tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-111896092024-03-06T21:40:39.726-08:00More than you really need to know about Birdmonsterbirdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.comBlogger344125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-67800695345481023632010-08-09T22:08:00.000-07:002010-08-09T22:14:03.434-07:00In which Birdmonster ponders its harrowing lack of McDonald's while one-fourth of Birdmonster serenades you next weekLooking through some old notepads the other afternoon, I happened upon one that contained scribblings of a heretofore unrealized post about an Anecdotal Fast Food Manifesto. The idea was simple: like the undomesticated American Trucker, the Touring Band is often faced with culinary questions that bedevil even the greatest philosophers of our time. Will you choose the liquid-beef shit-farm that is Arby's or the poisonous gut-riot that is Bojangles? What is the true and proper order at Taco Bell? Is there a difference between Hardee's and Carl's Junior? Respectively, the answers are neither, crunchy tacos, and at Hardee's you get melted plastic on your American "cheese." They are the fine points, surely, best left unanswered save by the most harried connoisseurs. <br /><br />When I was writing this, fast food had had it's fair share of the crap-spotlight in recent memory. "Fast Food Nation" explained the mad-chemist-underworld of Yum! Foods and their various subsidiaries. "Super Size Me" allowed us to watch a real live human devolve into a joyless greaseman with erectile disfunction. "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle" reminded us that stoners eating burgers are funny. But what was missing from the kinda-sorta-recent spate of fast food commentary---with its dour nutritionists, angry foodies, and Guinea Pig-Men--was a simple user's guide. We all know fast food is bad. What you might not know is which fast food is more badder.<br /><br />Of course, we're touring less these days. The four o'clock drive-thru is a thing of the past, replaced instead with a robust and varied diet of ham, ham, and ham; my sweat smells of piglets. I no longer feel like I had the clout and vigor and expertise to properly handle a subject fraught with intricacies like "which kind of disturbing creamy juice should I allow be slathered on this pseudo-beef or that quasi-chicken?"<br /><br />There are things I miss about living in a van, sleeping in gecko infested hotel rooms, and meeting various and sundry folks from hitherto unknown townships. Fast food? Not one of those. Playing music every night? Absolutely one of those. <br /><br />We've all coped with this distressing lack of harmony in our own personal ways. David raps about his hard-knock upbringing as a middle class Street Fighter aficionado; Zach plays drums on the bellies of his kittens. Me? I watch Tombstone on an endless loop in a quest to create a Wagnerian opus that will make you change your pants after you crap your pants after you shit your pants. Peter, meanwhile, spent a few weeks and weekends in Maine, recording a solo album that, if you'll trust your humble narrator, is seven kinds of happiness. <br /><br />This brings us to the whole point of this here missive. Peter, known on Tuesday, August 17th as Sonny Pete, will be playing a gig at Hotel Utah. He's promised me he'll dress well, which I assume means a taffeta evening gown with an understated aquamarine veil, and he's promised me it's going to be lovely. I don't know about you, but I'm going. He'll have a single there, so you can pick that up as well, and, well, it's Tuesday. I'm sure that the Real Housewives of Greater Bakersfield is on but that's why you sprung for TiVo. Come on out and enjoy some merriment. There's a poster and everything:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5EgJubFdW7xxpXwD23YNg2SOjXvlvwBGQw2CW-b9ShijDAXOOOZUllOZQdgUN4PJsWWZvd0OWr6kXTCr7TK6nophhhl6fOHKQ54gLADumIzhGP903uViPB0p7NKg386G-88qfZQ/s1600/hotel_utah_flyer-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5EgJubFdW7xxpXwD23YNg2SOjXvlvwBGQw2CW-b9ShijDAXOOOZUllOZQdgUN4PJsWWZvd0OWr6kXTCr7TK6nophhhl6fOHKQ54gLADumIzhGP903uViPB0p7NKg386G-88qfZQ/s320/hotel_utah_flyer-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503643837496741986" /></a><br /><br />Details? We got your details:<br /><br />Where: Hotel Utah<br />Yeah, but where's that: 500 4th Street, at Bryant (San Francisco)<br />When: August 17th<br />When, part two: 8 o'clock<br />How much: 8 bucks<br />Who else: Night Genes & Ricky Lee Robinson<br />Can I be young: NO. You best be 21<br /><br />Do come out, enjoy, and say hello. We'd love to see you.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-63466782059455920872010-07-15T16:01:00.000-07:002010-07-15T16:04:29.342-07:00A Press Release From Birdmonster HQ<a href="http://www.nba.com/bucks/media/wp_gadzuric_091020_thumb.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://www.nba.com/bucks/media/wp_gadzuric_091020_thumb.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />As you may have heard, the Golden State Warriors were sold today. Birdmonster's bid of $45 and a complimentary acoustic cover show comprised mainly of Kool and the Gang standards was rejected. We were saddened by the process but understand the outcome and wish the Warriors and their great fans the best of the luck.<br /><br />Further, we've decided to turn lemons into rock and roll juice drank and play tomorrow night (that's Friday, July 16th) at the <a href="http://www.uptownnightclub.com/Calendar.html">Uptown in Oakland</a>. Misirlou will be joining us and we hope you will too. The set will be dedicated to Dan Gadzuric. Doors at 9, kickassness following shortly thereafter. Do come out.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-32784269425428532612010-01-15T16:59:00.000-08:002010-01-15T17:01:22.858-08:00In which Birdmonster plays Bottom of the Hill twice, saves planet onceIt's 2010; it's officially the future. As a child, John Lithgow promised that this was "The Year We Make Contact", and, while that was a little ambitious, I was at least hoping for flying cars or a robot harem who would peel my grapes and fan me with palm fronds. Instead, we've got smart phones we can watch "The Jersey Shore" on. I'd rather not think about the ramifications.<br /><br />Beyond wishing you a happy year of the tiger, we're chiming in with news, news about a pair of shows and a compilation CDs that's for a good cause so if you don't buy one it means you hate planet Earth and you should feel really guilty about it.<br /><br />01- As you're all abundantly aware of, we enjoy Bottom of the Hill. In fact, I don't even have a house anymore, just a cot in their kitchen. They leave me a little bowl of kibble at night and I bark when raggamuffin come around. It works out well for everyone. But next Friday, the 22nd, we're actually, you know, playing there. We're playing with West Indian Girl and it's $10 and we're supporting, so if you come, come early. Chat. Drink. Chat while you drink. It's been a while and we're feeling frisky. (18+, by the way).<br /><br />But wait: there's more. We're playing at Bottom again the next month, February 19, with Boy in the Bubble, Here Come the Saviors, and Girl Band (may or may not contain actual girls). That one's 21 and up and they're both ten dollars and we'd love it if you came. Details for both shows <a href="http://birdmonstermusic.com/tour/">here</a>. <br /><br />02- Mentioned above, we're on a complilation CD called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/1-Planet-Music-Vol-1/dp/B0032CV85E">1% For The Planet</a>. There are some fancy folks on there like Jackson Browne (a crossword favorite) and the always lovable Submarines. We put one of our favorite B-sides on there ("Yuma"---which, by the way, there are some videos of on our <a href="http://www.birdmonstermusic.com">website</a>) but, really, you get forty one (41) songs for nine dollars and ninety-nine cents ($9.99). It costs more to listen to a busker and not feel guilty.<br /><br />And that's that. Happy New Years, people.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-17175123827928100042009-09-14T16:19:00.000-07:002009-09-14T16:20:56.647-07:00New Music, Old Books, Free Books or, These Are A Few Of My Favorite ThingsGreetings all,<br /> <br />They say good things come in threes. The stations of the cross, for example, or the remaining members of Boyz II Men. Tomatoes, mozarella, and basil. And of course, triangles. Who could forget side angle side, angle side angle, the Pythogorean theorum? I could, as it turns out, so, really, let's just move on.<br /> <br />We're emerging from our hibernaculum for a trifecta of awesome. Please enjoy the following:<br /> <br />01- B-sides<br /> <br />Yes, yes. A while back, we recorded a CD. It was called "From the Mountain to the Sea." Perhaps you bought it. Perhaps your friend bought it and burned it for you. Perhaps you stole it out of my man purse. No matter. When we were recording, we ended up with a handful of songs we still loved but that were deemed too awesome for the CD. Either that or we'd already selected the stuff we thought sounded best. Again, I can't quite remember. The point is, we're putting out the B-sides, we're letting them out for air, and we are letting you know with this longwinded, rambling paragraph. Plus, with the economy blah blah blah jobs blah blah unemployment, it's a bargain at $4.99. It comes out on the 22nd, but only on iTunes. It's because I'm Steve Jobs in one of those Scooby Doo masks. <br /> <br /><a href="http://www.birdmonstermusic.com/music">Please check out a free sample</a>. It's like walking by See's candy, except with music.<br /> <br />02- Listening party<br /> <br />Since we're putting out new material we thought we should get drunk. Or at least listen to it in a bar. So that's what we're doing. On the 16th, we'll be pow-wowing at Mini Bar on Divisidero around Fulton and McAllister. There's no cover and, since the EP's called "Blood Memory," we'll be making drinks with blood oranges. See what we did there! You can also get other booze, but you will be mocked mercilessly. We'll be DJing too, between Birdmonster jams. If the odds of me playing "Apologize" or "Lady in Red" were race horses, they'd be chalks. <br /> <br />03- Bottom of the Hill Benefit for the Potrero Library<br /> <br />We're heading back to one of our favorite Ess Eff haunts to raise some money for a library. Reading, as you well know, is fundamental. And free books are fantastic. Please join us on the 26th of this month, during the day, from 1:30 onwards. The money goes to a good cause (read: not Birdmonster, but Librarymonster) and we'll play an extra fantastic show, since we're playing for the good of Mark Twain and his closest million friends.<br /> <br />Alright lovelies. Have a fine day.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-48696293153562567332009-08-03T13:11:00.000-07:002009-08-03T13:14:54.170-07:00A brief something for your MondayGreetings one and all. Just a brief note today to inform you that a) since I fell out of metal when Limp Bizkit hijacked it (all for the Nookie, so they say), installment three has taken copious amounts of research. By research, I of course mean watching videos in which half-naked women resort to cannabalism and goateed longhairs sing like a larengitis-ed Cookie Monster. It will be up shortly, as soon as I understand the difference between "Black Metal," "Doom Metal" "Sludge Metal" and "Sludgy Black Doom Metal." <br /><br />I'm barely joking.<br /><br />B) is simply a heartfelt thanks to everyone in Berkeley. We had a phenomenal time, and, though Pete's vocal cords sounded the next day as if he'd been gargling with pebbles, we'd play again rightrightright now. Circularly, I even got to talk metal with Irish women, one of whom called Opeth "brilliant," which I've discerned is the British/Irish way of saying "awesome," yet, somehow much cooler. Loved the Mother Hips too. They were awesome. Or brilliant. Or brilliantly awesome. You can slice that anywhichway you want. The best time I've had at a show in quite some time so, definitely, thanks one and all. <br /><br />C) Sorry about Chico. See below for salty bitterness.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-10515601559104298772009-08-01T13:15:00.001-07:002009-08-01T13:29:28.943-07:00The wisdom of Lionel Hutz, or, News about Chico tonight...or rather, not-Chico tonightLionel Hutz, as you should well know, was a criminally incompetent lawyer on the Simpsons. This was before Phil Hartman's wife got all stabby and they had to retire the character, thus setting back the cause of comedy for dozens of Rob Schneider-flavored years. Those were dark days, friends. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.thecarconnection.com/sml/lionel-hutz-attorney-at-law_100182229_s.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://images.thecarconnection.com/sml/lionel-hutz-attorney-at-law_100182229_s.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />There's this Halloween episode where Homer has sold his soul to the devil for a donut and the Simpsons hire Hutz to try and get Homer's soul back. After the Devil's prosecutor calmly asserts that Homer signed over his soul in a contract, Lionel Hutz offers this rebuttal: "That was a right-pretty speech, sir. But I ask you, what is a contract? Webster's defines it as "an agreement under the law which is unbreakable." Which is unbreakable! Excuse me, I must use the restroom."<br /><br />After which, of course, he escapes out the window above the shitter.<br /><br />Now, I bring this up, because we signed a contract to play Chico tonight and a contract, supposedly, is unbreakable. Lionel Hutz said so. But then the promoter and contacted us and said "Oopsies, nevermind. Will you play for a handful of M&Ms and a small burlap sack filled with mysterious, soggy things?" to which we said "No thank you." Then he escaped out the proverbial bathroom window.<br /><br />Point being, we can't play Chico. I was all giddy about it too. If you bought tickets and were similarly screwed by unscrupulous jackassery, please feel free to email us birdmonster@gmail.com with a confirmation of said sale and we'll throw you on the guestlist to any show of your choosing. Unless, of course, it's the promoter's wedding. That's a private party for which we're getting $400,000. Oh wait. Hold on, my phone's ringing. Uh-huh. No more $400,000 wedding? What's the offer? An expired gift certificate to Starbucks? <i>And</i> a jaunty cowboy hat? We'll get back to you.