The Slow and Painful Demise of Aerosmith?

It’s an unwritten rule that rock bands that are destined to withstand the test of time have certain elements:

1. a curious bromance between the singer and lead guitarist
(examples include, but are not limited to, Page & Plant and Bono & Edge)
*Bonus points are awarded if this bromance is highly volatile
(example:  Eddie Van Halen & David Lee Roth)

2. a eccentric front man
*Bonus points are awarded if the front man is known more for his stage presence than his actual voice

3. a cult-like following
*Bonus points are awarded if the following actually has a name

Indeed, Aerosmith fits these qualifications:

1. Joe Perry and Steven Tyler have a bromance tight enough to earn them the moniker The Toxic Twins.
*Volatility Bonus Points: not only because Joe Perry left the band in 1979, but because Perry’s first wife was the group’s very own Yoko Ono, thus creating further volatility.

 

2. Steven Tyler’s mouth makes him physically eccentric, but his inability to speak without both including a sexual innuendo and doing his own “la-ga-ga-ga-GOW!” version of a beat-box are contributing eccentricity factors as well.
*Stage Presence Bonus Points: because Leopard-Clad One is hailed as the Deamon of Screamin’…..not of Singin’.

3. If Aeroforce One (bonus points) isn’t enough of a cult-like following, then Wayne & Garth’s perpetual Aero-worship ought to do it.

Although it’s been in the tabloids for months now, and even the last issue of Rolling Stone includes an article on the band’s slow and painful demise, Aerosmith will prevail.  Steven will drape his mic stand in elaborate scarves, chase after young women, and film a reality show with Dr. Drew in between tours.  Joe will always test the limits of acceptable taste, rocking leather pants that leave less to the imagination than Steve Perry’s jeans did two decades ago...and we'll still find it oddly attractive.  Tom Hamilton’s hair will remain long and blond, failing to turn grey, perplexing beauticians and scientists for years to come.  Brad Whitford will forever look disproportionately older than the rest of the band, and Joey Kramer will continue to channel Matt Sorum for his “modern look”.  Yes, Aerosmith will prevail.

But that’s not to say it will happen without rehab.

To that end, I offer up a remix of 1994’s Cryin’.  My vision for what Steven would be singing were he to write his magnum opus in 2009.


Cryin’ (a remix, by Erin)

There was a time
When I was so broken hearted
Joe wasn’t much of a friend of mine
The tables have turned, yeah
‘Cause me and my band have parted
That kind of fall was the killin’ kind
Now listen!
All I want is a band called Aerosmith
I know all I need to know by the way that I got dissed

I was cryin’ when I read it
Now I’m tryin’ to forget it
Tabloids are sweet misery
I was cryin’ ‘cause I fell down
Now I’m dyin’ ‘cause I’m let down
Look what it's doin’ to me

Now there’s not even a phone call
Between old Toxic Twins
Yeah I’m back to my old habits
Must repent for my sins

It’s hard for me
Yeah I got to tell you one thing
You’ve been on my mind
Joe I gotta say
We’re partners in crime
We got that certain something
Your big Les Paul
Takes my breath away
Now the word out on the street:
A new singer’s on your list
If our band goes up in flames
It’s a fire I can’t resist

I was cryin’ when I mainlined
Will I live through it this time?
Needles are sweet misery
I’m still cryin’ for an embrace
It’s me you’re tryin’ to replace
Look what it's doin’ to me


I politely suggest Hazelden, Mr. Tyler.   Minnesota welcomes you.  (Again.)

Snow Day

If there was ever a day to celebrate Jeremy Messersmith, today is it.  Not only was our very own local indie rocker named to the 2010 bill for SXSW this week, but 2006’s Alcatraz Kid takes a step into a winter land of whimsy with Snow Day:

Act your age
Don't squirm around
Okay?
Get on the bus and someday
You'll be a scientist
Our little scientist

I want a snow day
Hope for snow to run in and play
Too much to ask for happiness
In little white packages

Comb your hair
Button your shirt
Don't swear
Brush all your teeth
And floss
At regular intervals
Regular intervals

Let me begin by saying that I’ve long regarded Dan Wilson as one of the most brilliant and gifted men to have ever graced our planet, let alone our fine state.  If Dan told me to jump, I’d first ask if he meant for me to jump à la Van Halen or Kriss Kross, and then I’d throw in the jumping off a bridge piece all on my own just to show my reverence for his genius.  That said, as soon as Dan touted Jeremy Messersmith as "one of the Twin Cities’ best new songwriters”, I was IN, and I’ve been hooked ever since. 

Why?  Well, JM’s music is a like a pair of Cuddle Duds for the Twin Cities: warming our hearts while simultaneously being a practical investment for any Minnesotan.  Alcatraz Kid (2006) and The Silver City (2009) should be staples in everyone’s musical wardrobe.

All the hipsters out there would probably claim that JM’s true genius lies in his old school hipster glasses, but outside of The Cedar, where Hipsterdom rules, it’s a bit deeper than that.  (Rivers Cuomo’s genius, on the other hand, may, in fact, lie in his geek rock specs.)

Novocain was the first JM song I heard, with others to follow shortly.  My immediate reaction was to wonder how someone could have a vibe similar to that of Elliott Smith, but create the exact opposite effect.  JM’s songs don’t make you want to kill yourself; they make you happy to be alive.  Whether he’s writing about unrequited love in songs like Beautiful Children or the joy of being a kid in Snow Day, JM’s songwriting is stripped down and honest.  He’s not afraid to shy away from the VCVCBCC staple and tell simple stories with light melodies, reaching everyone who has ever had those same feelings. 

