.

"I'm sorry about that. I know it wasn't appropriate."

"Well, we run a safe place - for learning - here. Things like that don't generally happen."

He was careful to emphasize safe - as if I didn't know what the word meant. His tone was painfully condescending; he was talking to me like a student. As an assistant principal, I could all but assume that was how he talked to everbody. No wonder this guy was single.

And I happened to know that things like that did, in fact, happen at this school. Frequently.

"Well, no, it shouldn't have happened, but I'm a sub. You know how kids are with subs."

"We have to know that you have control of the classroom."

"I think I do."

"We've had some complaints...from students and parents."

"Wait...parents? Who told you this?"

He wouldn't say. But now I was visibly upset.

"With all due respect...other than the book, all you know is what people have told you. You haven't even been in my classroom. I think I do a decent job. I'm here until 5 every night working on lesson plans -"

"I know," he interrupted. "but we just can't take any chances right now."

These seemed to be vague...threats?

"I think I'm teaching them as much as can be expected, given the circumstances."

"Probably...but we don't need this right now. You're a sub...all you need to do is get them to shut up."

And there it was. I was shaking, because I wanted to scream at this guy...but I knew I couldn't.

"We need a drill sergeant."

"It would seem, yeah..."

"Can you be a prick, Sloan ? We need a prick."

"You're asking me to be a...prick?"

"Look, Ms. [NAME WITHHELD] is coming back next month. You don't need to teach them. We just can't have any problems."

"Hey, if the book is that big a deal..."

"It might be...it might not be. We can't afford to find out. We can't afford a situation."

"A situation??"

Fucking seriously.

"You seem like a good enough teacher," he said "but that's not what we're looking for."

I was already cynical about secondary education, but my mind was fucking blown. This was a school. And they didn't want...a teacher?

I looked right at him. "I'm consistently amazed at the lack of intellectual curiosity in the schools."

He looked at me quizzically.

"What's wrong with you?"

So I don't do that anymore.

"He's grown a lot in the past year."

2008-06-13T08:57:00.002-04:00

Translation: When did this guy get so boring?

Scared of Chaka

2008-05-13T12:23:00.004-04:00

This band was the real deal. SOC songs just hit you. You don't think about them, ponder their larger meaning, or break into discussion groups to cut through their subtext. Their lyrics are often unintelligible, but that doesn't matter...it's about the sound and the feel.

The rough-around-the-edges garage-y production suits SOC perfectly. Instead of hearing songs laboriously perfected by cut-and-paste studio patchwork, you hear the unrefined sound of rock n' roll being made. Of course, the songwriting is excellent - these are great little blasts of rockage - but it's the frenetic way the tunes are played and recorded that makes them hit so hard. It's nothing but a gut reaction.

In spite of (because of?) the fact that I engage in near-constant thinking (overthinking?) and contemplation, my musical taste has always tended towards the visceral and spontaneous. I'm going for a head-clearing walk after work. In this case, "head-clearing" = SOC on shuffle. Yeah, that's the stuff.

Roadfood last Friday

2008-05-12T12:05:00.000-04:00

Who knew there was anything to eat in Buffalo besides chicken wings? The city's other signature food is a sandwich known locally as beef on weck. Roast beef sliced to order, as rare as you'd like, stacked high and served au jus on a kimmelweck roll, a uniquely savoury bun encrusted with coarse salt and infused with caraway seeds. Top it with a little sinus-clearing horseradish - delicious. I ate the shit out of mine.

Il dolce far niente

2008-05-07T00:39:00.009-04:00

We live by schedules and clocks. Most of us have so much to do, we don't even notice the mechanical monotony of it all. For the majority of people, life is a series of to-do lists, a point-to-point linear existence, a systematic routine that enslaves us with its structure and predictability.

But we impose this order on ourselves. Time is a social construction.

Allen Bluedorn distinguishes between fungible time and epochal time. Fungible time is measured by interchangeable units. There is no qualitative differentiation between these units; one is the same as another. Most of our everyday tasks are structured around continuous fungible units - seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, etc. - organized into definite intervals that fill up a 24-hour day. The time defines the task. Epochal time, by contrast, is based on events. In epochal time, the "event defines the time." Time is not absolute but relational, linked to a person's internal rhythms and/or external social factors.

A person on fungible time wakes up at 7, eats lunch at 12, and goes to sleep at midnight. A person on epochal time sleeps when he is tired and eats when he is hungry. On fungible time, I stop blogging when it's time to go back to work. On epochal time, I stop blogging when I have nothing else to say.

Needless to say which I prefer. Events are all we really have to define ourselves. Our lives are just collections of events and experiences. But instead of living a series of events, most of us are making plans, biding time, and filling space.

We all have mundane, everyday tasks to which we must attend. I accept this...reluctantly. I value punctuality and efficiency, insofar as others require me to value them. I have adapted to the fungible model...because I had to.

It's only in the transient spaces in between all this trifling minutiae that I can listen to the dead air, to the sound of nothing, and appreciate ambiguity for what it really is: the freedom of open-endedness. I can welcome diversions, take risks, and, if I'm so inclined, ponder the incalcuable and reflect on what (if anything) really matters. I can embrace the natural disorder of things. Lots of people talk of "living in the moment", but the only ones who can truly do it are those who manage to free themselves from the shackles of fungible time.

So...while it undeniably feels great to cross things off that list and "get shit done", it's ultimately all about the down time. Because it's only when you're doing nothing that you're doing anything.

open-ended

2008-04-22T12:31:00.000-04:00

After years of research I think I’ve figured it out
It’s the little things that get you down
It’s the bigger things that you can’t get around
And it’s way too flat on the middle ground
But everything else is wide open

- MTX/Dr. Frank

Dear Pistons: Please turn down the suck

2008-04-21T08:48:00.001-04:00

It's not so much that they lost. It's the way that they lost, almost as if they couldn't have won, no matter how hard they tried.

Everyone is blaming the team's "lack of focus" again, but it's worse than that. When Philly started coming back, you could sense that the Pistons were losing it. They weren't just being lazy - they were losing control of the game.

The announcers said what they always say in those late-game situations:

"Detroit's been here before, and these kinds of situations don't bother them."

This is the conventional wisdom surrounding the Pistons. They are seasoned, experienced professionals, utterly cool and collected under pressure, battle-tested ballers with a confident swagger. Sure, they may get a bit lackadaisical at times, but their collective "experience" allows them to keep their composure.

Really?

That was true of the '04 and '05 Pistons. But ever since that 7-game marathon against team Lebron in '06, this team has been a different animal. Contrary to their gritty, self-assured reputation, the current Pistons seem to get rattled really fucking easily. When the Pistons win big, they're OK, but in close games...they look a mess. When they are pushed or tested, things seem to fall apart. Last night's late-game collapse was disconcerting to watch. The 'Stones didn't look lackluster; they looked fucking incapable. The shots weren't just off; they were bricks. The D is still good, but the offense looks absolutely paralyzed late in games. As the game moved into the fourth quarter, the team looked progressively less comfortable. It was the veteran Pistons, and not the young Sixers, who looked desperate and panicky. It's as if they don't believe they're going to win anymore.

The team had another great season (second-best record in the NBA), but that ugly self-destruction against Cleveland last year clearly lingers in their heads. Unless they win the next game convincingly, they may be looking at a Golden State-Dallas scenario.

What saddens me most is that these current Pistons are eerily reminiscent of that bloated Laker team they squashed in 2004. Every young team in the NBA wants a piece of the Pistons...and the so-called "savvy veterans" from Motown seem genuinely intimidated by that.

2008-04-18T13:20:00.001-04:00

Today is awesome.

I want to have sex with life right now.

mile o' meat

2008-04-16T12:43:00.001-04:00

Not as dirty as the title sounds:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080414/ap_on_re_la_am_ca/uruguay_big_barbecue

-

2008-04-10T12:19:00.005-04:00

"The Simpsons visited Atlantic City in Catch 'Em if You Can, with Homer making a derogatory remark towards the New Jersey state flag by pointing out that it has a fat man kissing a woman on it. In reality, it does not."

- Wikipedia

tonight

2008-04-08T21:51:00.002-04:00

My grill returned from its long winter hibernation.

Ginger-marinated pork loin with apple cilantro salsa...that's how I roll.

;

2008-04-04T12:06:00.000-04:00

"If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be a homosexual, the least you can do is go into the arts. But do not use semicolons. They are tranvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college."

- Kurt Vonnegut

Well, I have been to college...what's your excuse?

I am Canadian

2008-04-03T21:27:00.001-04:00

Translation: I am not American.

style

2008-03-28T12:35:00.003-04:00

"With precious few exceptions, all the books on style in English are by writers quite unable to write. The subject, indeed, seems to exercise a special and dreadful fascination over schoolma'ms, bucolic college professors, and other such pseudo-literates....Their central aim, of course, is to reduce the whole thing to a series of simple rules — the overmastering passion of their melancholy order, at all times and everywhere."

- H.L. Mencken

I like this quote. Few things are worse than "melancholy order".

Mencken goes on to insist that style - and logic itself - is "congenital" and cannot be taught, but I'm not so sure about that. I would agree that you can't teach someone who doesn't think...but can you teach someone to think? I think so.