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-19940309738070781892009-07-09T08:55:00.001-07:002009-07-09T09:05:34.151-07:00A Short History of Metal (Part Two of Several)<a href="http://birdmonster.blogspot.com/2009/07/short-history-of-heavy-metal-part-one.html">(Part One)</a><br /><br />Consider General Ambrose Burnside: general, inventor, gun nut. Well liked in his day, Burnside is remembered as a somewhat inept Civil War General, known most for his bumbling failure at Fredericksburg and his frothingly patriotic "General Order Number 38," which made it a criminal act to express any opposition to the war. His postbellum life is marked by his invention and patent of the Burnside carbine, a device that prevented hot gas from leaking from a rifle (presumably a really good idea), and was tapped to be the first president of the N.R.A. And yet, despite a military career that can be best described as "goobery" and a postbellum career that positioned him as the Original Gangsta Charlton Heston, Burnside is largely forgotten by all but a handful of bespectacled scholars and hyper-sensitive re-creationist nutjobs. <br /><br />Or so you think.<br /><br />Because, for all he accomplished in life, and there's plenty not included above, mind you, Burnside is known to every living American because of his hair. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aGkYFbjQK7-YCj0YTKhqAwSh0glr5u62m90Dh6bh_yLMzLHDzG7BrYgIhmToh56ylnaCNXIUotsOru4ujZsFKUA4gNdNeXODxMusvKEvIMiWlTJhFoxm875cXWQvUzU35qj1eQ/s1600-h/450px-ambrose_everett_burnside.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aGkYFbjQK7-YCj0YTKhqAwSh0glr5u62m90Dh6bh_yLMzLHDzG7BrYgIhmToh56ylnaCNXIUotsOru4ujZsFKUA4gNdNeXODxMusvKEvIMiWlTJhFoxm875cXWQvUzU35qj1eQ/s320/450px-ambrose_everett_burnside.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356489619128116402" /></a><br /><br />See, Burnside had sideburns. Or, rather, sideburns had Burnside. The man had muttonchops so massive, so resplendent, so utterly sasquatchian that an entire facial hairstyle was named after him. If sideburns were people, Burnside's would have been the love-child of Goliath and Edward Gorey. While lesser men got morsels of soup stuck to their beard, entire sub-species of rodentia evolved in Burnside's muttonchops. And, though the magnificence of Burnside's sideburns can hardly be undersold, there's a certain sadness to the reason for his fame: here was a man who improved the rifle, who presided over a massively important American society, who fought valiantly (though poorly) for his country, and he's remembered for what? <br /><br />Looking like a dumbass.<br /><br />Which brings us to Glam Metal. See, like Burnside, Glam Metal had definable successes: taking metal mainstream, for example, originating the bizarre, ironic, and incredibly lucrative Christian metal subgenre for another. Glam Metal launched the careers of iconic groups like Motley Crue, Poison, and Europe, whose signature single "The Final Countdown," reached number one in a staggering 26 countries before being religated to "the song to which European footballers run onto the field" and "the song to which G.O.B. Bluth embarrasses himself." But, like Burnside, Glam Metal is looked upon with suspicion, with a certain head-shaking resignation. And, even more like Burnside, Glam Metal bands are remembered most vividly for one solitary, simple thing: looking like dumbasses.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVa9sMc6ZrEOYkI-6psexHzc9UIebmy_tJBMaKJIeAct0fC581adY41hwJvKr5EaWKgZEGBMCgQxaVA5QLXufJMjZFftiXr9HMyPO2e7J5-6BhzXQ16X4Bw2V5CUWSH6ZCb_SXA/s1600-h/stryper.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVa9sMc6ZrEOYkI-6psexHzc9UIebmy_tJBMaKJIeAct0fC581adY41hwJvKr5EaWKgZEGBMCgQxaVA5QLXufJMjZFftiXr9HMyPO2e7J5-6BhzXQ16X4Bw2V5CUWSH6ZCb_SXA/s320/stryper.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356489887173613538" /></a><br /><br />See, Glam Metal is most commonly referred to as "Hair Metal." As Burnside The Man became Sideburns The Hair, Glam Metal The Genre became Hair Metal The Joke. The genre was typified by grown men with angular guitars mincing about, coifed in hair that even a Houston matriarch would find ostentatious, men in spandex and headbands taking an already excessive genre to levels of excess hitherto unimagined. Also: power ballads. Lots of power ballads. <br /><br />Musically, Glam Metal was smoother, more refined than its progenitors. The lyrics migrated away from Tolkien and Satan and killing tons of suckas and stuck to that old metal mainstay of screwing broads like it's going out of style. But this genre was metal's crowning "triumph of style over substance" moment. Sabbath, Zeppelin, and the New Wave of British Heavy Metal bands remain influential to not only current metal bands, but certain punk and post-punk acts as well; many still enjoy radio play. Hair Metal remains influential only to a select group of ironic hipsters and women from Jersey. And though metal has never been renowned for its sober, celibate intelligence, Hair Metal seemed to drag the genre into a morass of libidinous, hubristic idiocy unknown since Caligula. Typical is this quote from David Coverdale, singer for the mostly forgettable band Whitesnake: "This is the sexiest music my guys have ever been involved in, and they are the sexiest fucking musicians. When they play, it's sex." Which, really, is undeniable.<br /><br />Perhaps most associated with the glib Hair Metal revolution that briefly curdled the American brain was Motley Crue. In addition to pioneering the use of unnecessary umlauts, the Crue took the debauchery to levels that can best be described as "you should probably be dead." Musically, really, they are largely unremarkable, a band that, by any other name, would be forgotten in the $3.99 bin at your local record store, but Motley Crue were impressive self-promoters and legitimate menaces to society. A few lowlights (with bonus Ozzy coverage):<br /><br />- Whilst strung out heroin, Nikki Six (bassist), pulled a gun on a radio because he thought it was talking to him.<br /><br />- Vince Neil, singer, wrecked his car in 1984, killed his passenger, served eighteen days of a monthlong sentence. The band then released "Music to Crash Your Car To," which is the third definition of "classy" in the New American Heritage Dictionary. <br /><br />- Tommy Lee has a big wang.<br /><br />- And then there's this, which, really, sums up both Motley Crue's debauchery and the fact that Ozzy Osbourne probably looked at them as harmless, fey kindygarteners: on tour (Motley Crue's first major tour, by the by), Sixx snorted a rather phenomenal line of cocaine. Ozzy, unwilling to be outdone, snorted a line of ants off the street, peed on the ground and licked it up, then dared Sixx to do the same. Sixx peed and, before he could commence his own personal homage to "Waterworld," Ozzy was already on all fours DRINKING MOTLEY CRUE'S PISS. Moral of the story: you never never never try to out-filth a man who's bit the head off a bat. Game. Set. Match: Osbourne.<br /><br />Basically, they drank, they did oodles of drugs, they screwed promiscuously, they cleaned up, they broke up, they reunited, they unreunited, they rereunited. They even wrote a book about it, so long as one of the definitions of "wrote" is "dictated it to some dude they were probably throwing mixed nuts at." But the thing is: their songs are largely forgotten. They're remembered not as a band but more as a traveling circus of death-defying excess. <br /><br />One point that should be made is that Hair Metal allowed the entire metal genre to become something other than the province of sallow loners, table top RPG players, and occult aficionados. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUpYndfoj5KrcPTo3SjrIFxNKBrYEl2Kg906wsh3UeVx-WpqAAUjgGc4CYyFKwQSwhhGmB_ArskLDRqH2oaOWIHCA8oj1cZFIog4xPUW8-DmlW2LZoDFsOrwnnpQTLdMYeMpBRaQ/s1600-h/041016_dandd_hmed_330p_hmedium.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUpYndfoj5KrcPTo3SjrIFxNKBrYEl2Kg906wsh3UeVx-WpqAAUjgGc4CYyFKwQSwhhGmB_ArskLDRqH2oaOWIHCA8oj1cZFIog4xPUW8-DmlW2LZoDFsOrwnnpQTLdMYeMpBRaQ/s320/041016_dandd_hmed_330p_hmedium.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356490121087139330" /></a><br /><br />It was, in a word, popular. Hair Metal was metal at it's most successful. Though the late '90s would see a resurgence in mainstream headbangerness with the wholly execrable "Nu Metal" movement, Hair Metal remains the most lucrative subset of the usually marginalized metal genre. Hair Metal was to metal what the Nintendo Wii was to videogaming: the moment that finally convinced the fairer sex that they should join the party. Beyond that, Hair Metal allowed for lyrics that didn't sound like the poetry of that kid with the trench coat at the back of Biology class. They were fun. They were boisterous. They had a sense of humor, which is understandable, considering they were sung by men in testicle crushing pants and hair more closely associated with victims of electrocution. Van Halen is sometimes lumped in with the Hair Metal movement and, while I don't think that's fair, it does show the ethos of this Glam Metal style: while traditional metal seemed overly worried about appearing bad ass, Hair Metal realized it was ridiculous. It was a largely goofy movement, but a self-aware one. And that lack of pretense, I'd argue, is laudable. <br /><br />Which, in fact, brings us to Van Halen. One thing you should know here is that Van Halen are among the most successful musicians ever: 80 million albums sold worldwide and more Billboard Mainstream Rock number ones than anybody (I swears). Another thing you should know is, as I mentioned, they are considered by some to be the first Glam Metal band. I think this is a limiting view but there are certain undeniable bonds between Van Halen and Hair Metal: the broad appeal (both literally and as a pun, intended), the lack of slobbering machismo (see Roth, David Lee), and the sheer boisterousness of the band. From inauspicious---and might I add, really charming---beginnings, Van Halen grew into what can probably should be considered America's Great Metal Band. <br /><br />It begins like this: Eddie Van Halen and his brother Alex get a drum and guitar set, respectively. While Eddie goes off on his paper route (ain't that adorable?), Alex begins messing around on his drums, which infuriates Eddie, whose revenge is playing Alex's guitar. They would remain this way for a good three and a half decades, with Eddie Van Halen reaching canonical guitar deity status and Alex becoming a renowned drummer in his own right. When they were still called "Mammoth" (which, admittedly, is a pretty kick-ass metal band name), they rented a PA from David Lee Roth, but, deciding it would be cheaper to just let him sing, actually, well, they let him sing. Voila: Van Halen.<br /><br />(This is discounting bassist Michael Anthony, but, well, without being insulting, he's a pretty distant fourth here. We're not talking about Jaco Pastoralus or anything).<br /><br />Like so many metal bands, the Halen was oft-maligned in their early days. Gene Simmons liked them enough to bring them to his management---but not before suggesting they change their name to "Daddy Shortlegs," which is, really, about the crappiest band name of all time---who decided that they had "no chance of making it" (presumably as either Van Halen, Mammoth, Daddy Shortlegs, or Colonel Ketchup's Ragtime Mega Special Fancy Boyfriend Jam Jamboree, a name they never actually considered but a name no less braintarded than the "Polka Tulk Blues Explosion," which, if you'll remember, was championed by a man who snorted insected and licked up urine).<br /><br />Van Halen had been playing around Southern California to decent crowds, largely thanks to their habit of fliering at high schools, and, eventually were picked up by a pair of A&R reps from Warner Brothers, who funded their first album and, currently, are living in a mansion made entirely of ambergris and naked women. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sF85cnvg6B7FKyhdQ8CEelHu3Yc4pZeqFWSNHK2qKx81ti2wHzH9nOiU3ogs4VuYMwM9di0o2TDog6mtnpdtHugH1ceoCoDZqNDTCSO7AwWheKjDJ68wNP7dEoEsB-OBvJnClQ/s1600-h/scrooge.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sF85cnvg6B7FKyhdQ8CEelHu3Yc4pZeqFWSNHK2qKx81ti2wHzH9nOiU3ogs4VuYMwM9di0o2TDog6mtnpdtHugH1ceoCoDZqNDTCSO7AwWheKjDJ68wNP7dEoEsB-OBvJnClQ/s320/scrooge.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356490262194810146" /></a><br /><br />This first Van Halen album was wildly successful; indeed, it would earn them a spot opening for Black Sabbath at the end of Sabbath's heyday (or, well past it, depending on who you listen to), reach number nineteen on the Billboard charts, and would contain the first instance of heavy metal finger-tapping, a guitar style of which Eddie Van Halen is apocryphally considered the forefather. (He was preceded---among others---by the nineteenth century violinist Niccolo Paganini, who, in delightful congruousness, was once thought possessed by the devil because of his sheer virtuosity and lithe, vaguely sinister appearance. Indeed, he should be considered the first heavy metal string player, having wowed Europe with his bravado, his chops, and his unreal range---he had the ability to bridge three octaves in a single hand span, a talent borne possibly from a genetic disease that resulted in elongated digits or hyper-mobile joints. Further, Paganini was said to have "lashed" the violin violently, as if possessed, and that he could make the instrument cry. He was also rumored to be a sexual deviant and made no attempt to dissuade people of the notion. Point being: dude was metal. In a couple hundred years, he no doubt would have resorted to drinking the "Mystery Bucket" or lapping pee from the streets of some American metropolis. But let's move on). <br /><br />This first Van Halen album was---and, most often, is still---considered "hard rock," a classification rife with overtones of all-consuming lameness (sorry Aerosmith). But, arguably, it is the progenitor of Hair Metal. First off, it's fun: even the song "Running With the Devil"---a major reason this album sold ten million copies, by the way---is boisterous despite the Sabbathesque title. The record employs the tongue-in-cheek ethos of Hair Metal, the virtuosity of all metal, and boasted a front man up until now unseen in metal world: a mincing lunatic capable of singing two notes simultaneously (Tuvan throat style, son), a man who played a slide-whistle on a metal song, a man who's been known to show up at parties wheeling his own bar, complete with chips AND dip, a man, needless to say, who is many clicks removed from the pee-drinking slobs and diabolical mutton-chopped manchildren who had fronted famous metal bands up till this point. <br /><br />A good question here is: why, then, shouldn't you consider Van Halen Hair Metal? Quite simply, it feels limiting. Hair Metal was most assuredly not innovative, whereas Van Halen was. Which is to say, where Black Sabbath and Zeppelin pushed blues into a cesspool of distortion and sheer, impervious volume and while the New Wave of British Heavy Metal bands dragged it into a place that was punkier, faster, and ultimately more contemporary, Hair Metal just sort of sat on the sidelines, looking at itself in the mirror, assuring itself it looked fabulous.