JM could actually be the solo-artist Beach Boy of our time.  Every dang Beach Boys tune drops about a million references to the carefree fun of So Cal, making everyone from Minnesota jealously wonder, “Where the hell are these places?  Aren’t we equally as awesome?  When will someone write about places we know?”  In walks Jeremy Messersmith. 

We now have an artist celebrating who we are and what we’re about—and doing it in a way that completely surpasses Annoyingly Obvious and reaches the heights of Heartwarmingly True.  Check out songs like Skyway, Light Rail, and Franklin Avenue, sing along, and as the song fades, shout out, “Take that, Mulholland Drive!”

And while shoveling this week, try shying away from cursing the white shroud in a litany of 4-letter words and instead embrace it as “happiness in little white packages”.

Evil & Genius

I’ve had an interesting 24 hours.

Last night I tried lutefisk for the first time, and today I saw Flea play live. 

Clearly, lutefisk doesn’t have anything to do with music, but it was because of lutefisk that I saw my life flash before my eyes, giving me a genuine fear that I was about to drop dead at the feet of the crazy Swedes chowing it down, never to experience live music again. 

I’d like to say that trying it was a dare and I now have a large sum of money as a result, but that wouldn’t be true.  I’d like to say the gelatinous goo-drenched substance was forced down my throat by a half-Sasquatch half-Nessie creature with the ‘roided-out strength of the entire Yankee lineup, but it was actually sheer curiosity that did it.

No one has ever been able to accurately describe lutefisk to me, but I find it quite easy:  Lutefisk tastes like evil.  If Scott Stapp and Chad Kroeger put out an album of duets, and then that album was made into a food, it would taste like lutefisk.  Does that clarify?

In the end, it was my insatiable, burning desire to see Jimmy Page play live that gave me the willpower to survive my brush with death and carry on to today.

I like to pretend that because I grew up in River Falls, WI, the same metro-area town as Flea’s wife, that I have some sort of cosmic connection with him.  I also like to pretend the same thing about Anthony Keidis simply because we have the same birthday.  Pretending is fun, isn’t it?

No, wait….  If I’m using that line of logic, I also have a cosmic connection with Larry Flynt.  Pretending has ceased to be fun.

Fortunately (or unfortunately?) I didn’t get the chance to discuss the crazy ways of the cosmos with Flea.  I made the trek to the Burnsville Schmitt Music this afternoon, hoping to get an old RHCP ticket stub signed at Flea’s promotional autograph signing, but no such luck.  The luck actually got better.

The managerial powers that be tried to turn everyone in line away by saying that we could never make it to the front by the time Flea had to be hurriedly whisked away to the airport.  Some left, some stayed. 

At about 3:15—the signing was supposed to be done by 4:00—the remaining faithful were quickly rushed into the store with the announcement that there were to be no more autographs, but that Flea was going to play.

JACKPOT!

He picked up a bass from his own Flea Bass line and went to town on that thing like a white girl on an NBA player!  He started with a slow, more melodic line of improvisation, but about five minutes in, he switched to the hard and fast lines of bass-driven funk that we all know and love.  Hard as I tried, I could not help but see Paul Rudd and Jason Segal standing Flea-side, “slappin’ da bass”. 

The crowd was small and intimate, and all eyes were fixated on the tiny flannel-clad genius in front of us. There was nothing to do but stand back in total awe and let the magic happen.  A true bass virtuoso of our time.

Before Flea rushed out of the store, half an hour before scheduled departure, he took the time to thank us, shake hands with a genuine smile, and tell us to stay warm.  Thanks, man.

Pure evil and pure genius in the same 24-hour time span.  Life is good.

Musicapolis

“You’re from Minneapolis? Right on. I hear there’s a great music scene there.”

If you’re into music, and if you travel at all, this is undoubtedly something you’ve heard while away from Home Sweet Frozen Tundra. I sure have, and it simultaneously gives me a warm fuzzy feeling and a smug little smirk of arrogance that I try in vain to disguise as hometown pride. It’s possible the look I’m going for bypasses both pride and arrogance and goes straight to pity for the poor chap on the receiving end who is not from MSP.

How did we achieve this reputation and join in the ranks of the Music Elite?

Did we pay off Clear Channel and wedge our way into the payola system in return for positive press leaked out via subliminal messages on the airwaves? Doubtful. If we can’t even afford to support public education (thank you, Mr. Pawlenty), then we probably don’t have enough to engage in an illicit affair with Clear Channel.

Are we still riding the wave of one Robert Zimmerman’s success with a decent segment of the American population knowing he was “from somewhere out in Minnesota”? Nope, that’s not enough. Especially considering many of Robert’s long-time followers are too permanently stoned to spread the Good Word in Musicdom.

Is it because Americans arrived in droves—airplanes, cars, buses, purple motorcycles, even!—in 1984 to purify themselves in the waters of Lake Minnetonka? A lovely image of mass cleanliness, but again, the answer is no.

Then what, pray tell, is it?!? How did we get here?

It’s cultivating a Twin City-wide sense of culture and the arts. It’s knowing that on any given night of the week there is great live music right down the street. It’s producing and celebrating artists who create music, not just the next pop phenomenon marketed to over-sexed adolescents who will hear it approximately every third song on their local soul-less radio station. Let it be noted that this same crowd then puts said song on its collective iPod to listen to while working out—you know, just in case they didn’t hear enough Lady Gaga that day.

In short, the answer is this: The Twin Cities have proven themselves to be greater than the sum of their musical parts.

It is this “whole is greater than the sum” that creates the vibe and scene that this blog celebrates.

Musicapolis. Hell, yeah.