I dig Mencken, largely because we both agree that most people are idiots. However, I think they're intellectually lazy, not intrinsically stupid. People are mindless sheep, not because they're incapable of knowing, but because they don't want to know.

You can teach people to think; you just can't make them want to learn.

Sue lies when she cries

2008-03-27T23:19:00.002-04:00

It's easy to see Dion as a two-faced bastard for his performance in "The Wanderer"; after all, he brags about precisely the sort of love 'em and leave 'em behavior that he felt victimized by in "Runaround Sue".

But it's actually more of a sequence* than an inconsistency. See, he found a place for "Lovers Who Wander". It's hard to tell whether Dion was actually over this chick or not, but the dude certainly talks a good game (the joke's on her...she doesn't bother me). Maybe Sue just did him a favor. Perhaps he needed to have his heart broken. Indeed, it could have been formative, an important stage in his evolution into a nomadic womanizer.

Anyway, perhaps Dion isn't such a dick after all. He just wants you to know how little he cares. If he sees her, it's just "hi Sue, how are you", and that is it.

* At least it SHOULD have been a sequence. Curiously, "The Wanderer" was the follow-up single to "Runaround Sue". "Lovers Who Wander" was released the following year.

2008-03-26T12:20:00.003-04:00

It's still cold here. I leave my apartment morning after morning with a tinge of hope, only to be greeted by familiar mountains of snow and ice. But today, the sun was out. And, despite the sub-zero temperature, it felt warm on the back of my neck. It was pleasant and unexpected.

It's the beginning of the beginning. Barely discernable, but it's there.

Life would be simpler, easier, and more agreeable...if only we could see our endings as beginnings.

citation

2008-03-24T16:52:00.001-04:00

In further support of the last post: Academics, when referring to their own published studies in their papers and manuscripts, generally adhere to a third person citation style. In other words, I might write about myself:

Sloan (2004) maintains that he is "not a writer".

rather than...

I said in 2004 that I am not a writer.

However weird it may be to refer to one's self in the third person, it does seem to support the notion of a constantly evolving identity.

I once had a prof who adhered rigidly to this during his lectures, proudly citing his old research by saying:

Jefferies 2001 noted that...

All the students knew what he was doing, but it was still kind of funny to hear this aloud. Here was Professor Jefferies telling us what "Jefferies 2001" had said about a particular topic. You had to crack a smile. Most of us just thought he was completely full of himself.

I've often thought that this citation convention could help with relationship disputes. Significant others, as we all come to find, have an uncanny knack for remembering unsavory shit that you did or said (see Dave Chappelle's "Home Stenographer"). The unsavory shit comes up years later and is applied (unfairly, perhaps) in a completely different context. It is at this point that APA style suddenly becomes necessary...

Did you not say I was "a bitch"?
You were talking to Sloan 2002! Sloan 2008 would never think of saying something like that. But sure, Sloan 2002...you wanna keep an eye on that creep.

It wasn't me...it was him.

I'm like Bill Murray at the end of Scrooged:

It's me! But the best thing about it is...it's NOT me!

Fun stuff.

writing and living/doing and being

2008-03-23T23:46:00.000-04:00

No one writes alone. Anything I write is alive with everyone I have ever known, with everything I've ever read, remembered, or imagined.

Your thoughts are your own, but they only exist in the context of other thoughts.

As such, I find many accusations of "plagiarism" or "rip off" to be more than a little bit dubious, and tend to approach artists who claim to be "original" with extreme skepticism.

Like writing, our self-concept is a continuous, evolving process. Ideas and selves are fluid, social constructions; various people and experiences cause us to "re-write" our identities, to "revise" our sense of purpose. To live is to change. There is no "final draft" of who we are, only the current incarnation.

So...snapshots of one's identity that imply static, objective meaning (i.e. I am a writer) are things that I try to avoid.

Today: I write.

I am a ________

2008-03-07T14:59:00.003-05:00

Don't you dare fill in the blank.

I categorically despise anyone trying to be anything. In the spirit of my last post, I don't just hate people who define themselves by their taste in music. I hate people who define themselves by their taste in anything. Come to think of it, I just hate people who define themselves.

I prefer a world conceptualized by verbs rather than nouns. Tell me what you do, not what you are.

music and relationships

2008-03-06T23:35:00.011-05:00

Today, a perenially dateless indie music geek (I know a lot of these) lamented on an online message board (I lurk):

"How come I don't know any girls who like pop punk? Seriously, I go to school with like 3,000 girls at least remotely within my age range, all of whom I'm more than willing to meet and converse with and I've yet to meet a single one with musical tastes even somewhat similar to mine. How's a dude supposed to find a lady in circumstances like this?"

The question here is completely serious: How can he possibly find a girlfriend when none of the girls at his school rock out to his music? For some people, not liking Screeching Weasel is actually a dealbreaker.

Of course, I wanted to tell him that any girl who defines herself by the type of music she listens to is probably worthless, that complimentary personalities are infinitely more important than mutual interests, and that The Whatevertons (insert Ramones clone band here) are totally overrated anyway.

One of the better responses:

"Do you plan to fuck her music collection?"

Sadly, I think he probably does. Some people are passionate about music, go to live shows and music festivals, collect records obsessively, and generally care way more about music than does the general listening public. They like to argue about whether Band A has a better guitar sound than Band B, or about how Album X could easily have been as good as Album Y, if only it weren't for the dubious inclusion of Song Z (the worst song ever), and how the postmodern narrative within said song marked the beginning of Genre C, which is comprised almost entirely of songs that suck. I like these people.

However - there are those who get more turned on by the track listing on a Pavement bootleg than by an attractive female posterior. They want to have dirty sex with Replacements reissues and go down on limited colored vinyl test pressings of Joy Division records.

These people must go.

current listening

2008-01-30T00:09:00.000-05:00

Self - Gizmodgery

Too good.

says my co-worker

2008-01-29T15:57:00.001-05:00

"I'm glad I don't have children. My cats are just so much easier to influence."

...

2008-01-24T16:57:00.000-05:00

"All the damn fools in the world believe they are actually doing what they think they are doing."

F.M. Alexander

Re: snow and frigid cold

2008-01-21T10:59:00.001-05:00

No thanks.

ambiguity

2008-01-21T02:33:00.000-05:00

...simultaneously excites me and frustrates the hell out of me.

"He is very professional"

2008-01-17T13:07:00.000-05:00

I know this is generally meant as a compliment, but I hate hearing it. I know why people say it, but this is (to me) one of the strongest criticisms a person can levy against another. Implied in this statement is a faith in management techniques and established, systematized hierarchies. Whenever anyone refers to me as "professional", I feel slighted, as if I have officially become a cog in the machine, part of a world where bureaucratic behavior, outward appearances, and disingenuous collegiality are privileged over independent thought.

OK, so maybe I'm overreacting. I know what the word "professional" means, and I realize I'm inferring an awful lot here. Most people hold professionalism in high esteem. This is part of the problem. As it is widely assumed to be obviously and indisputably good for society, we may feel hard-pressed to conceive of its alternative. Amateurs? What could they possibly accomplish? Get me a professional! When we distinguish between professionals and amateurs, we draw a line between those "in the know" (i.e. those who adhere to the prevailing paradigm and obey its prescribed rules) and ousiders. The problem is that professionals can become so immersed in a "profession" that they have difficulty challenging or even identifying the tacit assumptions associated within its framework. This doesn't leave much room for creativity or intellectual curiosity. It's not professional to question authority. It's not professional to critically examine beliefs, or to criticize others in your profession (no matter how useless and misguided they are). It's not professional for reporters to editorialize, even though we all know they have a fucking opinion! To be professional, one must suppress certain human qualities - feelings, subjective opinions, and emotions - in the name of conformity and subjugation. In fact, medical/nursing schools often debate (in published articles, no less) whether doctors/nurses ought to be "professional or human" - as if the two were mutually exclusive.

So...to be a professional is to declare a belief in and obey the rules of a particular paradigm, and there's nothing wrong with that...if you prefer to live in a world of networks rather than communities.

Personally, I choose to remain on the fringe with my gloriously amateurish brethren.

...

2008-01-15T01:06:00.000-05:00

I should really start bringing my sense of humor with me every time I leave the house.

I don't understand...

2008-01-14T12:38:00.000-05:00

...the prioritization of one state over another in the election primary process.

My friends will be voting in Michigan tomorrow (actually, knowing them, this is unlikely), but thanks to this, Michiganders who vote Democratic won't have much of a choice...and their vote might not matter, anyway.

I understand that MI and FL violated party rules, and maybe it was a power grab. What I don't understand is why it's so imperative that Iowa and New Hampshire always go first. I've never heard a convincing argument in favor of this. I think I'd rather see the candidates run a national campaign instead of spending the majority of their time in two small states engaged in pandering coffee klatsch nostalgia.

Anyone want to convince me that this is a good idea?

...

2008-01-11T01:01:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, I feel like my life is just a series of thoughts at night.

...

2008-01-10T22:41:00.000-05:00

I want to look beyond my periphery and actually have something to see.

?

2008-01-07T09:48:00.000-05:00

A large coffee with four milks and five sugars.