<br /><br />It was content to do so.<br /><br />Van Halen also didn't succumb to the Glam Metal cliches of power-ballads (at least till “Right Now”) or, quite simply, the ridiculous manes and come-hither posturing employed by the leaders of the genre. Furthermore, while Hair Metal is largely considered an eye-averting joke of a shenanigan, Van Halen receives---and indeed, deserves---respect. Call it Pop Metal, if you must. But they, unlike the near entirety of Hair Metal bands, toured and recorded consistently until the turn of the millennium, albeit with two additional lead singers, tequila aficionado Sammy Hagar and ex-Extreme frontman Gary Cherone. They pioneered---or at least re-introduced---new guitar techniques.<br /><br />But, in the end, whether you decide to consider Van Halen a Hair Metal band or a hard rock band or, even, a pop band ("Jump" being a fantastic argument for this), they were legit. Hair Metal, to be kind, was anything but. Beyond that, Van Halen predates Hair Metal, and, though parts of their general aura and overall aesthetic were co-opted by Glam Metal, they somehow remained above the fray: they used keyboards, they innovated, they weren't, as Motley Crue and so many bands of the same era were, sideshows. If that style over substance ethos defines Hair Metal, Van Halen cannot be lumped in with them. Perhaps their style informed the movement, perhaps it even birthed it, but Van Halen remains above it simply by virtue of their actual skill, the quality of their songs, their status as a music-first-bitches-second metal cohort. They took metal out of the dungeons of sludge-like Sabbath grooving and past the NWOBHM blues-free metal into an era of major chords, shredding, and straight up fun. There were, by way of conclusion, totally fucking rad. <br /><br />Next week: More metal, less hair.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-12668145794634954822009-07-01T19:06:00.000-07:002009-07-02T08:48:29.935-07:00A Short History of Heavy Metal (Part One of Several)With the possible exception of ferreting through Dad's closet in search of his mythical porno stash, nothing is as overtly masculine as Heavy Metal. It's music by men for men, the natural outgrowth of the "Get Rid Of Slimy GirlS" club, the place where fancypants musings on love and loss are usurped by heady ballads about pillaging, nuclear war, and how kickass dragons are. Critics call metal "subliterary" and "banal." Fans found those critics and got biz-zay with some truncheons.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PM6IsHuXCKGPppqsPMEJGykNpSRtvm9VHRXRAZp7003o-QEtSg9PanzuKQfRPMF2yi2AhyphenhyphenpGF43KfjQ7euxpO4bWFgO6FaLzrJkxwiHS81_EGVe5ro85XVx7fG38SckgWqdnyw/s1600-h/gross.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 307px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PM6IsHuXCKGPppqsPMEJGykNpSRtvm9VHRXRAZp7003o-QEtSg9PanzuKQfRPMF2yi2AhyphenhyphenpGF43KfjQ7euxpO4bWFgO6FaLzrJkxwiHS81_EGVe5ro85XVx7fG38SckgWqdnyw/s320/gross.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353680364695578754" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Now, admittedly, this is the narrow view. Bands like Van Halen and Def Leppard enjoyed wide appeal and the genre itself was ostensibly created by Led Zeppelin, who are, well, not exactly a niche group. But if you find yourself at a metal concert these days, you'll notice a few conspicuous facts: namely the utter lack of women, the total absence of dancing, and the enhanced probability of early onset tennitus. Modern metal is loud and it's fast and it has no use for your sissy Y chromosome. Sure, you'll find a few anomalous womenfolk milling about, but you'll have to Where's Waldo them out a sea of suffocating dudeness.<br /><br />So today, we begin examining this most macho of Western musical genres. Women are allowed but will be treated like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.<br /><br />-----------------<br /><br />While it's impossible to pin down the beginnings of blues or jazz, with heavy metal, our task is easier. Antecedents include Blue Cheer's cover of "Summertime Blues", Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida", and that lovable Charlie Manson favorite "Helter Skelter." What these songs have in common is an almost quaintly gritty, distorted quality as well as a hefty helping of fuzzy blues guitar. Yet, listening to them now, they feel remote, which is to say: the link between the Beatles and Slayer is tenuous to the point of preposterous.<br /><br />Some argue that the real beginning of metal comes with a band famous for raucous live shows, virtuosic musicianship, and fucking groupies with mud sharks. That band, of course: Led Zeppelin.<br /><br />Zeppelin was indeed a pioneer in the "White Guys Playing Blues (With Distortion)" movement that evolved into what the genre is today. In particular, the soaring, chromatic run-down in "Dazed and Confused" still sounds heavy and menacing, at home even in these grisly days of metal excess. Lyrically, Robert Plant tended towards barely coded couplets like "Baby, squeeze my lemon, till the juice runs down my leg" and Lord of the Rings references that number somewhere in the low trillions, which, when coupled with the band's well-documented weakness for drugs, loose women, and Dr. Morreau-style cross-specieal orgies, you can see why Zeppelin is considered the priapic granddaddy of metal. <br /><br />We, however, take a different view.<br /><br />Because, for every "Dazed and Confused," there's a "Tangerine." For every "Immigrant Song," there's a "Fool in the Rain." Which is to say, Zeppelin was, from the very start, staggeringly eclectic, a veritable goulash of nearly every American brand of music. In fact, they don't exactly have a "metal album" or, really, a "metal song." "Black Mountain Side" plays like a manic, Hindu hillbilly jam, "Thank You" as a Beatles-esque love song; Zeppelin's "Three" is very nearly a bluegrass album. And that's just their early albums, to say nothing of the dirty funk of "Trampled Under Foot" or the Elvis flavored jamboree that is "Hot Dog." What we're getting at here is simple: Zeppelin were simply too schizophrenic to be considered the first metal band. That distinction, my friends, belongs to Black Sabbath.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzgzJN4_NgSO-zIYOZ_tVvbhJ9cArscEH-4cko-X1ZOc57SqOMkSu09ZTE49kknGk14iOiQwPC5sloMdpAoMh-DFggwvO6LFEzJ_hBbwnm8Lfkrz32W9IbGSTYbE178ws1uaDaA/s1600-h/ozzy2000.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzgzJN4_NgSO-zIYOZ_tVvbhJ9cArscEH-4cko-X1ZOc57SqOMkSu09ZTE49kknGk14iOiQwPC5sloMdpAoMh-DFggwvO6LFEzJ_hBbwnm8Lfkrz32W9IbGSTYbE178ws1uaDaA/s320/ozzy2000.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353681405836259490" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Originally billed under the ludicrous moniker "The Polka Tulk Blues Company" and later "Earth," Sabbath began as a blues cover band, until guitarist Tommy Iommi left momentarily to join Jethro Tull, a band which, laughably, won the first Heavy Metal Grammy in 1989, prompting frontman Ian Anderson to claim "well, sometimes we do play our mandolins rather loudly."<br /><br />Iommi's stint with Jethro Tull lasted a month.<br /><br />It's after that four month flute-drenched failure that heavy metal really started. While Led Zeppelin were off screeching about Gollum and using citrus juice as winking shorthand, Black Sabbath was becoming, well, Black Sabbath. The story goes that bassist Geezer Butler wrote the song "Black Sabbath" before the band became "Black Sabbath" (and then, in a bout of still unparalleled creativity, released an album called "Black Sabbath") after he read a Dennis Wheatley book, fell asleep, woke up, and hallucinated a hooded ghoul at the foot of his bed. At that point, Sabbath was still Earth, and their eponymous song was, to be sure, a dramatic departure from the improvised blues jams Earth was never famous for.<br /><br />The song "Black Sabbath," then, can be seen as the beginning of the band that began heavy metal and, quite frankly, there is no more appropriate song. For one, it's one of music's famous examples of the tritone, the interval between a C and an F# (or, in this case, a G and C#), an interval known once as "the devil's interval" or "diabolus in musica," which, even for those students flunking Latin 1, should be an easy translation. It's one of the two major discordant relationships and in the same way "Ode To Joy" makes you want to spoon and cuddle, the tritone has an "and the call was coming from the basement" sort of feel to it. Plus, the song's about the devil. Or, to put it less in perspective, it's a song that has the same name as the band that has the same name as the album that has the same name as a horror movie that uses the devil's interval to sing about the devil ---it's like a Mobius strip from the dollar bin at Alastiar Crowley's garage sale.<br /><br />"Black Sabbath" sold well. In fact, it went platinum. But, like the patently undiabolical Billy Joel, critical reception did not jibe with public fanaticism. Fancypants critical fops like Lester Bangs called Sabbath "Cream, but worse!" but Sabbath soldiered on. While their first album & Zeppelin's "One" were in certain ways similar, each band's following effort took them in their own separate direction. Zeppelin's "Two" is bluesier while Sabbath's "Paranoid" is, undoubtedly, the all-time metal album, containing not only the iconic title track, but "War Pigs," the surprisingly funky "Faeries Wear Boots" and "Iron Man," which is so metal that just listening to it is like injecting cadmium straight into your face.<br /><br />Both Zeppelin and Sabbath released their first three albums in two calendar years, Zeppelin spanning 1969-70, Sabbath 1970-71. Interestingly, both were British, the Brits having long distinguished themselves as savvy co-opters of American musical styles. The American contingent in the early days of metal is a fairly sad collection without any one band that can be honestly called trail-blazing or original. In fact, it takes until 1974 and the formation of Kiss to arrive at anything approaching a truly innovative American metal band, if you can even call Kiss metal, which, I'd argue, you shouldn't. In fact, when you get right down to it, metal is one of the truly international genres: while metal began in Britain and indeed flourished there, with bands like Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and Def Leppard being later torch-bearers, Scandanavia, Germany, and, yes, America (particularly Southern California and Tampa Bay) have all produced massively popular bands, with scenes that continue flourishing to this day. Further, as metal grew, it subdivided into near countless subgenres, each defined with a near-medical precision. While Death Metal, Doom Metal, and Black Metal might seem basically identical to the layman, a proper metalhead will put down his Neil Gaiman novel, toss his ponytail to one side, and guffaw audibly if you so much as suggest that metal has been overly stratified.<br /><br />Yet, if metal began as the aforesaid "White Guys Playing Blues (With Distortion)," what exactly happened that changed the genre into what it is today? What, in other words, makes metal metal?<br /><br />You know, besides these guys:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1Ney4hNN2J9dSE_VxpH_nUJWC2Ld19MCoq71vpLOFmqP_z0YcBIiLE8NKpyBmc8X0WdBztWOo22tDPkkR6cut0AkyAUZR21WwLgS0tFXoa9csbwFXRGKffc8sbR-b2h_Z0N4kA/s1600-h/Lordi_-_Dark_Floors_premiere_in_Oulu_2008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1Ney4hNN2J9dSE_VxpH_nUJWC2Ld19MCoq71vpLOFmqP_z0YcBIiLE8NKpyBmc8X0WdBztWOo22tDPkkR6cut0AkyAUZR21WwLgS0tFXoa9csbwFXRGKffc8sbR-b2h_Z0N4kA/s320/Lordi_-_Dark_Floors_premiere_in_Oulu_2008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353685053916634242" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Let's get our learn on.<br /><br />---------<br /><br />The year is 1974. Hank Aaron breaks Babe Ruth's home run record, a Floridian TV anchor commits suicide on-air, Watergate proves to an entire nation that Richard Nixon is, as they'd long suspected, a jowly shitbag.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_c7Y-QsxZFzaJTb9BDlOfnoiez3Fh4h_qLvoDUdUGORDvlDW3ArsaUZzxAD3Q3c0iz1LhkyoRWhNKtaENI7nHS8owBzdGkNmDoXxhJf9uu4ZZ65RpTe_dIaip4IYT_jlv3vWBQ/s1600-h/richardnixon460.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_c7Y-QsxZFzaJTb9BDlOfnoiez3Fh4h_qLvoDUdUGORDvlDW3ArsaUZzxAD3Q3c0iz1LhkyoRWhNKtaENI7nHS8owBzdGkNmDoXxhJf9uu4ZZ65RpTe_dIaip4IYT_jlv3vWBQ/s320/richardnixon460.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353682089133443634" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath have both managed five albums in a mental state that can be generously described as "hyper-medicated." Metal isn't exactly stagnating---indeed, Sabbath's fifth album "Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath" is perhaps the band's finest effort and even contains a song called "Fluff" that plays like the instrumental CBS uses when it's recapping a round at Augusta---but it isn't exactly flourishing either. Arguably, it's still a two-band genre---bands like Deep Purple, Uriah Heep, and Grand Funk Railroad have released fine singles off perfunctory albums, but nothing certifiably new-fangled has emerged outside of the Zeppelin/Sabbath quinella.<br /><br />Which brings us to Judas Priest.<br /><br />Behind our two-headed Godking, "Sabeppelin," Judas Priest is arguably the most important heavy metal band ever. The reasoning here is three-fold. First, Judas Priest were the first metal band to significantly stray from the crunchy blues ethos that still formed the foundation of the genre. Their sound was less jam-based, crisper, more succinct. And while the importance of this cannot be understated, other bands, namely Motorhead, would break far more abruptly with this framework around roughly the same era. Beyond that, while Zeppelin and Sabbath still dressed, essentially, like hippies who power-dried their shirts into tiny near-rags, Judas Priest pioneered the S&M flavored metal wardrobe. The chains, the leather jackets, the metal studs: for this, you can thank Rob Halford and company. But fashion isn't the reason the Priest belongs in the revered pantheon of heavy metal. No, what Judas Priest should be lauded for is far simpler. Namely, Judas Priest deserves its propers for the two guitar attack.<br /><br />If you've ever been in a Guitar Center, well, first off, I'm sorry. But if you've ever been to a Guitar Center, you've probably heard dozens of teenagers in the orgasmic throes of an arhythmic shred-a-thon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETQ4r7BjGkA0kG3PmyIGUoNUq_MqFMnfBwWUXBdYa1C3xob8-nWGuBydbURVtG_GnwImhIIJ5YGU6zxV2Q7DlhPBVN-Kkr7TAEzc3gFF23iyhMBLe6in4HFvUc9QEvyt99xY6Ow/s1600-h/0510081900.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETQ4r7BjGkA0kG3PmyIGUoNUq_MqFMnfBwWUXBdYa1C3xob8-nWGuBydbURVtG_GnwImhIIJ5YGU6zxV2Q7DlhPBVN-Kkr7TAEzc3gFF23iyhMBLe6in4HFvUc9QEvyt99xY6Ow/s320/0510081900.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353686735530439906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Which is to say, quite simply, a lot of teenage boys are metalheads and a lot of metalheads want to play guitar. With apologies to metal drumming---a maddeningly complex, precise, sometimes tribal style---heavy metal IS the guitar. Most specifically, it's sweep-picking, it's tapping, it's show-offy pentatonic cadenzas, harmonized, cod-pieced riffage, unwashed, six-string virtuosity. And while Tommy Iommi and Jimmy Page remain interstellar guitar deities, it was Judas Priest who popularized the idea of dueling metal guitars. Judas Priest drew the blueprint for harmonized riffs and traded solos that would become commonplace as metal grew out of its toddling years. Iron Maiden, Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Cannibal Corpse, and hosts of other lighthearted headbangers have continued the tradition to the extent that a typical metal band these days is far more likely to utilize the two guitar ethos than not.<br /><br />With Judas Priest's influence in tandem with Motorhead's mutton choppy brand of punk/metal/50s rock and roll, metal was finally evolving. It was becoming faster, less bluesy, less "hard rock." It was, in essence, becoming heavy metal. This era is typically referred to as "The New Wave of British Heavy Metal," and also contains personal favorite Iron Maiden, the monstrously successful Def Leppard, the still-below-the-radar Saxon, and Metallica-inspirer Diamond Head, whose initial drum kit, according to a retrospective article in the UK Guardian, consisted of "...a biscuit tin, a cow bell and some empty sweet jars." This was the movement that punted the blues influence and, though Maiden was and still is tremendously popular and Def Leppard went on to become one of the most successful bands ever (no shit), most of these NWOBHM acts were working class Brits, playing metal for metalheads. Centered around the Soundhouse club in Kingsbury, the movement was one of those special little moments where a genre blossoms in a specific place and the bands take cues from one another. Albums were self-released. Failures were rampant. But metal was blossoming quickly.<br /><br />By the early '80s, building off the modest but important successes of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, the genre would reach some measure of mainstream cred---well, not mainstream credibility, per se, but success, certainly. And hey: with metal accounting for a full fifth of American album sales in 1983, credibility could kiss metal's ass. Heavy metal was reclining on a couch in its forty-room estate, eating peeled grapes fed to it by big-tittied slatterns.<br /><br />But success came at a price. (Cue the "Behind the Music" score, please). Metal became less and less dangerous by the year, wussifying itself until it became downright saccharine. If metal was once all bravado and pointy cod-pieces and satanic imagery, this 80s brand of metal was a flourescent spoof, a risible mockery of a once-proud counterculture. If old school metal, as Lemmy Kilmister once said of his band Motorhead, "...moved in next to you, your lawn would die," 80s metal would edge your lawn in its brand new riding mower, give a pony to your children, and fuck your wife when you went to work.<br /><br />What follows is the story of Glam Metal. We'll get to that next week.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-52482279527159008632009-07-01T11:33:00.000-07:002009-07-01T11:36:58.365-07:00On Independence Day----though, for clarity's sake: not the Will Smith movie I secretly loveMy Fellow Americans, <br /><br />About two hundred thirty three years ago, we, the fine citizens of the United States, fed up with Britain's tweedy aloofness and insistence on calling pants "trousers" and underwear "pants," decided to get our Independence on. So Thomas Jefferson took a break from having awesome hair and boning his slaves and wrote the Declaration, effectively telling Britain to take a dirt nap because the uncouth colonies were in charge of themselves now, thank you very much. Then, you know: the fighting, muskets, the French, Indians, Paul Revere, et al. After that: This land is our land, you monarch-lovers. Keep your trousers on. <br /><br />In the years since, we celebrate this momentous occasion by getting blotto, staring at exploding celestial doodads and eating lots of low quality pork. This year, Birdmonster's getting into the act, playing July 4th at the El Rio with a whole slew of bands, celebrating the best way we know how: hours of loud music and dozens of jingoistic fist-pumps. <br /><br />Since it's a barbeque, it starts at 1. According to the <a href="http://www.elriosf.com/calendar/month.php">El Rio website</a>, there is also a "totally fabulous happy hour" till 3. This gives you two hours to get totally fabulous. Plus: eight bands for eight dollars? That's a bargain. We're on near the end of the day, but please, come early, stay late.<br /><br />The El Rio's at 3158 (at Cesar Chavez) and we're playing with Two Sheds, Low Red Land, Birds & Batteries, Finn Riggins, D Numbers, Writer, and Murray the Thief. And yes there is food. And yes it will rule. <br /><br />Hope to see you there.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-11732860981150233322009-06-26T16:24:00.000-07:002009-06-26T16:25:57.032-07:00A brief something before a long somethingGreetings, greetings. While we've got a few surprises in store for next week (such as obnoxiously long missives about things you may or may not care about and a July 4th barbeque at the El Rio with some local bands I adore with all of my heart and a sizable portion of my crusty, brittle soul), I'm just dropping in to note that we've got a show this weekend up in Sonoma Saturday night. <br /><br />Details:<br /><br />- Sonoma, CA<br />- with the fabulous Deer Tick<br />- 6 p.m.<br />- at Gundlach Bundshu Winery. I just want to say "Gundlach Bundshu" over and over, like Hobbes saying "smock." In fact, I'm going to do that right now. <br /><br />Come on out. I mean, music <i>at</i> a winery on a Saturday? I don't think you can go wrong there.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-76635154754140977972009-06-15T17:22:00.000-07:002009-06-15T17:23:35.036-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGE_niB3eJZFX2rTJyMjzzzo6ioRgqgDGo9exoNqmJaQ5y54RxfkkKzy_WJf6s5wn028cJX62Fl2KDD27I-HKJjfVuxIjQ2UJpTJe8fMh4CW5OK3kvzxg9VosSHyivxKfGn78Uxg/s1600-h/fern-desktop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGE_niB3eJZFX2rTJyMjzzzo6ioRgqgDGo9exoNqmJaQ5y54RxfkkKzy_WJf6s5wn028cJX62Fl2KDD27I-HKJjfVuxIjQ2UJpTJe8fMh4CW5OK3kvzxg9VosSHyivxKfGn78Uxg/s320/fern-desktop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347714430220088994" /></a>birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-81938019862854794952009-06-15T17:21:00.001-07:002009-06-15T17:24:09.897-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxI7NZ1w1PjHZ3_vCeG9z1EREtQdJ0I_3WXipHqW3VjY_-EF8DYGM8GQ0moi58UG3YAbvvkPQOLpK8T-9nfQhLrP1cpNtY92QE2qBQ8uPA5BQcA7GvJCR8340OSa7VzSE-_9HpA/s1600-h/Birdmonster_St-Helena_8-7-08_0246.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxI7NZ1w1PjHZ3_vCeG9z1EREtQdJ0I_3WXipHqW3VjY_-EF8DYGM8GQ0moi58UG3YAbvvkPQOLpK8T-9nfQhLrP1cpNtY92QE2qBQ8uPA5BQcA7GvJCR8340OSa7VzSE-_9HpA/s320/Birdmonster_St-Helena_8-7-08_0246.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347714033848239730" /></a><br /><br />thanks ocie!birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-69268397806689007302009-05-27T08:30:00.000-07:002009-05-27T08:34:12.219-07:00A can't miss attempt at fiscal solvencyWe live in trying times. Dick Cheney has emerged from his bunker to sneer ghoulishly at moral reason, California's Supreme Court is shitting the proverbial bed, and Kobe is two wins from the NBA Finals. Frothing loonies are everywhere. I am troubled.<br /><br />But nothing is more troubling than the global economic meltdown. Perhaps you've heard about it. American auto giants are crumbling, upstanding companies are claiming "oopsies!" on their balance sheets, and hordes of bankrupt rubes are wishing they read the fine print. In these dire economic times, what's a man to do? <br /><br />Get rich. <br /><br />Quick.<br /><br />I've had a few ideas. The first is starting my own cable movie channel, a la HBO or Showtime or Starz or, God forbid, Cinemax. But, being that there are plenty of reputable options out there and, further, considering that HBO has offshoots like HBO Comedy and HBO Action, what you need is a niche.<br /><br />Which brings us to my first idea: "Flopz." Your HBOs can have their collection of Oscar winning weepers; they can keep their fancypants original series about invective spewing frontier types and stabby gangsters in Baltimore. Showtime can continue being HBOs less cool stepchild and Cinemax will never stop cornering the market on soft-core laffers like "Cheerleader Summer Camp" and "Take Your Shirt Off 6." On my channel? It's all flops and nothing but flops. Or, rather Flopz.<br /><br />"Gymkata"? We'll get that. "Roadhouse"? For sure. "Waterworld," "Battlefield Earth", "Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2"? Those are mine. Every time you turn on Flopz, I guarantee the movie you're watching will suck. In fact, that's our slogan. The best part is, while all those tweedy fops at Home Box Office and Showtime are bidding for the cable rights to "Slumdog Millionaire", I'll be in the other room, getting "The Hottie and the Nottie" for three sacks of aluminum cans. Admit it: you're excited already. I know I am.<br /><br />Of course, there's a problem. It's enormously expensive to start your own channel. So I need to get rich quicker before I really get rich quick. Which brings us to idea number two: "Facester"<br /><br />See, you kids nowadays: you love your Twitter. Me? I don't.* I thought Twitter would flash in the pan and die, largely unmourned. I admit, it's the fanatical language nerd in me that hates all that internet abbreviating, the constant updating of what people are doing 2nite, what movie they're going to c, the consistency of their latest bowel movement. It's all a little tedious. But, as the proverb goes, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." <br /><br />I figure, if we're moving towards a world in which everyone knows what everyone else is doing at all times, and if those updates are simultaneously getting shorter, let's just cut out language all together. Paragraphs are for turds and lameoids; words are so twentieth century. That's why you need to use Facester. It's all emoticons, all the time. No more composing tiresome sentences, no more reading. Just colon end-parenthesis. Or colon begin-parenthesis. You get four generous characters to sum up your feelings at any given time. Woke up this morning hungover? Sad face. Took a long lunch and your boss didn't notice? Happy face. Feeling ironical? Winking face. I imagine President Obama returning from Mideast peace accords, logging into Facester on his Blackberry and typing <br /><br />:/<br /> <br />Take <i>that</i> Ehud Olmert.<br /><br />I don't see how this can fail. When I'm rich like a Saudi sultan, you can hang out in my treasure bath with me, watch "Firemaidens From Outerspace" and let the world know we're both :) <br /><br />While I'm designing the Facester website, though, I'll need something to do with my nights. Like, say, play shows in Berkeley. In fact, that's what we're doing Friday. We're heading over to the Starry Plough with Mumlers and Winters Fall in two days (the 29th) and we're headlining, so drink your coffee. Please do join us. We made a poster and everything. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqSMhi2Cucn8e4aKINzxzgI4u157Zmy3CuII8zFVBCIUbHF2u9N3kCslMnLRECCL_is7gSJ-uo7sZIAzAzgQCTJyBfsDH3ljjnEctd7VNEBL6iZlgPtaCKGGx03gyXIyzMxhI4Q/s1600-h/BerkeleyPoster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqSMhi2Cucn8e4aKINzxzgI4u157Zmy3CuII8zFVBCIUbHF2u9N3kCslMnLRECCL_is7gSJ-uo7sZIAzAzgQCTJyBfsDH3ljjnEctd7VNEBL6iZlgPtaCKGGx03gyXIyzMxhI4Q/s320/BerkeleyPoster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340527287445342866" /></a><br /><br />*(Parenthetically, I'm aware of the irony of crapping on Twitter while writing on Blogger. I'm a big smelly hypocrite. Glad I got that off my chest).birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-2078040452843696412009-02-05T11:13:00.000-08:002009-02-05T11:18:45.477-08:00The Birdmonster Blog: now with all new Free Goodness, Live Music, Self-Congratulatory LinkingSo I was writing a missive about our Sundance experiences which was maybe the most hilarious piece of prose since Ben Greenman's "Blurbs" when my life devolved into a decidedly unfunny, splintered mess. My sulking time has been filled with the ever soothing Al Swearengen and Fionna Apple and, now that I'm feeling more human, I'll have that up next week. It's got chuckles in it, ya heard? I need 'em as much as anybody. I'd also like a mulligan on 2009. Let me know if you can make that happen.