This is what the guy in front of me at Tim Horton's ordered today. I haven't even begun to wrap my head around all these double-doubles and triple-triples...but a quadruple-quintuple?

Do you people even like coffee?

One great thing about Christmas...

2007-12-24T21:19:00.000-05:00

Best nog ever. Tastes almost like a vanilla milkshake.

Serial Lady Killer

2007-12-20T12:22:00.000-05:00

Last night in Toronto, I saw 25% of the greatest band in the world.

Not only did Rhett Miller put on an amazing show, but he did it without the rest of the Old 97's. I didn't expect anything but a first-rate performance from one of my favorite songwriters of all-time, but I was blown away.

The real surprise was that Rhett managed to rock. I was expecting "An evening with Rhett Miller" - a laid back set of innocuous pop a la The Instigator, lots of plaintive slow songs, etc. - but things were much more intense than that. Simply put, Rhett got into it. He literally assaulted his guitar, flailing away with reckless abandon, playing nothing but chords with a minimum of bloated riffage and not a trace of subtlety. He didn't shy away from the fast stuff, belting out classics like "Doreen" and "Time Bomb" with the same aplomb as when the entire band is behind him. Rhett was all over the stage, retaining his signature "moves" and his loose, unfettered vocal delivery. During a particularly spirited rendition of "Big Brown Eyes", Rhett screamed at the top of his lungs...

What did I expeeeeeect!!!!

I've heard him sing this line in exactly this way at countless Old 97's shows, but hearing him do it alone, with just an acoustic to back him...wow.

Who knew losing what's left of your mind could sound this good?

Highlights:

Lots of 97s tunes and very few from The Instigator
Cover of California Stars (!!!!!)
Pixies cover
"Question" alternating between French and English
Rhett singing both parts on "Fireflies"
Songs from new (!!!) Old 97's album

Currently drinking...

2007-12-18T14:58:00.000-05:00

...Moroccan Mint green tea.

I'm pretty sure this makes me gay.

Sesame Street

2007-12-14T10:55:00.000-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJlkplvYdgA

One of my favorite bits. The show was brilliant in its heyday.

Not everyone agrees, though:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/18/magazine/18wwln-medium-t.html?_r=2&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

I don't care much for the "new" Sesame Street or its safe, toothless segments. The gentrified (there's a goddamn coffee shop now!) street - once a wonderfully quirky avenue of irreverent diversity - has become a parody of itself, a touchy-feely world where characters and conflict are innocuous and dull. The most complex and entertaining muppets have become more generically cute, and now suffer from a stifling sameness that robs the show of all the youthful energy that made it so great.

I miss when skits would end in pandemonium for no apparent reason. I miss when Oscar was truly grouchy, bordering on misanthropic. I miss when Snuffleupagus was merely a figment of Big Bird's imagination. I miss Kermit's disenchanted smirk, and his slightly condescending attitude towards the other muppets. But most of all, I miss the old Cookie Monster: a loud, boisterous cookie junkie whose one-track mind could think of nothing but eating. Child's First Addict, indeed. His very existence reflected the nature of the show back then; Sesame Street taught kids plenty, but every skit didn't have to be a "lesson", or even make any sense at all.

It's still a clever show, but it's not the eccentric bunch of weirdos it once was.

more food

2007-12-10T22:28:00.000-05:00

In honor of an upcoming road trip, I made these for dinner tonight. Mmm.

Now I'm thinking about working out...it's the thought that counts, right?

Dear Canada...

2007-12-09T22:01:00.000-05:00

The Tragically Hip are not that good.

Please make a note of it.

I'm hungry...

2007-12-06T12:03:00.000-05:00

...so it's time to blog about food.

Not long ago, I had the pleasure of eating (for the first time in a couple years) at Detroit's Geneva Burger, a legendary late night haven with the tastiest sliders imaginable. A "slider" - essentially a small, greasy onion burger on a steamed bun - can be had all around the Motor City, but no one does it better than Geneva. The smell of grilled onions that hits your nose upon walking through the door is sublime, especially after a few bowls of loudmouth soup.

Geneva is the epitome what Jane and Michael Stern call "roadfood":

"Great regional meals along highways, in small towns and in city neighborhoods...sleeves-up food made by cooks, bakers, pitmasters, and sandwich-makers who are America’s culinary folk artists. Roadfood is almost always informal and inexpensive, and the best Roadfood restaurants are colorful places enjoyed by locals (and savvy travelers) for their character as well as their menu."

"Sleeves-up food"...yes, that's the stuff. Like Lafayette Coney Island (another veritable classic), Geneva is a quintessential Detroit eatery - simple, no-nonsense grub for chain-weary diners. In a world where faceless, homogenized fast food is fast becoming our only culinary option, it's comforting to me that such places exist.

I realize some people only eat for sustinence. To them, food is utilitarian, a means to an end. They get hungry - they eat - and they're not hungry anymore.

I am not one of those people. Eating watered-down, generic cuisine is, to me, every bit as frustrating as listening to bland music. To put it in musical terms, let's say you sit down and order some tasty tunes: "I'll have the first Ramones album with a side of Johnny Cash, please." If someone then proceeds to serve you a steaming pile of the Huntingtons with a side of Toby Keith, you're going to be pissed, right?

As long as places like Geneva exist, I'll always savour the eating experience for all its worth.

room for nothing

2007-12-04T14:14:00.000-05:00

Playing live can be the most exhilirating thing in the world. There comes a point, when a band is hitting on all cylinders, that you stop thinking and doing. Everything becomes a feeling, and you're absorbed by the music and songs. Life is narrowed to a singular purpose: all you have to do is rock. Beautiful, cathartic simplicity. One momentary blast of inspired rock n' roll and all the quotidian minutiae just melts away.

There is no context for something like that. At that precise moment, nothing really matters except the moment itself.

Last Thursday, I was still getting over a cold. I was sick, tired, and basically miserable. During our set, just about everything that could have gone wrong did. Blown fuses, short-circuiting microphones, faulty cables...

But we (the Hat) managed to rock. It felt right.

I tend to be more global than specific in my thought processes, engaging in ongoing (but futile) attempts to determine if my everyday experiences mean anything holistically. So far as I can tell, there are only two things that can momentarily halt the overly active brain, allowing me to feel "centered":

1) Really intense shows
2) Really intense sex

There are (obviously) better, more important things in life, but only these two provide an intensity acute enough to actually clear some space in my head. These moments function as abstractions. I don't need to fit them into anything. I need more of these moments, if only because I greatly prefer this to this.

So...London...was it good for you?

Charlie Brown...

2007-11-27T20:15:00.000-05:00

"...searches for the true meaning of the holidays when he finds himself surrounded by crass commercialism."

So says my digital cable box. Awesome.

Mutant Pop Fest '99

2007-11-22T16:20:00.000-05:00

One of the best shows I have ever played or watched. Someone mentioned this show today...I had almost forgotten how amazing it was.

Here was this completly random assemblage of people, brought together only by a shared love for underground pop music. Anyone in attendance, band member or fan, was the kind of person that lived not with music, but for it. You couldn't help but get caught up in the spirit of things; there was this incredible, immediate connection between everyone there. This happened not gradually but instantaneously; the moment you arrived at the show, you were one of us, one of the few people who "got it". The bands were all great, and through it all, there was this awesome kinship and a collective disdain for everyone who wasn't us. This is precisely the sort of scene love I've railed against in this very blog...but it was great.

If you were at Bernie's in Columbus, OH in October of 1999, you know. You get it.

Back then, we were still in our drunken sloppy poppy phase. We released 7" records (already a dying format), and played (under the influence of PBR, usually) primarily punk rock shows.

I can't even listen to that stuff anymore. Once your band gets better, you want more...or, at the very least, you want more people to hear it. It's hard to retain that we-suck-so-what-fuck-you punk rock ethos when you don't actually suck...

But it's precisely that mindset makes music fun. Our band got a LOT better, but I don't know if I ever had more fun playing music than I did that night.

Straight outta De-troit

2007-11-19T11:45:00.000-05:00

Detroit has reclaimed the #1 spot as America's most dangerous city:

http://www.cqpress.com/docs/City%201%20-%20Top%20and%20Bottom%2025_14E.pdf

That puts the Motor City well ahead of Compton (#14)...

Bitches.

Elegy

2007-11-14T10:27:00.000-05:00

You always kept me moving
allowing me to go
to leave
to escape
not to any particular place, necessarily
Just to traverse, to be in transition
in between one place and another

It wasn't so much the leaving
well, it was, in a way
but definitely not the arriving
so much as the going
somewhere...anywhere
Not the road less traveled
or oft traveled
but any road
where there was rarely a way out
but always a way

Remembering your unremarkable appearance
your indifferent black exterior
You weren't into looks
colors, textures, and shapes were incidental

Songs we heard
the soundtrack to my aimless peregrinations
the chorus to "Here Comes a Regular"
that still reminds me of you

Not a person
you were too reliable for that
serving a singular purpose
better than any human could

You didn't give me answers
but you were always there
to move me
when I needed to be moved

Weakerthans

2007-11-09T09:57:00.000-05:00

Amazing live band with an unparalleled dynamic range. I forgot just how loud and rocking this band could be in a live setting. With three guitars, the loud stuff was really loud, a wall of distorted (yet melodic) intensity, awash in feedback - a boisterous reminder of Samson's punk rock roots. I've seen them play "Aside" numerous times, but never quite like this; they literally tore up the stage.