<br /> <br />In the meantime (which, if I remember right, was a Spacehog song that I thought was better than it actually is, though, still: nice bass line), there's some serious fancypants Birdmonster stuff going on this week and that's what I'm here to report. <br /> <br />Lastly, I'd like to note that I'm one of those people who emails columnists. Sometimes, this is to stroke their tender egos while, other times, it's to crap all over everything they said. I'm <i>that</i> guy. But a funny thing happens when you write these people something thoughtful---even if it is the aforesaid "your suckiness has melted my brain" email---they write back. For these people actually <i>employed</i> as scribblers, the comment section is like the pit at the Old Globe: it's for the rabble and, while it's nice that they're there, they aren't exactly going to join them in the cheap seats. Birdmonster? We like the comments. Debra Saunders? Doubtful. She's too busy eating poor people and prank calling Chris Daly. To get back to the lecture at hand, I was innordinately happy that harrassing Jon Carroll (a not-that-sercet favorite of mine---see links to the right there) landed me in <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/02/02/DDD015JN81.DTL&hw=jon+carroll&sn=004&sc=274">Monday's column</a>. I read it and popped my collar thusly. The moral? Harrass the ones you read. They like it.<br /> <br />Now that I'm done decrying how totally fucking awesome and famouser than you I am, we've got a trifecta of good Birdmonster news. Let's do it like a list:<br /> <br />Goodness the First: We done made a video all by our damn selves. As I noted in the email some of you may have received, the production quality can be best described as "cheap if not free," but we like it. And "Cheap if not free" is going to be my 2009 mantra, after "Thanks for the karate chop to the groin, aught nine." View below.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TF7LP2bGs10&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TF7LP2bGs10&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object><br /><br />Goodness the Second: We're playing a show at the always lovely Bottom of the Hill to <a href="http://bagelradio.com/presents/">celebrate BAGeL radio's splendiferousnessocity</a>. It's this Saturday and though we're headlining, the other bands are quite fantastic as well. Ted's got good taste. Mostly. His hatred of Dr. Dog and Hall & Oates has become a point of contention between us, but I suppose it's possible he just hates Philly. I demand answers. At any rate: come out, drink, dance, and commiserate about the dickpunchingest year in recent memory. It'll be fun.<br /> <br />Goodness the Third: A few years back, we recorded a CD called "No Midnight." It's in fact the reason the blog began and its one of the highlights of my life. Seriously. It was a total ground-up effort, using our own money, producing it in a cat dander filled home with a singer who's allergic to cat dander, and generally just having the experience of doing what we love for weeks on end. I count myself lucky for that. Since it's ours and since we're still so proud of it---not unlike our firstborn child, though the EP's kind of our first born child, but he was short and walked with a limp so we forget from time to time---since it's ours and since we can, <a href="https://www.noisetrade.com/">here it is for free</a>. Or you can give us a couple bucks. Or a couple thousand. Hey: not picky over here. Also: would prefer the thousands. Keep that in mind.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-21283592021387396852009-01-22T13:43:00.000-08:002009-01-22T13:44:35.651-08:00A brief something before a long somethingI'm here at work, patiently crafting the story of our journey to Sundance, a tale that involves Wynona Judd, urban camping in a Mormon stronghold, aggressive I-Spying of "That Guy"s, and the Stephen King-esque horrors of driving through an ice fog. But, since the following request is time sensitive and I don't think I'll have the Saga of Utah finished till later this week, I thought I'd shoot this out now.<br /><br />We here at Birdmonster are up for a vote to be in regular rotation over at MTVu, the last MTV station where the "M" stands for "music" and not "massive-amounts-of-bros-with-shaved-chests-braying-at-each-other." We'd love it if you could help out and share some love. Like is <a href="http://freshmen.mtvu.com/cm/2.297/blog/the_freshmen?article144=19.15594&page144=BlogPosting">here</a>.<br /><br />Thanks. Further, funnier, Utah-y-er subjects shall be discussed post-haste.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-82816318273872160442008-12-15T19:31:00.000-08:002008-12-15T20:34:30.679-08:00What I learned in Elementary School. Both timesHere's what I remember about music in elementary school: In third grade, there was this mousy woman who looked like a cross between Gilda Radner and Rhea Pearlman. She came twice a month with her plug-and-play Casio and we sang "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy" and "Rockin' Robin" and that song about the hole in dear Liza's bucket, dear Liza a hole. They were, in other words, some of the most annoying songs ever written.<br /> <br />Because of this rather unfortunate introduction, making music didn't seem all that fun to me. You can only sing "It's a Small World After All" a dozen or so times before even the most innocent of nine-year-old brains begins pondering the pros and cons of in-class sepuku. Music wasn't something that seemed enjoyable at that point: it was just another lesson. And a sucky one at that. <br /> <br />Time passed. Third grade dissolved into a summer of "Gremlins 2," "Dick Tracy," and "Ghost Dad." I went back to school and embraced such ferociously dweebish pastimes as the Spelling Bee (I stank) and the Science Olympiad (I ruled), while Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag receded in my mind, replaced by more important things like the origin of Spiderman (radioactive spider) and the best teams in "Tecmo Super Bowl" (Bills, 9ers, Bears). Then, near the end of fourth grade, the way I thought about music changed forever. And for that, I owe thanks to a pair of teachers from our local middle school who, like the biblical Noah, brought a pair of every conventional instrument into our elementary classroom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://videogame2play.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/09/tecmo_super_bowl_front1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 307px;" src="http://videogame2play.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/09/tecmo_super_bowl_front1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />"Try them out," they offered, doling out the shameful tuba, the effete piccolo, the bitch-ass oboe. And so, for a good hour, the room was filled with the singular noise of ten-year-olds test-driving brass, woodwinds, and string instruments, a sound which reminds one of an elephant with Montezuma's Revenge.<br /><br />My fixation was the saxophone. This might've had something to do with Lisa Simpson or the Sanborn albums my Dad played at home; I can't be sure. But what I do know is that on that day I realized that people like me can make music themselves. While Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag was a remarkably sterile proceeding---a woman with half a voice playing two-fingered chords while disinterested students half-heartedly sang or whole-heartedly Milli Vanillied their way through various obnoxious ditties----this "band" idea was something wholly different: namely, kids---us---me!---making music. This was a profound realization.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://entimg.msn.com/i/gal/SimpsonsCharacters/LisaSimpson_4001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 275px;" src="http://entimg.msn.com/i/gal/SimpsonsCharacters/LisaSimpson_4001.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <br />So I played the saxophone. From fifth through eighth grade, from "Hot Cross Buns" to "Theme from Jurassic Park," I played in my school band and I enjoyed it. Then, high school rolled around and the stigma of being a "bando" reared it's ugly head and, tragically, I stopped. I hate that I did. It wasn't as if abstaining from band was enough to evict me from the "Magic: The Gathering" dorktown I then inhabited. I don't even think I thought that it would. It was just that I and all my friends just, well, stopped. It felt like one of the many phases you got through growing up: you're obsessed with something one day and the next it's gone. A few years later, maybe knowing something was missing, I picked up a bass, learned to play by figuring out the songs on MTV (this was, of course, when the "M" stood for something), and have been playing <i>some</i> instrument pretty much every day of my life since.<br /> <br />All this went through my head when we were given the opportunity to participate in the America SCORES program. As an introduction, America SCORES is a national non-profit that, in their words, "develops programs that use the world's most popular sport, soccer, to energize and inspire public school students. All of our programs require that our children use the teamwork they learn on the soccer field to support each other as poets and authors in the classroom. The combination is unique and it works." Which, of course, begs the question: what the hell was Birdmonster doing there? Well, America SCORES sees the logical offshoot of poetry as song writing and, in a few cities, invites musicians to come into the classroom and write a song with the enrolled kids. We were some of those musicians.<br /> <br />So, a few weeks back, three of us Birdmonsters* descended on Bret Harte Elementary. The first thing I remember is one of the kids asking, "Y'all the Jonas Brothers or something?" I had to disappoint him. Basically, it works like this: a band (or, in most cases, a solo artist) goes into an elementary school for a total of three days. The first two days are spent writing a song, the last recording it to tape (it's worth noting here that a good number of the kids we rocked out with were unfamiliar with the concept of a "cassette tape," which made me feel old and sad, especially when I had to restrain myself from beginning the explanation with the words "Back in <i>my</i> day"). And while you usually get six hours total for this, our session was split by gender: boys for an hour, girls for hour, three hours each over the course of three days. In other words: we're not talking about a Leonard Cohen schedule here. We got right down to business.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.thetripwire.com/assets/images/birdkids5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://www.thetripwire.com/assets/images/birdkids5.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <br />We began by noting that one of the first rules of writing lyrics is to chose something that's important to you and sing about that. For Elvis Costello, it was the enigmatic "Allison"; for Captain & Tennille, it was muskrats fucking. Our group of girls chose their families and their feelings, while our group of boys chose a tomato plant that lived in the gutter. And if that isn't proof that boys and girls are inherently dissimilar, you need to put down that Judith Butler book.<br /> <br />One of the refreshing things about writing a song with a bunch of nine to eleven-year-olds is that they don't overthink anything. Pete was the first one who articulated that and, looking back, it's one of the things I think I learned here. If a girl wants to sing about purple bananas, she's just gonna scream out "let's sing about purple bananas!" and then, all of a sudden, you're singing about purple bananas. It's that simple. We've always tried to maintain a spirit of improvisation in our band but nothing shows you how structured you really are then when you're doing the same thing with kids trying it for the first time. And indeed, the girls <i>did</i> sing about purple bananas. They sang about riding dolphins into the sea and being among their friends and dancing in their dreams and how cheetahs like playing soccer. In short, they sang about any damn thing they pleased. We came up with a few chords and a melody and, really, that's all there was to it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i302.photobucket.com/albums/nn95/jellybeaner1983/dolphinpurple.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://i302.photobucket.com/albums/nn95/jellybeaner1983/dolphinpurple.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />As for the boys, I found their tomato plant song weirdly touching. It was called "The Tomato Blues" and it centered, as noted above, on a tomato plant that was growing in the gutter. The lyrics focused on how much they loved that tomato plant, a plant that was run over, crushed, and smushed indiscriminately by vapid motorists. They loved it even though (and, in fact, because) it had been neglected and near destroyed but that it kept persevering. How very American, I say: the story of the loveable underdog. Since it was "The Tomato <i>Blues</i>," we tossed together a simple 12-bar blues thing, then neglected that since the lyrics didn't exactly fit the classic 12-bar format, and settled on a weird bastardization of that and what sounds to me now a little bit like "Black Velvet."<br /> <br />Which is really the meat of thing. We practiced the songs during the second session, learning a cardinal rule of children's music: if you give them a tamborine, they will shake it; if you give them an egg shaker, they will wing it at somebody's head. We recorded on the third day, then, like that pair of musical Noahs I remember fondly, let them hammer away at our banjos, guitars, drums, and harmonicas. And in the end, that's what I hope came out of the three days. Sure, the kids used the teamwork skills they learned in soccer and the writing and peer review skills they learned in their poetry lessons, but what I pray is that a few of them learned how deceptively simple it is to write a song, to play music, to sing about something because you care about it; that music is fun. I was lucky enough to have somebody show me that at a young enough age for it to mean something. Here's to hoping we returned the favor. <br /> <br />(One of the songs and some purty pictures can be found <a href="http://www.thetripwire.com/listen/2008/12/11/exclusive-birdmonster-with-bret-harte-elementary-school-kids-tomato-blues/">here</a>. I tried linking it proper but my technological skills have atrophied to the point that it took me an hour to get that picture of Lisa the right size. Sad but true).<br /><br />* Our fourth was in Mexico. Dave traded in the subtle and sweet joys of musical instruction for the more tangible joys of shitloads of tequila.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-91573876231013948102008-11-09T22:22:00.000-08:002008-11-09T22:50:20.205-08:00And now for something completely different. Or, actually, not that different. But it's in a different place, so there's thatTouring always renews our faith in humanity. We're essentially a band of roving hobos (and, really, all hobos are roving hobos. I've learned that there are three brands of homeless people: bums, tramps, and hobos. Bums don't travel and refuse to work (see: San Francisco, Market Street). Tramps travel but also refuse to work. They are not to be confused with traveling college student. Then there are bums: they travel and work. Mostly, I think, they paint fences. That's what I've been led to believe).<br /><br />Where was I? Hobos. Faith in humanity. Right. We go to towns, we've got no place to stay, we've got no food to eat. Granted, we have money, which I understand can be exchanged for these things, but you get the idea. We simply <i>arrive</i>.<br /><br />But see, sometimes, people take care of us. They feed us, they put us up, they clothe us in the soft furs of their livestock. One of these people is a man named Kevin. He has a blog called <a href="http://somuchsilence.com">So Much Silence</a>. He also has a lovable but decidedly psychopathic bulldog named Oliver that David often threatens to abscond with. <br /><br />A while back, he was nice enough to ask me to scribble something for him. And guess what? I done did it. It's about music and I think you'll like it.<br /><br /><a href="http://somuchsilence.com/?p=1371">Check it out.</a>birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-91531536983736011902008-11-07T20:28:00.000-08:002008-11-07T20:39:23.524-08:00In which Birdmonster applauds America, shames California, and goes to Hooters. Everybody winsWell done, America. A few months ago, you had me worried. Despite the selection of an aggressively ignorant rube as his running mate, Jowls McCain was leading in many major polls and I left for tour fearing unmitigated badness. However, our economy, a leaning Jenga tower when we departed, kept swaying, swayed further, and, while it didn't quite topple, the financial atmosphere last week felt like that Jenga tower but after somebody let a toddler high on Vault Cola and Pixie Stix into the room. Which is to say: precarious. <br /><br />In the end, some say that Obama was elected because of this uneasy situation. We could argue whether that's true. Personally, I could give a shit; I'm just proud of us. <br /><br />Of course, it's good to remember that not everyone feels this way. Despite what I thought was a rousing, somber, optimistic speech, the first non-Birdmonster, non-family member analysis I heard was from an obese man filling the candy machines at a rest stop in Pennsylvania. He said to his cohort, "You know how much I hate that guy," barely able to keep the anger from quavering his voice, and then postulated on how long Obama would remain alive. It made me sad. Then I reminded myself he was morbidly overweight and his job was putting Butterfingers in a coin-op vending device in the middle of Amish country and somehow felt happier. Point being: it's good to remind yourself of that. 56 million people disagree with me at this moment and many of them are handling more important things than year old Zagnut bars. But we all get on; we live together, eat in the same restaurants, talk at the same bus stops, and spend our money on each other's products. It's how the whole thing works. I lived in Bush's America for nearly a decade and made it out alive. Now it's Baby Ruth's turn.<br /><br />What I'm not proud of is California. We voted for Prop Eight. I mean, really? What are we thinking here? It's like walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned: it's embarrassing. In the words of Mark Jackson, NBA commentator extraordinaire: Come on, California. You're better than that.<br /><br />I truly don't understand. I've tried. I've listened to the arguments for denying gay folks the right to marry. One is that gay marriage violates some deeply held religious tenet. Well, fine. But we separate church and state here. Nobody's not saying gays have to be married in your church. Your church is your deal: eat communion, wear a yarmulke, do the Cabbage Patch. But in America it's supposed to be about equal rights, right? <br /><br />Then there are those who say, hey, gays can have "civil unions." We must protect the sanctity of marriage, meaning marriage as defined as a union between a man and a woman. On which I call "bullshit." This is just another way of saying "A rose by any other name is still a rose." Which is also bullshit. A rose by any other name isn't a rose anymore, it's a rose by another name. I'm confusing myself, but bear with me. Let's say I called someone's religion a "cult" or a "superstition." That's done with intent and with purpose, that purpose being to ridicule the thing; to set it apart; to demean it. And while the religion remains as true and vital to the practitioner of it, to those calling it a "superstition," sooner or later it becomes something lower, something more akin to throwing spilt salt over your shoulder than to the path of spiritual enlightenment. That's how words work. <br /><br />So shame on you California. We actually voted to <i>take away</i> people's rights. That's pathetic. The Supreme Court will rebuke us in the next generation.<br /><br />Meanwhile, in a less political vein, I have two things making me happy today. One is that on the compass in the van, there's a "W." That's right. We're going home. I couldn't be happier about that. My bed, my house, whatever it is I call my shabby, duct-taped semblance of a life back home is rushing towards us at a brisk 67 mph. I can't wait. And also, I can't afford it. I look forward to demeaning myself in some hilarious way for money during the Christmas season. Maybe I'll get a job at Baby GAP.<br /><br />The other thing making me happy? We went to Hooters. There were hooters. And chicken sandwiches. And Allen Iverson on the Pistons. It was the confluence of many wonders. I'd never been to a Hooters before and, first off, was surprised by the clientele. I expected the five or six tables of single, fugly looking dudes with wing sauce on their bibs, but what I didn't expect were the families: Mom, Dad, and their two daughters; an elderly couple sharing curly fries, a dad with six elementary aged boys in tow. I think that last dad was planning on taking those kids to a cock fight afterwards. <br /><br />Anyway, a bizarrely unbizarre experience. If that means anything.<br /><br />A few band related shenanigans before I go. First off: we had a ball in Ohio at Case Western, thanks in no small part to our showmates, Ha Ha Tonka. They're incredibly enjoyable, fun Ozark-natives who do four-part harmonies and are as lovably country as that sounds. But not "walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned" country. I needed to clear that up. Past that, we've got a show in Oklahoma City tomorrow, had a radio thing in Missouri today (it went smashingly and we'll share when we get the tapes), and another radio thing in New Mexico a few days from now and...well...that's it. Then that "W" on the compass means something: not just going home but <i>being</i> home. I can't quite believe that yet. I don't think I will until I'm on the couch, drinking a Tecate, looking for a job as a Christmas tree cutter-downer. For now: roll on Zach. Drive.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-61422193320391929432008-11-03T09:59:00.001-08:002008-11-03T09:59:52.482-08:00In which Birdmonster half-asses Halloween, full-asses New York City, and feels a faint sense of nostalgia and forebodingLook: you're nervous. Me too. Tomorrow, 'Merica chooses between Jowls McCain and Ears Obama. I'll be out here on the East Coast, absentee ballot safely mailed, three hours ahead of my home state and the usual experience of going to sleep thinking a Democrat won and waking up to apologizing newsmen and a fistful of Zoloft. I will not be sleeping well.<br /><br />Part of me simply wants to avoid the television all together---the silly race to call states first, the color-coded, kindergarten-easy way they analyze the election, the panels of eighteen well-groomed say-nothings yammering at ever increasing volumes: it's tiresome, really. But I know I'll watch. There's no way I don't. I'll be on Pete's parents' couch with a bottle of Rossi, slowly drinking my way to a proud and inclusive optimism or a dejected, ethereal sadness. I'm sure many of you will be there with me. Though not on the couch in Pete's folk's house. It only seats three.<br /><br />Since every iota of mass media, individual conversation, and, yes, even your bowel movement (I saw Palin in mine this morning) will be revolving around the upcoming election, let's give ourselves a break. I know our exploits are far less important but, you know, in a way, it's good to be a bit frivolous in times like these; you can only vote once and, no matter how much TV you watch, only one of those guys is winning. Take deep breath. Watch a crappy movie. Read the next few paragraphs. I promise very little will have changed by the time you're done.<br /><br />----------------------<br /><br />Last we spoke, we had been rejected by Canada and I had mistaken John Goodman in <i>King Ralph</i> for John Candy in <i>Canadian Bacon</i>. I hope you can forgive me.<br /><br />We spent our two forced days off like we spend most of our time: sitting in a van that, despite our best efforts, is smelling more like a junior high locker room daily. We made it to Boston on time and didn't get rejected at the "Are You Wearing Yankee Apparel?" checkpoint and, like Lee Greenwood, felt proud to be an American. After all, there's nothing like spiteful rejection to make you love what you've got.<br /><br />And here's the thing about Boston: they drive worse than New Yorkers. Pete brought this to my attention and, after an afternoon of getting cut-off by Celtic-bumper-stickered pick-ups and an evening of people refusing to wait in toll lines because they're better people than us, I thoroughly agree. It's like this: in New York, everyone's so aggressive that they expect you to be aggressive too so, deep down inside, they've got their guard up, their palm poised anxiously above the horn. In Boston, everyone drives with a sense of entitlement. They cut you off but they don't expect you to do the same. Of course, both Boston and New York pale in comparison to LA, where driving is not a priority when you're behind the wheel. I've seen people text messaging with one hand while mascara-ing with the other. I wish that was a joke.<br /><br />We played Boston on Halloween and I bought my costume a good three hours before the show in a Goodwill thrift store that was resembled something out of Los Angeles in late April of 1992. For those who are curious, I asked the Rumble Strips what Halloween is like in England. They said that, basically, it's celebrated but not with the tenacity and vigor it is out here in the States. Furthermore, in Britain the emphasis is on being positively creepy while out here it's just on dressing up. Which is to say, in America, you could dress up like Elton John or a koala or a hot dog, whereas in the U.K., you'd have to be Bleeding-Out-The-Eyes Elton John or a koala with rabies or a hot dog.<br /><br />At any rate, my costume sucked. I found some nurse scrub pants and a muumuu with pelicans on it and sort of looked like a skinny Dr. Moreau. It was embarrassing. The show was good as Boston shows tend to be and I gave my muumuu to an old friend who never really wanted it in the first place.<br /><br />Then: New York. What a phenomenal place to end our stint with the Strips. They're still there, in fact, recording their second album beginning today. But New York was a blast. We saw some old friends, family, and, apparently, Jimmy Fallon. We played a fine set at a gorgeous venue. We ate pizza while a probably-homeless man regaled us with Beastie Boys verses. It was one of those days that was fabulous but no fun to write about since, well, who wants to hear a guy revel in his joy? Stories of Canadian-infused suffering are far funnier. Even I know that.<br /><br />So, before I go, a few important things:<br /><br />First, to the Rumble Strips: Godspeed, boys. You are a ridiculously tight, completely enjoyable live band. We loved our near-month with you and will be salivating while you record the second disc. Strangely, we've heard most of the songs already, which is an experience afforded to very few people. Thanks for dragging us along through America with y'all.<br /><br />Second, to our van: thanks for not exploding. Three thousand miles to go, big guy. I know you've got it in you.<br /><br />Third, to our friends, girlfriends, and family back home: we miss you immensely and smell terribly. Take us back in a week or two, please.<br /><br />Lastly, we're heading back across the US of A starting National Election Hangover Day. We'll post the days on our website (though I do know the next thing is Cleveland on the 5th at Case Western University) and hope to see anyone we missed on the way out. And back. And out again. We really have to route these things better.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-42877468975701459802008-10-31T10:52:00.000-07:002008-10-31T10:55:42.980-07:00In which Birdmonster turns Canadian lemons into a contest - with fabulous prizesCanada, that land of Michael Moore's wettest dreams and birthplace of the only sport to make prominent use of brooms (apologies to Quiddich), hates it some Birdmonster. As chronicled recently, we were yet again shut out of the country we share our northern border for reasons that can be best described as "arbitrary" and "asinine."