And yet those exquisite little finger-picked ballads were as gorgeous as ever. Samson isn't afraid of his own meek, plainspoken delivery. He isn't stretching or yearning, just providing an unequivocally human voice for his remarkable lyrical acuity. I've made it clear before that I'm not necessarily a lyrics guy, but this band is the complete package. Great, great show.

As was the case three years ago, the first encore was "One Great City"...but it didn't depress me this time.

"Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."

2007-10-29T09:00:00.001-04:00

Fuck you, Ben.

This morning, I feel nauseous, not healthy. And wise? I'm barely capable of formulating coherent sentences, let alone words of wisdom.

I'd like to rant about protestant work ethic jerkoffs and their self-important emphasis on constant labor as the way to salvation...but I'm too tired to do it...because I was up so goddamn early.

See...that's how they get you.

Weber

2007-10-19T01:38:00.000-04:00

How would you pronounce that word?

Me too.

But here in Waterloo, everyone says "weee-br"...

I went to the Taco Bell on Weber Street after work today...
"So that's one bean burrito?"
"Yeah, with extra cheese."
"OK...would you like to donate a dollar to stop world hunger?"
Did she really just ask me that?
"Umm...that seems a bit ambitious."
"It's just one dollar."
"So where does the money go?"
She seemed confused.
"I don't really know."
"Well, who gets the money? Does it go to you?"
"No!"
"Someone must be collecting this money...what kind of group is it?" I thought it was a legitimate question. My tax dollars are already being misspent in two countries.
"Look, I don't know anything about it...just forget it."
"I was just wondering...I mean, you asked me-"
"You didn't have to be a jerk about it."
Now I am kind of a jerk, but there's NO WAY she could have known that. I just wanted a burrito.

I can't believe I'm about to write this, but...I miss the 8-mile Taco Bell.

So what's my problem with National Punctuation Day?

2007-10-05T12:57:00.000-04:00

Many people "write graceless prose not deliberately but because they are gripped by the idea that writing is good only when it is free of errors that only a grammarian can explain. They approach a blank page not as a space to try out new ideas, but as a minefield to cross gingerly. They creep from word to word, concerned less with their readers’ understanding than their own survival.”

- Joseph Williams & Ira Nadel

So there. After two e-mails (TWO! A new record), I felt the need to defend what I had thought was a virtually unassailable position.

Now I can't remember the sound that you found for me...

2007-09-25T21:59:00.001-04:00

Wait...what?

Someone please tell me he didn't put the cat down.

Today is...

2007-09-24T12:49:00.000-04:00

National Punctuation Day

Celebrating pedantic elitism since 2004.

I'd love to discuss it further...but I have infinitives to split.

a deafening silence

2007-09-20T12:43:00.000-04:00

I haven't said anything on this this blog in quite a long time. I figured it was time to unleash a string of words so profound, so meaningful, so mind-blowingly powerful that they would change the world forever...

...

...

...

So, umm...yeah.

My brain hurts

2007-04-18T21:10:00.000-04:00

It so does.

I always rediscover Screeching Weasel when I'm stressed.

so it goes

2007-04-12T16:02:00.000-04:00

songs that make today tolerable

2007-04-06T14:26:00.000-04:00

Movin' On Up - Primal Scream
Chocolate Jesus - Tom Waits (perfect Good Friday anthem)
Have Love, Will Travel - The Sonics
Everything Falls Apart and More - The Ergs
Crazy Love - Van Morrison
Cajun Song - Gin Blossoms (shut up...no, seriously...shut up)

tension

2007-03-15T02:01:00.000-04:00

"Once you stop pretending that everything's shitty and you can't wait to get out of it, which is the story I'd been telling myself for a while, then it gets more painful, not less. Telling yourself life is shit is like an anesthetic, and when you stop taking the Advil, you can really tell how much it hurts."

- Nick Hornby

stop eatin', you fat bastard

2007-03-13T02:19:00.000-04:00

Richard Jeni has died...by his own hand. He was one of the most underrated comedians of the past decade and (along with Eddie Izzard and George Carlin) one of my all-time faves. To read these news stories, though, Jeni was just some washed up comic who appeared frequently on Leno.

Umm...no.

The guy was the perfect blend of intellectual and physical comedy. His timing was perfect. His wording and delivery were unmatched. The jokes were extraordinarily well-developed, moreso than any I've ever heard, and would build to ridiculous proportions, always going a little further than expected. It was overstatement; Richard Jeni was a master of overstatement. The characters and voices just made it that much better.

Jeni on religious wars:

"You're basically killing each other to see who's got the better imaginary friend."

He was brilliant and hilarious. And with North Americans growing fatter than ever, we truly need the Joey Falco Diet Plan.

sounds, part II

2007-01-26T00:12:00.000-05:00

Kurt Vonnegut (or, more specifically, Kilgore Trout) once wrote about a planet where the language kept turning into "pure music":

"Words became musical notes. Sentences became melodies. They were useless as conveyors of information, because nobody knew or cared what the meanings of words were anymore. So leaders in government and commerce, in order to function, had to invent new and much uglier vocabularies and sentence structures which would resist being transmuted into music."

This all occurred, he says, because "the creatures there were so enchanted by sounds".

Words and sentences themselves can indeed provide auditory - not just semantic - pleasures (seriously...can anyone really say the word "kumquat" with a straight face?). When I write or listen to music, the sound always takes precedence over the meaning. A good song simply sounds good; it need not say anything substantial.

Which leads me to another banned song.

Link Wray's "Rumble", a raunchy, fierce guitar instrumental, was banned from the airwaves in the late 1950s. Here's the unusual part: the song was an instrumental. It had no words at all; apparently, it just sounded dirty and dangerous. Fearful that gang violence would erupt in its wake, radio stations pulled Link's signature tune from playlists in several markets.

In banning Link, millions of Americans were tacitly acknowledging that a song can be obscene/indecent without even saying a word. If ever there was a testament to the power of the music itself in rock n' roll, that indescribable feel one gets when first hearing a great song, this was it.

Rock n' roll is a big goof, a form of escapism, and deconstructing it like a novel isn't always appropriate. Most importantly, rock n' roll appeals to the gut before the brain; "Louie Louie" and "Rumble" are proof positive of that.

I guess maybe I'm just more "enchanted by sounds" than the rest of you. Where is the rest of my planet? Where are my people?

In the words of the the great Mr. Vonnegut...

Listen.

sounds, part I

2007-01-25T14:05:00.000-05:00

"Yes, they're OK, but I'm more into lyrics."
I'm always being dragged into conversations/arguments of this ilk. The Supersucker's lyrics are quotidian at best...but this wasn't about them, and I couldn't let it stand without a fight.
"You don't like music?" I already knew the answer.
"I do, I just like it to...mean something, to make a statement..."
"Why?"
"Because people don't even think about what they're listening to, what it means."
I didn't see the issue. "Why should they?"
"It's just that lyrics can make a good song so much better."
"That's true...they can...but do they always?"
"Probably. It would be better to write something halfway meaningful than just, 'do-dee-doo' for the entirety of a song."
"It might be...it also might not be." I must have sounded like a dick.
He raised his voice now. "When the hell would it ever be preferable to write throwaway lyrics?"
"Lots of great songs have stupid lyrics," I contended. "For a long time, no one wrote about anything but cars and broads, and it was great."
"Maybe to you." Pfft...he would say that.
"OK, what about instrumentals?" I insisted. "What about classical and jazz? Music can have meaning without words."
"Sure, but if there are words, I would prefer that the songwriter strive for a more than just a rhyme."
"I don't really care."
"Words are your thing! How the fuck can you not care?"
"Well...I do...but it's not that important. The music will always always be more important than the words. If a song doesn't rock, why the hell would I bother looking at the lyric sheet?"
"To see if you're missing something?"
"I'm not missing anything. A song that doesn't pull me in musically is a bad song. You can write brilliant poetry to go with it, but if the musical hook isn't there, what's the point?"
"I just think words are important. I think it's part of the equation; you can't just write a catchy riff and expect it to compensate for horribly pedestrian lyrics."
I thought about this, and it made some sense.
"Well, I suppose some lyrics actually distract you with how bad they are..."
He ran with this. "And the words are so horrible, you just wonder, 'who the fuck thought it would be OK to write this shit?'"
"Yes, well...some lyrics are so godawful they ruin the whole song. But others...while they don't look good on paper, can come to life in the context of a good tune."

And this is where I stop and talk about "Louie Louie".

The Kingsmen's version of "Louie Louie" - frat house overplay notwithstanding - is basically the definitive trash rock single, a brilliantly unrefined pile of 60s pop and slop. It's a party song, one of the best ever written, not because of the painfully obvious three chord riff or the barely discernable lyrics, but because it manages to capture that classic combination of rebelliousness, rock n' roll energy, and naivete so perfectly. The song, originally written by Richard Berry in 1955 as a Jamaican ballad, is as well known for its garbled lyrics and amateurish recording techniques (supposedly done in 1-2 takes; the group thought they were still rehearsing) as for its content; the Kingsmen made the song their own, and their raucous romp became the version most people were familiar with.

Back in the 60s, the lyrics to this song were throught to be obscene, spurring an FBI investigation. It was thought that the Kingsmen had purposefully slurred the lyrics to hide graphic depictions of sex. The song was banned in some markets, and tapes were brought into court. They slowed down the tape speed. They sped it up. They did everything they could to prove that there was some degree of obscenity. But after an investigation that lasted over two years, the words were officially said to be "unintelligible at any speed."

No one really knew what the hell the Kingsmen were talking about (you can read the real words, as well as the supposed dirty ones here). Nonetheless, the song was embraced by millions. "Louie Louie" was primal, exciting, even dangerous, and no had to interpret or derive meaning from the nonsensensical lyrics to realize it.

Rock n' roll, done well, just sounds good.

You are sooo good lookin'

2006-12-04T15:17:00.000-05:00

I just sneezed and someone yelled "bless you"...from the other room.

I don't do the "bless you" thing, and I certainly don't do it from a distance. Those who do say it, however, mean business. They quite literally come running in from other rooms just to deliver these two words of empathetic acknowledgement. Countless superstitions ground this widespread but generally unquestioned practice, but I don't think people say "bless you" to ward off bad spirits or condemn disease anymore. It's an obligatory response, one is that is so ingrained in people, so utterly habitual, that they force the issue, even interrupting existing conversations to say it. The dead air following a sneeze makes other people uncomfortable; they must say it, at all costs, lest they be perceived as impolite. Like most standardized sayings and knee-jerk responses, "bless you" has no real substance.

Maybe we should follow Seinfeld's lead; I'd rather be good looking than blessed, anyway.

soundtrack to my life, Vol. VII

2006-11-22T03:30:00.000-05:00

Revolution - "The Beatles"

Beatles vs. Stones. The perennial question: who was better?

Both great bands. But the Beatles were better. Much better. Not only that, they were tougher. Most Stones fans labor under the delusion that the lore surrounding the Stones, the wild stories and stage antics, make them the more badass band.

To those people: have you not heard John Lennon scream before?

John Lennon screamed loud. He screamed like he meant it. Listen to the desperate urgency in each "all right!" during the outro of "Revolution". And the scream over the intro riff at the beginning...good god! (NOTE: there is some question as to whether Paul actually did the intro scream, since he performed it live. No matter...he screamed better than any Stone as well). Mick did not and could not have screamed like that. So, even though the Beatles were much poppier than the Stones, even though they never penned a tune that captured the sexual energy of a generation as well "Satisfaction", they had more balls.

So clearly is this the case that I'm overlooking the political overtones of one of the greatest wartime songs ever written, a scorching distorted guitar intro that could probably melt steel, and an unforgettable chorus, to focus merely on the screams of the lead singer. This certainly isn't the sole reason I prefer the Beatles to the Stones. I could list 100 reasons, but so much has been said about the Beatles already, as a musical group and cultural phenomenon. What can one say that hasn't already been said? The lore surrounding the fab four has become almost apocryphal, elevating them to iconic status. Their greatness, at this point, is all but assumed, accepted as a nearly incontrovertible fact. They have become the face of rock n' roll, the yardstick against which all other bands are measured. Their sheer ubiquitousness makes them annoying to some people.

And, somehow, to me, it's still difficult to overstate the importance of the Beatles. They really were that good.

unexplained malaise - soundtrack to my life, Vol VI

2006-11-20T18:21:00.000-05:00

"Leave the Thinking to the Smart People" - MTX

Some days just don't feel right. Something is off, slightly askew...but for no apparent reason. There's not really any point in bitching about it, because you don't even know what - if anything - is wrong. The best thing to do is just ignore it.

There's something to be said for calculated ignorance. Say what you will about denial and self-deception; they work. Don't look beyond the surface-level, don't read between the lines, don't deconstruct or over-analyze (remember, you can't spell analyze without "anal"). When someone asks you how you are, just say "fine" and be on with your day. Do you truly believe that he/she could handle it if you were entirely forthcoming?

"How are ya?"
"Kinda tired, overanxious, and slightly horny."
"Uhh..."

Seriously. Did you really think it was better to be honest? Not if you want to keep your friends and acquaintenances. Shut up before someone hears what you actually think. You'll do less damage that way.

Keep your feelings deep inside you
so they'll always be around
but keep your comments to a minimum--
the more you say, the worse you sound

Leave the thinking to the smart people
you know you'd only do it wrong

looking the part

2006-11-18T18:33:00.000-05:00

Beatles producer George Martin once lamented, "Songs aren't as interesting these days because most young people listen with their eyes and not their ears."

Of the countless reviews of both our live shows and CDs/records, most are very good. The negative ones invariably focus on how we look. Blah blah overly casual blah blah shorts on stage (it was like 100+ degrees, you prick) blah blah preppy lead singer blah blah plain and ordinary blah well-behaved blah blah too clean cut. If the Hat has any one "problem" that recurs, it's our image. We don't have one. We don't look like a band. We don't look like anything. We rock (arguably), but we aren't rock stars. At the same time, we're not quite dorky enough to pull off the rock god/rock geek image a la Cheap Trick and Weezer. We're simply not visually memorable (especially since we ditched that tired matching bowling shirt schtick). We just play our songs.

An excellent example of how this confuses people can be seen in a review of our CMW appearance here. With predetermined categories for analysis like "haircut", "nods to disposable fashion", and "indie rock footwear", it's no wonder Hannah was perplexed. Her comments are somewhat amusing and more or less accurate/fair - we don't look particularly badass. She was clearly more concerned with image than any other aspect of the band. She spent more time talking about Mike's puka-shell necklace (which is admittedly pretty lame) and our need to be "dirtied up" than about the music itself. We even scored pitifully low in "cool equipment", which is just dumb, since most bands at CMW aren't even playing their own gear. However, one key observation she makes - and what has always confused our detractors - is that our songs say "Let's rock and fucking roll!", but our look (as well as my self-referential lyrical schtick) says something more like, "We're Ruth's Hat and we're not going to hurt you."

People like to make big sweeping statements like, "it's all about the music", but it isn't, and everyone fucking knows it. Rock and roll is about style. And I don't just mean the mainstream bullshit that everyone with a modicum of taste hates categorically. Everyone KNOWS that Britney Spears is a ridiculous, manufactured entity, that her off-key caterwauling is just the soundtrack to her T & A. No, I'm talking about specific scenes, plenty of which ooze street cred. Do you really think any self-respecting neo-Ramones wannabe band would be seen in public without leather jackets and Chucks? To play dirty rock n' roll, you don't have to be dirty at all. You do, however, have to look dirty. Never mind that this sneering, faux atittude often borders on self-parody; it will almost always win you more fans than good songs.

Like Mr. Martin, I like the sound of rock n' roll. The Beatles certainly didn't look all that dangerous when they came to the States in the early 60s, but if you can't see past the silly shirt-and-tie merseybeat outfits and hear the rebellious, primal energy in John Lennon's voice, then you're not listening very hard. Early Beatles albums are often written off as silly pop and take a back seat to their trippier late 60s material. This is not to disparage the latter ("Abbey Road" is a fantastic album), but the Beatles in Hamburg circa 1961, playing sweaty rock n' roll all night, are the Beatles that I like best. They weren't yet big enough to have an overblown calculated image; they just happened to be the best goddamn band in Liverpool.

Early Beatles are an exception to an unfortunate rule: a band simply must look the part to be taken seriously. Hell, it's not as if I'm impervious to these things; image affects our opinion of everything. I guess I resent it...for obvious reasons. Typically, my only consideration in terms of fashion is deciding which plain black t-shirt to wear onstage.

Right about now, someone is probably noting that I myself am full of shit, that not having a style is, in fact, my style. And he/she wouldn't be entirely wrong. It's all about me, one way or another. People use music to create and understand their identities, and my identity is basically rooted in my refusal to assume and embrace an identity. As such, my rants are more about me than the "issues" they deconstruct or attack. In the words of Chuck Klosterman, "All criticism is really just veiled autobiography."

furthermore...

2006-11-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

I am compelled to expand a bit on my previous blog entry, lest I be construed as some grumpy, aging misanthrope.

I still wholeheartedly support the democratizing potential of punk rock. I still believe most of what I wrote here (even though I sound like a bit of a pretentious turd in this old article). The earliest phases of rock n' roll are the most real, when the band isn't yet hindered by scene politics or their own popularity. I still believe that a concerted effort to create a particular kind of music tends to kill the original inspiration. It all makes me sound like some kind of free jazz junkie, but this is far from the case. The raw and primitive brilliance of bands The Sonics and The Ramones - free of pretense of full of spontaneous passion - epitomize the unique power of rock n' roll, but Ornette Coleman just comes off as an academic deconstruction of music itself, a contrived attempt at "anti-music" more in line with the atonal noise of Half Japanese.

So, go start your own band. Anyone can do it. That's the beauty of punk rock.