<br /><br />The whole ordeal (in addition to a similarly infuriating adventure two years back) has turned me off to the whole country. I'd rather vacation in Bosnia.<br /><br />But we also realize that perhaps unlucky circumstances have conspired against us. Maybe we're being unfair. So, in the interest of further knowledge and a better understanding of a country that is, to quote the great philosopher E-40, "on my shit list, my rest in piss list," we thought we could get your input.<br /><br />Here's what we want: your Canada stories, whether they're from the 11th circle of hell known as the Windsor border crossing or, conversely, yarns that redeem the place, should such things exist. We, the jury, will gather evidence and present what we feel is the best (read: most amusing) anecdote over on the blog, plus send that fantastic human some free signed stuff for setting the record straight.<br /><br />So, which is it? Canada: the land of stability, hockey, and antlered mammals. Or Canada: grotesque hockey-loving freedom-haters? You make the call.<br /><br />Please send your stories in to: birdmonstercontests@gmail.com - contest deadline Sunday, 11/9/08, and we'll post the winning entry on our blog the week of on 11/10/08.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-8146956165413636092008-10-29T23:50:00.000-07:002008-10-30T00:38:47.504-07:00In which Birdmonster returns to Canada, or at least its border. Then the suckiness began<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FcwUyNa0gGSOfcpy2gQbQdjUYrjkRp-Frn34bhu6ce0zLtMkSwG_5eGwUqwXKT8LCpif3CousVh9GJCmxtLK99802Y30OxjjbGHh2FDvy6b-iarzhjOAfFAgFnRRhFhxaKSVyQ/s1600-h/john_candy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FcwUyNa0gGSOfcpy2gQbQdjUYrjkRp-Frn34bhu6ce0zLtMkSwG_5eGwUqwXKT8LCpif3CousVh9GJCmxtLK99802Y30OxjjbGHh2FDvy6b-iarzhjOAfFAgFnRRhFhxaKSVyQ/s320/john_candy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262848061298981634" /></a><br />Amongst the record-defying majesty of dolphinboy, the pre-prepubescent gymnasts of the host nation, and the perfunctory ass-whoopings of American Basketball, I rediscovered my fondness for the Olympics this past summer. There's something incredibly fascinating about the fittest people from every cranny of the globe competing in events as patently bogus as trampolining. And, like many people, I found myself not only rooting for my home nation but for plucky athletes from Monaco, Guam, and unpronounceable former-Soviet Republics. That, I think, what the Olympics are supposed to be about: spirited competition on the one hand, global tolerance and unity and other hippie-type shit on the other. I wasn't rooting <i>against</i> anyone, certainly. After all, most Olympic athletes recede into the shadowy obscurity of Home Depot after spending two weeks competing and screwing and subsisting solely on McDonald's. So I cheered for everyone. I felt good. I was a Citizen Of The World. Not anymore though. From now on, I root against Canada.<br /><br />You heard that Canada? From now on, when a Canadian diver bellyflops after losing her equilibrium on the high-dive, I laugh. When the Canadian hockey team plays Russia, I root for Ivan Drago's man-spawn. John Candy? I just threw King Ralph out the window of the van. I defenestrate you, King Ralph. SCTV? Forget it. You're gone. And don't bring up Alex Trebek. He and I are no longer speaking. Not until he brings back the mustache, at the very least.<br /><br />See my fine northern neighbors, it's not that I hate <i>you</i>. In fact, I've enjoyed the company of nearly all the Canadians I've ever met. I like Neil Young. I like the Arcade Fire. And syrup. I like that too. But the people who work your borders? The English language, colorful as it is, cannot fully express our sickened anger. Words like "hateful," "petty," and "punchable" come to mind. So does "anus-brained."<br /><br />A couple years back, we had a dust-up with the Border Patrol in Windsor. (I've linked it <a href="http://birdmonster.blogspot.com/2007/03/in-which-birdmonster-begins-with-happy.html">here</a> and found rereading it weirdly cathartic). Long story short is that we ran into a spiteful, bitesized powertripper who, after identifying the Cheeto detritus on the floor of our Chevy as weed, tore the van apart in hopes of finding <i>some</i> way of fucking us over. He succeeded in that we didn't declare our merch at a window of a man who couldn't speak English and never asked us about any commercial goods at all and could therefore claim we were "accidental smugglers" and attempt to legally extort about a thousand dollars from a band that was playing for dinner, drinks, and hotel money. Ever since, he's been my first round selection in the "People I'd Pay Good Money To Watch Eat Shit" draft.<br /><br />Today, we met his sister. If not his biological sister, his spiritual sister. If not that, his wife, and if so, their children will destroy us all.<br /><br />It went like this:<br /><br />We drove across the 96, across crossed not across? the Bridge to Canada, and we got up to that first window where the English Mangler began our travails last time around. I was driving; we were prepared.<br /><br />"What's your purpose in Canada?" he asked. "To play music," we replied. "Do you have any firearms?" he wondered. "Of course not," we answered. "What's in the van?" he ventured. "Instruments," we told him. "And merch! For the love of God, we have merch." He smiled. He looked like Victor Krumm from Harry Potter 4 but in the end, he was on our side.<br /><br />Next up were the customs agents, cohorts of the vile little fuck who sent us away during our last attempt to breach the Canadian border. They brought "the dog" who barked wildly. While agents were scurrying through our van looking for pretzels and puffy cheese things that looked like narcotics, we chatted up the other three agents who stood around getting paid. We learned that once, when Keith Richards was rolled for heroin in Toronto, part of his sentence was community service by way of a benefit show at the very place we were supposed to play that night. We sat by calmly while a female agent looked through my bag that contained a motley collection of Stephen King books, canned ham, and Cracker Barrel car games. We smiled. We joked. We reveled in our shared humanity. Sure, they destroyed the interior of our van looking for our phantom booty, but they found nothing. After all, we'd spent twenty minutes vacuuming the van out a Citgo for just such a contingency. We were, as I said, prepared.<br /><br />These agents gave us a couple forms, made us pack up our van, and sent us Immigration. We were riding high. "This band is unstoppable!" I thought. I smiled. Almost done. This here's the easy part.<br /><br />Then we met Her.<br /><br />I use this word to denote only the gender of the anus-brained bitch-beast who would have been edited out of an especially absurd Kafka novel. In fact, it all begins with novels. Knowing from experience that the Canadian border crossing can be an interminable affair, we'd all brought the books we were reading into the building, having read all the Canadian Border Patrol pamphlets ever printed last time we were detained. Literature in hand, we walked into her lair.<br /><br />It went like this:<br /><br />"Is there a reason you have those books?" she asked. Not "hello" or "can I see your paperwork?" but "Is there a reason you have those books?" Asked it, in fact, in the tone of a woman who's spent the last six years fighting a malt liquor hangover.<br /><br />We looked at each other. "So that we've got something to read while we wait," we said.<br /><br />"You don't need those. Take them to your car."<br /><br />"Can't we just take them to the waiting room so we---"<br /><br />"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"<br /><br />This was going poorly.<br /><br />"TAKE THEM <i>TO YOUR VEHICLE</i>."<br /><br />In hindsight, I wished I would've peed on her through that space they push documents through. That would have at least given her a reason to treat us like shit. If you've heard the expression that someone obviously "woke up on the wrong side of the bed," it's definitely apt here. Except, she probably doesn't sleep in a bed. She probably sleeps in a cave littered with baby skulls.<br /><br />But I didn't pee on her. None of us did. Instead, we split up, sending some back to the car to deposit the hated read-y-things and while the rest of us pushed her our passports. <br /><br />Basically, what you need to picture here is this: there are three rooms. On the right is Customs, the left Immigration, and in the middle is a plastic holding pen where the sad victims of bureaucracy wait to be yelled at by anus-brained bitch-beasts. After dropping off our books and passports, we all gathered there, noted the defeated souls around us, and felt a keen sense of foreboding. After about five minutes, Dave noticed she never took our immigration papers and went back in to give it to her. From my vantage point, everything was muffled talking and gesticulating. Dave came back and informed us she hadn't started processing <i>anything</i> because she was, quote, waiting for us to get rid of our books. Now, <i>that</i> makes sense! Thanks, sug. <br /><br />So we waited. We waited and didn't read since books are illegal in Canada. I contemplated "upper decking" the place---which consists of taking a crap in the upper chamber of a toilet, the part that doesn't flush---but then discovered their toilets didn't have tanks on top. Of course, I had to ask permission to even use the bathroom, which was at first <i>denied</i> because I asked the people at Customs (a full eight of them sitting there doing nothing) who said that they couldn't buzz me in, regardless of the sign that said "ASK CUSTOM AGENT TO BUZZ YOU IN." Immigration, he informed me, had to let me shit. I laughed. I shat. I rejoined my bandmates in the plastic holding pen.<br /><br />"Birdmonster," she called through the intercom. Dave went in.<br /><br />Here it's important to know about the two types of clubs, as far as the Canadian Border Patrol is concerned. One are exempt clubs---clubs that sell tickets, host shows regularly, and, if they are small enough, do not require work permits to come play. The other are non-exempt clubs, clubs which, from the government's view, are really just bars that sometime have shows and that you do need a visa to play. Make sense? I didn't think so. We were informed that the club in Toronto was exempt while the one in Montreal was not.<br /><br />"Well, we played that club last time without a permit," we said. She didn't care. She looked up the club on the internet and she didn't think so. "Which website?" we asked. She didn't remember. "Our tourmates went through two hours ago with identical paperwork," we offered. We were informed that they didn't. Of course, they did. Of course, reality has little power in a place such as thing. We offered to cancel the Montreal show; Anus-Brain said she wouldn't believe us. We tried calling some clandestine Canadian organization that determines which clubs are exempt; they were closed. We showed her our contract and our paperwork that said the club was exempt; she refused to believe these legitimacy of said papers. We called our booker and the club, begging for help.The club (the Zoobizarre in Montreal, for the record) tried to be helpful.<br /><br />"I could fax her our Myspace page," he suggested.<br /><br />"Eh?"<br /><br />"Well, that's what I did with the Rumble Strips. They can see our schedule and our size and that we have a whole bunch of shows and that we qualify as exempt."<br /><br />Now, <i>that's</i> an idea...I guess.<br /><br />So we got the fax number and the fax arrived. Bitchdevil looked at it intently, the tiny obese gerbil of her brain spinning itself to exhaustion. She summoned us once again. Pete, at this point, had been crowned our "Spokesperson," because she refused to speak to all of us, apparently worried about burdening us with her brilliance more than once, so Pete alone went in and absorbed the brunt of the jackassery.<br /><br />It went like this:<br /><br />While the fax she received, the contract we showed her, and the exemption paperwork she was given suggested that everything we'd said was Gospel, the ineffable website she couldn't remember claimed otherwise. These competing verdicts boggled Anus-brain's mind. She decided that our situation should be deemed "confusing" and that in a "confusing" situation, she was allowed to do, well, whatever the fuck she wanted to. Which, in case you're playing along at home, was kicking us the hell out.<br /><br />Of course, Pete asked for her supervisor. After acting extremely put-out by the suggestion that she may not have acted in good faith, she let us speak to a woman who was simply a more polite flavor of worthlessness. She told us that since she wasn't there during our first conversation with Anus-Brain (a feat which would have required omnipotence), she couldn't necessarily overrule a verdict based on an arbitrary, still unknowable website, which made about as much sense as everything else had up till this point. We were then "asked" to sign a form which said we were "allowed" to leave a country we never actually fully made it into. We tried to stall for a call back from our booker or some other deus ex machina but were told that if we waited around after being asked to leave we'd be detained---in other words, if we didn't leave, they wouldn't let us leave.<br /><br />So we left. We came back to America, where the beer is cold, where the S'barro's is barely warm, and where we can travel to and fro without being subjected to the sort of logic that would confuse Lewis Carroll. We canceled Toronto and Montreal, not because we wanted to, but because Canada hates us and everything we stand for. The question is: do we, like Jesus of Nazareth, turn the other cheek? Or do we, like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, nurse an unhealthy grudge that will eventually drive us to grimacing vengeance?<br /><br />I think we'll sleep on it.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-63117713827407102232008-10-27T11:55:00.001-07:002008-10-27T11:55:46.447-07:00Newport KY show cancelled...sadnessDue to a sore throat of our lovely tourmates' troubadour, tonight's show <br>in Newport/Cincy has been cancelled. We're scrambling for a new spot <br>and, if successful, we shall let you know.