That said, please don't send your demo to me.

scenes and scenesters

2006-11-15T13:04:00.000-05:00

Our band grew out of the punk scene, but we don't really play punk rock. We sure as hell aren't punks. Punk was music to me. I didn't care at all about the scene, and I didn't retreat there to escape an intolerant society. I loved the devil-may-care spirit and rough-around-the-edges qualities of the music, and was drawn to the DIY ethos of it all. However, I always thought the nihilism and accompanying style were basically...silly. Ridiculous, even. Finding solidarity with other like-minded misfits is great, but I was never THAT much of a social maverick. In some ways I was, but I didn't really want to be.

Punk rock, at its core, seems to be grounded in the ideal that making music should never be left to the professionals. For me, that was it. Punk wasn't a way of life, and I didn't care about sticking it to the establishment (although that can be pretty rewarding at times). I never kept it real, and I have no intention of ever doing so.

I don't mean to take issue with punk rock specifically; it's just an example. I just really despise the idea of "scenes" in general. It's all very high school, and though many are formed in opposition to a herd mentality, most embody it. The problem isn't that people in scenes are full of shit. The problem is that everyone everywhere is full of shit, and a scene is a way for some people to pretend that they're not. Don't delude yourself into thinking that those who comprise your little counterculture are any more real or substantial than those who make up mainstream society. Scenes are just like any other group of people: a few winners, a whole lotta losers.

I only bring this up because, as a music fan, it bugs me when people go looking for a scene to join, rather than for bands to like. Some scenes are incidental, and come together entirely by accident, but they still tend to adopt a sameness that eventually becomes dullness. The inbred little cliques that form around music always end up killing it. Communities and scenes, however well-meaning, create expectations. Within any scene, the bands are usually joined by some musical similarity. Inevitably, unwritten rules begin to guide the songwriting. Those in the scene - however tacitly - become reluctant to venture outside the sonic niche. Once a scene establishes a "sound", people start consciously trying to emulate it, and then the whole thing goes belly up.

I music when it's a happy accident. Communities, as warm and fuzzy as they might make us feel, tend to ruin that. As a random assemblage of people becomes a "community", others start forming crappy generic bands just to be a part of it.

The only thing worse than a mindless conformist is a contrived nonconformist. Most people would like to believe that they walk to the beat of their own drums, but really, they just follow different sets of rules.

we're all alright/soundtrack to my life, Vol.V

2006-09-18T17:07:00.000-04:00

The word for today is inefficient. Bleh.

I've been without internet and cable TV for almost two weeks. As it turns out, I will continue to go without these technologies until October 4th. This means listening to lots of music, even more than usual. As such, the list of songs I want to talk about is growing by the day...

Surrender - Cheap Trick

Overexposure notwithstanding (has anyone NOT covered this song?), this is a great tune, everything that rock n' roll should be. The parents end up making out on the couch listening to Kiss records. If that's not your idea of surrender, you may have wandered into the wrong blog by mistake.

Nielsen's classic provided me with a momentary respite from today. Yay for escapism. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go fail miserably at a few other things before the day is up.

We're all alright, we're all alright...

Feels a little better, anyway. Mmm...therapeutic repeating outro.

PDA

2006-09-17T17:30:00.000-04:00

While in line at the grocery store, I saw a middle-aged couple making out. I mean REALLY making out. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who noticed. Lots of people were staring and whispering. Finally, the girl in front of me said something...
"Ridiculous, eh?"
I looked again, trying not to stare. They were a passionate pair.
"Yeah...they're really going at it."
"Kind of inappropriate." She clearly wanted me to agree.
"Eh...I guess so...but I don't really care."
She looked surprised, so I continued.
"Let 'em have their fun. What do I care?"
The couple then increased the intensity yet further; the guy started doing that cheesy move where he puts HIS hands in HER pockets. This is obvious to everyone. An older man looks at them with an impatient "get a room" look.
"Jesus," he said under his breath. "Other people are in the room...ya know?"
"OK," I finally agreed. "I guess that's a bit much."
The girl had become more perturbed. "That's awful." She looked at me. "Think they're married?"
"No. No married couple kisses like that."

Soundtrack to my Life, Vol. IV

2006-09-16T23:37:00.000-04:00

Nervous Breakdown - Black Flag

One of the most cathartic songs of all time. As Keith Morris spits out the words to this tune, he seems to be having an actual nervous breakdown. Pure visceral rage. Not a song you want to hear every day, but it's a veritable godsend when you need it. If Rage Against the Machine could manage this kind of intensity, I might finally understand why people like them so much.

you want a piece of me, September?

2006-09-02T20:38:00.000-04:00

What a wretched day. I am NOT ready for Fall. Not yet. Shorter days, leaves dying, colder temperatures...the frigid darkness lies ahead.

Yeah, I fucking heart YOU, Autumn.

sticker rage

2006-08-30T13:31:00.000-04:00

As I was cut off, I had time to read this bumper sticker on the back of the pickup truck in front of me:

Work is for people that don't know how to fish.

Apparently, so are fucking blinkers.

Bumper stickers seem so much more annoying when stuck on a vehicle that is making your life miserable. It's ridiculous enough that someone decided other drivers would be interested in the wit and wisdom affixed to his/her bumper. It's even more frustrating when these jerks endanger my life on the road. If, during a perilous near-accident, I catch a glimpse of their special adhesive message, I reach a whole new level of pissed off. Today, I actually contemplated sacrificing my own vehicle for the greater good and running this prick off the road. It's not enough that I have to stare at a swerving car; I have to endure the "cute" little sayings and pseudo-philosophies stuck to its bumper???

No one cares that your kid is an honors student, or that your kid beat up an honors student, or if you're pro-life or vegetarian or anything else. At that point, you are simply IN THE WAY, and I hate you categorically, since people tend to hate anything that blocks their path or slows them down. You are the nameless, faceless car in front of me, a part of the problem, and, at that moment, the instrument of my oppression. A sticker just forces me into the uncomfortable position of generalizing and stereotyping. Now I don't like to pigeonhole a group of people. I'm sure that some anglers are perfectly capable as motorists. But at the moment of near-impact, my brain concocted something along the lines of:

Fucking fishermen need to learn how to drive.

It's a Wonderful Lie

2006-08-16T22:11:00.000-04:00

Given my tendency to wallow in self-induced malaise, it's rather perplexing that I am susceptible to the most melodramatic, mawkish tripe imaginable. I am genuinely moved by cheap sentiment. If a cinematic moment or schmaltzty song is meant to elicit an emotive response, I'll respond like an emo-stricken dork.

I blame Frank Capra, John Hughes and Nick Hornby. And Journey.

worst idea ever

2006-08-16T04:55:00.000-04:00

preemptive strikes

2006-08-04T23:32:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I refer you to the Simpsons episode that spoofs the X-files. If you're wandering around my blog, you've probably seen it. An alien (actually Mr. Burns) emerges from the woods:

GLOWING ALIEN: I bring you love!
LENNY: It's bringing love...don't let it get away!
CARL: Break its legs!

This little exchange more or less describes all my failed relationships. Now you just have to figure out if I'm the alien or not.

soundtrack to my life, volume III

2006-07-22T02:24:00.000-04:00

The Figgs - "Favorite Shirt"

When I first saw the Figgs circa 1995, I was immediately mesmerized by them. It took only a few chords for the band to blow me away. They were up there smoking, drinking, and hitting every goddamn note they sang. After only a few songs, they tore into "Favorite Shirt", complete with those stop-on-a-dime rock n' roll breaks that make you want to pump your fist. The crescendo of the song soon arrived, when the hits are doubled up, matching up perfectly with the phonentics of the words: once I had my favorite kind of ice cream. These breaks are as explosive as anything you will ever hear in rock n' roll. This lyric - which, on paper, doesn't look like much of anything - sounds powerful and profound when delivered by the mighty Figgs. Hearing it live, for the first time, was at once transcendent and cathartic; it literally gave me chills. It was at that point that I turned to Mike and said, "This is the kind of band I want to be in."

soundtrack to my life, volume II

2006-07-19T01:29:00.000-04:00

Moving from sunny days to sleepless nights...

Do songs change your life? Probably not. But my confusing existence makes much more sense with a soundtrack. I find it hard to imagine a world without these songs. I need them, and will continue to need them...at least until I get my own theme music.

Every Night - Screeching Weasel

Anthem for a New Tomorrow? More like anthem for self-defeating insomniacs. I can remember countless nights driving around at three in the morning cranking this song louder than any rational person should. The guitars absolutely scream. This is no more evident than at the beginning of the tune, when they literally explode over the top of the first line:

I'm not feeling human anymore

The guitars are so high in the mix, it's nearly impossible to make out the vocals unless you crank the volume. There is so much gain and distortion that the chord changes are barely discernable. The best way to appreciate "Everynight", I've found, is by turning up a cheap car stereo, as loud it goes, and trying to sing over it. My ears are still ringing from this song. Musically and lyrically, it may as well be entitled "Overly Active Brain". I don't generally listen to it unless I am personally not feeling human anymore. It's neurotic as hell, and not just lyrically (each night I document the things I've done/the pointless points I've made for stupid reasons/I will analyze everything/and make myself count the ways I fucked up today)...the music itself makes me skittish. Punk rock, self loathing, and insomnia (which, I suspect, are connected in more ways than one might think) come together, lock you in a room, and make you want to scream as loudly as the ear-bleeding guitars. Brilliant song, and, thankfully, one that I don't listen to much anymore. Listening as I write...people, places, moments come streaming back into my head with this song. It's not a matter of second-guessing myself. It's the sheer futility of it all. The song is called every night for a reason. It's not about some random issues you're dealing with, or even about the inescapable ones with which you always deal. It is the very act of grappling with those issues, and it is the act of screaming about it that matters. When that outro builds and then fades, you almost feel as if you might finally fall asleep. Almost.

aural pleasures (a.k.a. soundtrack to my life, vol. I)

2006-07-13T01:24:00.000-04:00

Teenage Fanclub's "Ain't That Enough" is the perfect pop song.

You cannot help but have your mood improve exponentially upon hearing this tune. It's like musical comfort food: lush, soaring guitar pop, devoid of pretension and unblemished by posturing, that almost seems to embrace you as you listen. The band's beautifully layered harmonies and trademark bleary optimism anchor an irresistible melody that lingers in your head and refuses to go away. It's not quick and flashy, just steady and comfortable. It doesn't hit you over the head; it surrounds you, envelops you, consumes you. Whenever I'm down, this song makes me feel better. Whenever I'm up, this song makes me feel better. It's simple and obvious, but never cliched and cloying.

Try to recall the most relaxed moment of your life, driving on a sunny afternoon, arm hanging out the window, when things are - for a split second - just right, exactly as they should be. "Ain't That Enough" is that good.

Here is a sunrise/Aint that enough
True as a clear sky/ain't that enough

For 3 minutes and forty-two seconds, it's not only enough...it's all that matters.

live

2006-07-11T03:53:00.000-04:00

I'm completely lit up. Naturally, it's time to post on the blog. Currently, Mike is even more wasted than me. This is the nth level of sketchy. He's "fucking had it" (his words exactly)...I'll transcribe as it unfolds...

Mike: Dude...it smells like fucking puke in here.
P.j.: What?
M: Puke...it smells like ralph all over the goddamn place. What the hell did you do?
P: Nothing, man...you're insane.
M: No!!! What the fuck did you DO in here?
P: I didn't do anything...
M: Holy fuck it reeks in here...and whose fucking belt is this?
P: What?
M: Something fucking smells horrible!
P: Well, I can't imagine what it would be. I did cook a bagel pizza...with provolone...
M: Provolone!!
P: Man, it's not the cheese.
M: It is! It totally is! The whole house smells like ass!
P: I don't know what you're talking about...
M: It amazes me that you can't smell this fucking shit...
P: I've got nothing.
M: It smells like barf...the whole fucking place...I'm throwing that provolone out tomorrow...jesus, how can you NOT smell that?
P: I just ate it! It's fine!
M: I usually lock all the doors...but I'm leaving everything open to get rid of this puke smell...
P: (suppressing hysterical laughter) ummm...sure...
M: (breaks out the dustbuster)
P: Does that help? Vacuuming the fucking carpet? Seriously, someday I'm gonna tie your hands behind your back and you're gonna have to watch me fold a map incorrectly.
M: I'll put a piece of provolone on your fucking tombstone.
P: I'll provolone you.

And that...is living with a sibling. Bottoms up.

...I guess that's where I'm from

2006-07-06T03:13:00.000-04:00

Having grown tired of my own songs, I spent the greater part of tonight learning, re-learning and playing Replacements tunes. I had already lionized these songs as classics (the 'Mats are one of my favorite all-time bands), and it turns out they're even more fun to play than they are to listen to. It's impossible to overstate what a creative songwriter Westerberg was and is; his songs come alive behind the guitar. As I fumbled my way through the melancholy bar ballad "Here Comes a Regular", I was reminded of everything I love about this band: the rough edges, the raucous attitude, the lore surrounding their early live shows. Ultimately, though, it was the unmatched plainspoken melodicism of Westerberg that made the band so endearing. This guy is a tunesmith on par with anyone, and the naked honesty of his lyrics and delivery made these great songs even better. His voice cracks as he sings the tail end of these lines:

Everybody wants to be someone's here/someone's gonna show up, never fear

...and the effect is nothing short of staggering. You can feel the song itself in his voice, the overwhelming solitude of last call, the melancholy lurking under the surface, the underlying, desperatate loneliness that drives people to the bar in the first place. Westerberg - along with Dr. Frank, Tom Waits, and Rhett Miller - is one of only a handful of songwriters whose songs I can relate to better than my own.

Lately...

2006-07-03T14:48:00.000-04:00

I seem to have this thing for getting drunk then posting a lot of self-indulgent nonsense on the blog. Then I pull the posts the next morning.

After some deliberation, I've decided to let my dumb rants stand. It's more real that way, even it is kind of stupid.

paint every insignificance a sign

2006-07-02T02:08:00.000-04:00

Why the hell do people blog anyway? It's 2:13 in the morning and I feel compelled to write, but...why the hell write something publicly visible? What motivates bloggers? Is there an exigence, and, if so, what is it? My best guess is that there is some widely shared need for personal validation. Or maybe my life needs a timeline. If you've been paying attention, you know that's a bad idea. Lame. OK, so I suppose I owe you something profound (you = all seven of you). No, I don't. I don't owe anyone anything. And yet I write. Ironically, I don't think I can verbalize anything - at least not eloquently - that's in my head. I suppose this blog is a failed attempt at doing so. I wanted to use it for my rants about - well, everything - but somehow these things always turn into glorified self-important diaries, predicated on the ludicrous notion that someone OTHER than you is actually interested your inane thoughts. This is all random. And pointless. That's my excuse for everything. I preface whatever I say with a simple "now this doesn't matter AT ALL, but...". It's an age old tactic, preemptively shooting holes in your own argument before you make it. Words on paper. Or a screen, I guess. WTF? God, I loathe internet shorthand. What the fuck is WTF? Hmm...Ok, a point...my blogs used to have a point. Ya know, there seems to be a dearth of points and an awful lot of dull edges in my brain tonight. One good thing: this is painfully high school, but...when you like someone, it's so exciting to see signs that they might like you back. An "accidental" brush of the leg, a glance that lingers too long...I notice this shit. Chuck Klosterman would blame this on my self-obsessed generation, always looking for fake love, but these signs are more real than the pathetic relationships most people fall into. I love these things. I love them more than love itself. Or maybe, in my warped brain, they comprise what love actually is. Lou Gramm wanted to show us "what love is", but honestly...who listened to him? I refer back to childhood idealism more than any sane adult ought to. OK, so, as I'm writing this, Staylefish is playing unplugged reggae on my porch. Where was I? Right, so...signs...the flicker of a remote possibility of mutual feelings may be the best feeling on earth. Because what people THINK they want - love, whatever - is actually just a fundamental human need to be understood. For a millisecond in your life, perhaps someone ELSE actually gets it. Probably not, but well...it's sort of a beautiful thought. It's in their eyes...for a split second, they almost say, "I agree, I am thinking what you are". That's better than the best orgasm I've ever had, probably because it's much easier to get laid than to be understood. Now...the problem with all this is that I risk playing the "no one understands me; it sucks to be a tortured artist" card. And it most certainly doesn't suck to be me. Not lately, anyway. But I do have this incessant need to figure out damn near everything. I know I can't, but I stay up trying anyway. As I stated before going off on all this...none of it really matters. Right? Is that a rhetorical question? Who am I talking to? Pfft...blogosphere. I'll blogosphere you. You're a blogosphere. Who the hell is playing slide guitar out there? I suppose it's cathartic while it lasts. What's important? What matters? What SHOULD be in my head right now? Windy as hell tonight. I hate asthma. I really can sing when I can breathe. Also...oh jesus...now they're playing George Michael. I like Faith (shhh...don't tell). Wow...that is some serious drunken, off-key caterwauling going on out there. Sacrilege. I've got nothing else. Where did all these words come from? Still a few more hours to figure that out. Daylight bad.

This post will self-destruct tomorrow.

A night in the life

2006-06-28T01:35:00.000-04:00

Loud punk rock with trebly ear-bleeding highs, turned as loud as possible to awaken tinnitus. Feel something - anything - even an incessant piercing ring. Love it because it's tangible, fucking measurable, as if entropy itself were the only thing a person can sink his teeth into. Romanticize solitude. Something is there. Nothing is actually something. It isn't creepy so much. Afraid of nothing. Not afraid of anything except nothing. Lonely and together. Lonely and alone. Remember unmemorable things and miss them. Create distance from things IN ORDER to miss them. Condemn sentiment. Search for fake love. Embrace malaise and mistake it for clarity. Look for answers. Confuse indigestion with the end of days. Mistake observations for epiphanies. Look for answers. Self-aware and self-obsessed. Justify narcissism with self-deprecation. Dwell. Examine and assess all pretenses. Check for leaks. Remain unfinished. Means over ends. Fixate on ends anyway. Look ahead. Look behind. Look around. Existential. Meaningful. Meaningless. Hatred of adverbs. Self loathing. Conceit. Fuck that guy. Better to do something - anything - than nothing. No, better to do nothing. Proactive. Steady deterioration. Inevitable and steady deterioration. Helpless. Angry. Suspicious. Awake. Interconnectivity. Words. Fuck words. Fuck thoughts. Flight. Run. Escape. Premonition. Love. Fake. Real. Cynicism. Dissapointed idealism. Holes in every theory. Leaks. Inconsistent. Unreliable. Trust no one. Dearth. Explain. Qualify. Add. Subtract. Subtract. Endings. Conclusions. Want. Need. Gameface. Why.