<p>Sincerest apologies,<p>birdmonsterbirdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-81345984202229773262008-10-26T14:12:00.001-07:002008-10-26T14:15:29.358-07:00In which Birdmonster recounts various adventures, mocks mythical heroes, and bets something, yet wins nothingI know this much: a stupid bet deserves a stupid wager. I also know that nothing stops a stupid argument like a stupid bet. Children, instinctively, know this. "Wanna bet?" was a favorite rejoinder in my monkey bar days and, if the kid I heard at Cracker Barrel this morning is any indication, the phrase remains popular in the kiddy vernacular, alongside "Your mom!" and the golden oldie "I don't shut up, I grow up, and when I see your face, I throw up."<br /><br />It should go without saying that, yes, we get into silly arguments. And when we do, we bet lotto tickets. It's like betting for a chance to gamble. Actually, it's exactly like that. And there's the outside chance that you'll become a thousandaire, when, in reality, you're basically wiping your ass with a dollar. Everybody wins. Even the Wisconsin school system. <br /><br />Me? I'm a roll. I won a scratcher a while ago betting Dave that Palin wouldn't drop out of the race. Then we doubled down on whether she'd debate in the first place. And the scratch off I've got in my lap at this very moment? Won off Peter for insisting that Darth Vader said "When we last met, I was but a learner; now I am the mastah." That might be exact, but Pete swore it was "student" and not "learner" while I remembered it was George Lucas and not someone who had a passing familiarity with conversational English. Easy money, in other words.<br /><br />I'm telling you this because I'm bored. Oh so bored. And because I'm saving the lotto ticket for the end of this blog. That's what passes for excitement in my life. Sad, I know. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me. At least it's warm down here. Warm and smelly. <br /><br />But I digress. Or rather, I haven't started saying anything of import at all. Either way. Where were we last? I believe it was California. That was a bizarre trip, honestly---not bad in any way, being that its the home state for three of us and contains the hometown for all of us---but because we went home in the middle of a tour. This was a first. The layover in San Francisco was barely twenty-four hours but it was incredibly rejuvenating. I ate food from places called "kitchens." I slept on a bed that didn't feel stuffed with hooker cadavers. I woke up to something other than "Housekeeping!" <br /><br />Plus, I picked up my absentee voter envelope. I hear there's someone named "Alabama" running for President, which makes me pretty excited. Also, I'm apparently supposed to know four different people who deserve a seat on the San Francisco Community College Board, which is a lot like asking me to choose the four people with the coolest name. Rodel Rodis? You've got my vote. In fact, I'm just voting for you four times. I'm writing you in for President too. Sorry, "Alabama." You lose!<br /><br />Of course, since California, we've gone <i>back</i> to the East Coast. In between, we enjoyed the Pacific Northwest, which was completely gorgeous in mid October, all red leaves and fog---the hills looked like they were on fire, and---well, to be fair, we're not on the East Coast yet. For some reason, my brain lumps Chicago and Minneapolis in with Boston and Philadelphia. It's wrong, I know. We're in the midwest, have been since our hellish Seattle to Minnesota drive. Yeah. That's 1800 some-odd miles. You know that guy who ran a Marathon from Marathon to deliver a message back in the "olden days"? He's a bitch. I'd like to see him drive ten hours a day on a diet of Olive Garden and McDonald's. <br /><br />Things have happened, of course. We got joshingly heckled by a pair of self-described "repugnant queens" in Portland---one of whom liked "Gummo," which, really, when somebody tells you that, walk backwards slowly but never take your eyes off their hands. We tried to eat at a Red Lobster before discovering that we were actually too poor for Red Lobster, then wept ourselves to sleep. We played a gamut of fantastic clubs, though the Doug Fir in Portland and the Casbah in San Diego are my personal favorites---the former of the pair is very "Twin Peaks-y" according to everyone else in the band who has, you know, seen "Twin Peaks." To me it looked like a creepy futuristic log cabin. Maybe those things are one in the same. I do not know.<br /><br />I feel boring though. Really boring. I'm basically rotting in the van as we speak. My brain isn't working anymore. But wait! I've got this lotto ticket. It's called "Krazy Eights." Ok...scratching. Not an eight. Not an eight. Mayb---nope, that's a nine.<br /><br />That's what we call an "anti-climax." I'm going to slink into the back seat and try to recover from my Gunslinger withdrawals with a new book. Have a fine Sunday.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-41639396775357177882008-10-22T10:33:00.000-07:002008-10-22T10:37:37.326-07:00In which Birdmonster gets all fashionable, smiles at New Orleans, and finally finishes "The Gunslinger," thus giving me my life backSome people are Abercrombie folks; others prefer H&M; still others opt for Nordstrom's or Salvation Army or, God forbid, Big Dogs. We've all got our own personal style, in other words, from the hipster who looks like she walked out a Pat Benetar video to the one-eyed cowboy with a taste for Wranglers and Carhart. But see, Fashion is fickle. What's cool now will be dreadfully lame in a month. That, when added to the simple fact of my overwhelming poorness, keeps me steered clear of trends like Crocs or those tribal earrings that are leaving an entire generation with saggy lobes their children will laugh at. So, call it "classy" or "chickenshit," I've tended to opt for the American Uniform: jeans, t-shirt, and some ratty sneakers. It's simple, it's easy, and, hell, we get free shirts at radio stations and via merch trades. What I'm saying is I don't really buy clothes anymore. I simply don't need to.<br /><br />Unless I'm at The Thing. <br /><br />On the surface, The Thing is an impressive gas station on the 10, a gas station which boasts advertisements for two hundred miles in both directions, billboards which would surely infuriate Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang but which fill me with childlike joy and anticipation. The Thing, longtime readers might remember, is the first place our new van made it to after Patrick Stewart, our erstwhile lemon, died on the way to Phoenix. It's a magical place where you can pay 75 cents to <i>see</i> "The Thing" (a thing that doesn't even warrant capitalization, sadly) and spend much more on useless bric a brac to burden your friends and relatives with. Merry Christmas Dad: I got you a plastic die-cast gila monster. Thanks for sending me to college.<br /><br />But the Thing is also all about Fashion. Last time around I got a shirt with glitter on it and what I thought was a unicorn. Upon closer inspection, it had no horn, which made it what I believe zoologists call a "horse." This time? Way more super awesome. It's a shirt with a giant tiger jumping at you, ready to tear your face off. But wait! If you turn around you see the tiger's ass and tail. Eat my shit Versace.<br /><br />By the time we made it to Arizona, we were in the Tour Zone. Which is to say: used to spending eight hours sedentary in a van reading the Gunslinger (I've finished now, by the by), used to eating McDonald's at the last possible moment, used to stumbling out into a different climate each time we stop, used to playing music every evening. That first week is always a bit surreal---it takes a while for it to sink in that you're <i>actually</i> going to spend the next month and a half rolling across America. Part of me never believes it. By now, that part of me is dead. I left him in Pennsylvania so he could vote in a swing state. And also so he could hang out by the Rocky statue. I know what does me.<br /><br />What I'm saying is that the shows themselves have all been, well, they've all been good. Not to toot our own horn, but by the time everyone's mentally settled into the aforesaid Tour Zone, we simply play better*. It's not just us, either. Every band we've ever played with gets better playing every night, simply by the serendipity of enjoyable repetition. It's like a good basketball team: you can throw Karl Malone and Gary Payton or the Lakers but without the time to gel, they end up losing to the Pistons. Just writing that makes me happy. And not simply because 'Sheed is involved, though, admittedly, that's at least 51% of the thing.<br /><br />Last we chatted, we were just rolling into New Orleans and I was hoping that it resembled the vacation I took there not the ill-fated, mildewy hotel, aftermath of Katrina NOLA we visited as a band. And you know what? It was some place in between. Closer, certainly, to the lively and bizarre New Orleans of 2004 I vaguely remembered through a brandy milk punch induced haze. We played the House of Blues, which is a nice enough room and a venue kind enough to dole out meal tickets to the bands playing, but, really, do you want to be eating out a House of Blues in New Fucking Orleans? I don't. I want my fresh oysters, my proper gumbo. Eating at a House of Blues in New Orleans is like playing nickel slots at the Bellagio: you can do it, sure, but don't expect me not to heckle you. <br /><br />In a spasm of indefatigable genius, we decided to go from the west to the east to the west to the east to the west coast this tour. Brilliant, I'm aware, but the refreshing postscript of this plan was that we were able to come home to California smack dab in the middle of the thing. I wrote that story, but really, we're already quite up there in paragraphs. Tomorrow, then. We're covering the entirety of North Dakota then, so I should have a minute or, say, seven hundred. <br /><br />* Toot, toot.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11189609.post-69903493364097968252008-10-11T00:37:00.000-07:002008-10-11T00:42:57.293-07:00In which Birdmonster trades in Georgia, plays in Florida, and now is wallowing in a smelly smellhole in LoisiannaThere's something off-putting about seeing a man drink <i>while</i> he's behind the wheel of a truck. It's like watching somebody build a home without blueprints or eat a bran muffin on the toilet: it's not just ignorant, it's aggressively idiotic. <br /><br />We ran into one such man at a Penzoil in Adel, Georgia. We chatted him up. He wasn't driving at that time, but he looked like he was on mission to spend his off-day swerving through the streets of that tiny Southern town, careening off lamp posts, mailboxes, and Piggly Wigglys. That said, he was a happy drunk. He fingered us as a band with the greatest of ease and demanded a CD. We said, sure, but even with the "getting blotto in the driver's seat discount," it was still going to cost him ten bucks. Cashless, he offered to pay for a sixth of our oil change, which the Penzoil man agreed to, and, voila: some weird, three person pseudo-barter was enacted. It was like Burning Man, except there were no hairy armpitted womyn on mushrooms. <br /><br />While we were testing the principles of a trade-based economy, we also have noticed the <i>real</i> economy is a clusterfuck of colossal proportions. Yes, yes: bad shit and heaps of it. The whole situation is unraveling so fast that we, men without newspapers, internet, or a coherent idea of which weekday it is, have been left behind. I'm so incredibly ignorant of how all this works that I'll refrain from analysis: just hope everyone out there is keeping their head up and investing in the only tried and true commodity left on the planet: Birdmonster t-shirts. Stockpile them while you can.<br /><br />Right now, the South's unfolding into a kudzu-choked straight-away outside of Louisiana. The old-man beards of Spanish moss are fading behind us and New Orleans, in all it's culinary and musical splendor awaits us. I was lucky enough to visit this singular city before Katrina with my girl on what I used to call a "vacation" and now call a "ludicrous pipe dream" and it was one of the best trips I'd ever taken: all beignets and shellfish and alligator tours lead by toothless swamp men with half-fingers, courtesy of the aforesaid reptiles, men apparently ignorant of the lessons of the grown-up man-boys Peter Pan and Happy Gillmore. By which I mean the lessons of Captain Hook and Chubbs. By which I mean: dude was chewed up. I'm really curious to see how the city is <i>now</i>. The band visited back a year or two ago, in the fairly recent aftermath of that destructive hurricane (our hotel still had the entire bottom floor closed due to mildew from flooding) and, as has been reported many times (in many waaaaaays) the city was uncharacteristically somber; slower. Quieter. It's a beautiful, unique, singular city---in fact, the only city which smells so much of rum and upchucked rum that you <i>could</i> call beautiful. No offense Isla Vista and Chico: y'all are ugly. I'm optimistic; I've heard I have every right to be.<br /><br />Speaking of optimism, I had little of it heading into Orlando. If I associate a city with a mouse and a duck with no pants, a creative yet horrible despot, and general humid mugginess, I tend to approach with caution. But you know what? Shut my mouth. Orlando was great. The club was a little leaky and there were no drink tickets (a veritable sin of omission), but the crowd was great, and, well, sometimes places just surprise you. Orlando was one of those. Hats off to that.<br /><br />But man, oh man, does it rain in Florida. They've got these things they call "white outs," where the rain comes with such force that you can literally not see through it. And since it's humid as all get out and up in the high 80s, getting across the parking lot to your car is like taking a shower with your shoes on then stepping into a sauna. In other words: unpleasant. <br /><br />Alright. The Gunslinger book I'm reading is demanding my attention. Be still, my pet. I'm coming.birdmonsterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00560131339229703552noreply@blogger.com1