Morning. Capable. Until tomorrow night.

a momentous occasion

2006-06-13T00:57:00.001-04:00

Today was crap. Utter crap. Long story, and I don't feel like telling it.

What's making everything OK is that I'm currently performing an exciting rite of passage, importing the entire "Too Fare to Care" album into Itunes to be transferred to my recently acquired ipod.

Feeling less mopey and more like a serial lady killer. Rawr.

places

2006-06-01T03:00:00.000-04:00

I saw the Maritimes for the first time last month. I was so far east, I was in a new time zone. I saw new landscapes, new provinces, new people. There comes a time on almost every road trip/vacation when I develop a powerful sense of place, becoming particularly aware of my current surroundings. I know then that I am somewhere else. Everything is different, everything is new, and I fall into a transcendent "wow, I am totally HERE doing THIS" moment that fuels my future wanderlust. Strolling down Crystal Crescent Beach in Nova Scotia early one afternoon, I was overcome by precisely this feeling. I was so there.

I don't think place defines us, but I do think these moments do. My life comes together when I travel. I leave behind routine and just live, strip out all the obligations and daily minutiae and just experience life for its own sake. Some say that the mundane little everyday nuances that seem to weigh us down actually define our lives, that they comprise the majority of what existence really is. While I won't undermine the importance of appreciating the little things, I don't exactly agree. Because when the rote, mechanical actions fall away, and all that is left is people and places, that is the real deal. There are no distractions. When I travel, everyday concerns are (usually) part of the background instead of the foreground. I don't have to be anything, I don't have to be anywhere; I can just be. There are so few requirements, so few expecations; I can just hang out and exist. Means with no ends. It's hard for most people to even think that way.

But what each person does with this open-ended time is closest to who he/she really is. Furthermore, the people we think about when the smoke clears and there are no distractions are those we truly care about. When we are forced to define ourselves instead of being defined by our surroundings, we are - arguably - more ourselves than ever.

And that is why escapism is my reality.

liminal spaces

2006-05-18T01:03:00.000-04:00

Luckily, not many of you witnessed that suckfest of a set we played in Toronto on Saturday. Oddly enough, this came after winning not one, but two music awards in London, for best rock band and best punk band. Like most small-scale awards shows, the one I attended consisted primarily of an inbred group of musicians trying to make themselves feel legitimate. Presenters announced the nominees, opened envelopes, and winners were declared. Virtually all such events are pointless, but this one, in mimicking the irrelevant Grammys, just seemed kind of sad. When I heard our name, I wasn't sure that I wanted to. The presenter loudly proclaimed, "the award for best rock band goes to...", but I heard something more like, "the valedictorian of summer school is..."

I always thought that the strength of our band was its ability to exist between the lines, to do something specific and recognizable with indeterminant boundaries. We forged out this liminal space and embraced our own ambiguity. We embraced 50s rock, 60s pop, and 70s punk, but we never went unequivocally retro. We played country or even rap if we felt like it. We weren't quite punk, pop, or rock, and yet we were all of them. We were just us. Then...we won. Suddenly, we were something. I mean, it said so right there on the award:

"Ruth's Hat: Best Rock Band"

And that's where the trouble started. In this post-award era of the Hat, there are expectations. We're supposed to be something. Indeed, we were trying to be something on stage. We were trying to be more, and ended up being much less.

It irked me, this set. It irked the hell out of me. Our performance was the nth level of annoying to everyone in the band. Unforeseen issue after unforeseen issue, and we responded less gracefully each time, choking even worse than the Pistons in game 5. Hear that giant sucking sound, Mr. Perot? That was the energy leaving our set. Everything felt stilted and contrived. Just a bad show in every way...but this one was particularly frustrating. The unavoidable irony was that, upon being commended/awarded for rocking in London, we proceeded to rock less than ever at our very next show.

On Saturday, people came up after the set, said we were being too critical, said that we rocked. No offense, fans, but I care lot more about what I think than what you think. Some of you love us, and for that, we love you. However, our show is about much more than pleasing the crowd. Being on stage can be so cathartic and liberating. No matter how fucked up your life gets, you can rock it away for half an hour (that's all you get) on stage.

I realized something this week: I am in this band to entertain myself, not others. When we play a cover, I want to play songs that I like. I don't want to play covers just to please the crowd; that's pandering and generic. That's the American Idol mentality. Do whatever is necessary to "make it". Talk about "markets" and "image" and sounds that are "going to be huge". Our band was always more of the "This is what we do; take it or leave it" mentality. Performing music is great for that reason; you don't have to pander. For some performers, the crowd response is everything. If a comedian can't get any laughs, he/she simply isn't a good comedian. But in a band, you can just play your music, i.e. "This is us, and if you don't like it, we don't care...because we love it." And that's enough. The best music is almost always an uncompromised, untainted sound that hasn't been watered down by a bunch of grinning ponytails who view music as "product". For all the people who claim to have seen something in our band, it was the fact that we were not specifically any of those things that made us something.

This sounds like quite a lot of nonsense to spout over one bad show...and it is. A band simply cannot remain perpetually in transition. Nevertheless, I'm hoping that if I drink enough Labatt 50 this weekend, I can return - at least in spirit - to our liminal space, where no one has pegged us yet, and we are free to do whatever we want. Liminality is freedom. Wow, do I really believe that? It would make my life sooo much easier...

the road

2006-04-02T03:18:00.000-04:00

From language theory to rock n' roll and back again.

Bakhtin's notion of chronotope (which literally means time-space) is used to describe the "instrinsic connectedness" of temporal and spatial relationships. Somehow, this concept has brought together my fascination with (see also: fear of) time and affinity for road trips in a most unlikely convergence:

"The road is a particularly good place for random encounters. On the road, the spatial and temporal paths of the most varied people - representatives of all social classes, estates, religions, nationalities, ages - intersect at one spatial and temporal point. People who are normally kept separate by social and spatial distance can accidentally meet; any contrast may crop up, the most various fates may collide and interweave with one another. On the road, human lives become more complex and more concrete by the collapse of social distances. The chronotope of the road is both a point of new departures and a place for events to find their denoument. Time, as it were, fuses together with space and flows in it (forming the road); this is the source of the rich metaphorical expansion on the image of the road as a course, the course of life. Varied and multi-leveled are the ways in which the road is turned into a metaphor, but its fundamental pivot is the flow of time."

Place and time. It really simplifies things.

When you finally hear the new RH album, you'll hear me singing:

I don't wanna be here anymore...

The "I" says it all. It's all about me, in that place and time, right there, right then (or, if you prefer the senseless Jesus Jones reference, right here, right now). What I'm really asking is: How can I possibly construct an existential identity within this postmodern social framework?

Perhaps you know what I mean. Maybe. Or not.

monologue

2006-03-07T02:06:00.000-05:00

"I will not relate to you and you will not identify with me. I will give you no input and will expect no feedback. This will not be a learning experience, nor will it be a growth period. There will be no sharing, no caring, no birthing, no bonding, no parenting, and no nurturing. We will not establish a relationship. We will not have any meaningful dialogue, and we definitely will not spend any 'quality time' together. We will not be supportive of one another, so that we can get in touch with our feelings in order to feel good about ourselves. And if you're one of those people who needs a little space, please.. GO THE FUCK OUTSIDE."

- George Carlin

Giving some thought to band/audience interaction lately. Fronting a band has become an exercise in unwitting self-parody, filled with empty rhetoric and recycled cliches. At CMW this weekend, I noticed just how desperately each performer tried to make that elusive connection:

"We rock! We roll! We kick ass! Are you ready to rock, roll, and kick ass with us?"

Blah blah blah. Or, worse yet:

"This is a song about my painful pain, and a metaphorical knife that cuts deep inside my pain. I painfully encourage you all to feel my pain."

It's difficult to front a band without sounding completely contrived and pandering on stage. I always kind of liked the idea of challenging, even consciously alienating the audience. Bands are generally expected to bond meaningfully with their audience; this kind of irks me. This is not to say I don't enjoy playing for crowds. It's just that some nights, I don't wanna be your monkey. I almost resent the idea that I am expected to leave people with anything.

Bands: Instead of ranting about what you plan to do (rock, roll, brood, pontificate, etc.), take a cue from Carlin and tell the audience what you will NOT do. Refreshingly honest, it would be.

whole lotta shakin'

2006-02-27T20:05:00.000-05:00

So I experienced my first earthquake the other night. Apparently, I'm right over the Western Quebec Seismic zone:

http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/20060224/ottawa_quake_060224/20060225/

Pretty intense. The quake, which was accompanied by an eerie rumbling sound, went on for about 12-15 seconds, shaking the whole house and everything in it. No damage, but it was an odd sensation to feel the earth itself moving beneath you.