Weekend o' Awesome, Night 1: Sound City Movie at the Lagoon

Thursday-Saturday, there were three SOLD OUT shows in Minneapolis, and I had tickets to all of them....which totally makes up for not being able to get Prince tickets two weeks ago!*

 Night #1 was Sound City Movie at the Lagoon.

Dave Grohl has, over the years, proven himself to be the King of Wit Rock.  His who-the-hell-cares brand of self-satire (see: Foos' Learn To Fly video) is every bit as clever as Timberlake's on SNL, and we saw more of that early this directorial debut as Dave pokes fun at his own perceived lack of intelligence while talking to the creator of Sound City's famed Neve console, Rupert Neve:

"I think he knows I'm a high school drop out...." reads the screen as Grohl smiles politely and nods his head in clueless agreement with Neve.

As the show went on,  I sat with buttery, popcorn hands thinking how lucky I was to expand my music history knowledge in a significant way.  Should I have brought a notepad, I wondered?  I thought I was simply going to learn the history of a renowned recording studio where multi-platinum classic albums were recorded, but it was so much more than a Dewey Finn Rock 101 lesson.  In fact, it could've inspired a whole new School of Rock course in and of itself--It's Complicated: the relationship between technology and rock music.

Sound City Movie takes a hard look at analog recording and its demise, owed in large part to the advent of digital recording techniques in the 1980s.  As one Sound City Movie interviewee put it, digital techniques "allow people who have no business being in the music business to cut records and become huge stars".  Analog recording does not--and cannot--hide the imperfections.  This spawns two important outcomes:
1.  artists are forced to be good at what they do because repeated wrong notes and irreparable sloppiness can't be hidden
2.  the sound and artistic products are richer for both the experience that analog recording demands and for the minor imperfections one hears from time to time (ie: the human element)

This film became a story of the interconnectedness and shared passion that went into making music from a place where you had to be talented at your craft instead of relying on machines.  Sound City studio was a place of warmth, as Tom Petty said, and it was pivotal in creating music that was warm as well, music that had a soul and bared it.  That precise sentiment was echoed again and again during interviews with artists like Stevie Nicks, Rick Springfield, Lindsey Buckingham, Trent Reznor and (a very tan) Rick Rubin.

As a huge fan of last year's Best Rock Album Grammy winner, the Foo Fighters' Wasting Light, I knew that analog recording techniques were a significant part of the theory and the process that went into that album. After this film, I became an even bigger fan of Butch Vig for daring to go there as a producer using the Neve, both with Nevermind and with Wasting Light. 

When Sound City closed, Grohl purchased the Neve console for himself, disassembled it and had it installed in his own recording studio at his home....which led to the star-filled jam sessions that closed out Sound City Movie.  Seeing Paul McCartney rock out with the three surviving members of Nirvana was nothing short of a magical look inside what working with such a influential legend does to an artist:

Pat Smear: "God, why can't it always be that easy?"
McCartney, ever-so-chill: "But it is!"

I lost track of how many times I caught myself with a dorky, ear-to-ear grin during Sound City Movie at the Lagoon, though I think it had to have been at least equal to the number of audible sighs and semi-inappropriate (in public, anyway) moans I heard from women's voices throughout the theater ogling the splendor of sheer rock and directorial sublimity that is Dave Grohl. 

Let it be known that one friend even coined the word "Grohlgasm" as a result of Thursday night.   Go ahead and use it in a sentence today--this one could go viral.


-E


*Total lie. 

Aid Stations: The Case for Shitty Pop

One of my best friends is an ultrarunner.  As in, a marathon is a just a lil' warm-up for this man.

A couple weeks ago my relationship was in a flat spin that proved unrecoverable, and during this time, I of course leaned on friends for support.  Some readily hurled insults about my former significant other, while others focused their efforts on pumping me up with all sorts of praise (true and "iffy") to my character.  Both of these are fairly standard post-break-up methods used to cheer up friends, and over the years, I have certainly engaged in both as a friend myself.

This time, however, my UltraMan offered up something completely new in this situation:

...something that blew my mind....

...something that I initially rejected, thinking he had gone certifiably insane....

He offered up POP MUSIC.  More specifically, the worst kind of pop music you could imagine:  Britney Spears, Carly Rae Jepsen....the list goes on.

I felt the chunks start to rise from my belly, totally disgusted by what he was proposing, but more than that, disgusted that he would think I'd go for it, girl with refined music taste that I so arrogantly claim to be.  But then something gave me pause.

Maybe I should listen to him.  Maybe I should be less Ms. Rock Chick and more Open-Minded Musichead.  Maybe I shouldn't drown myself in Radiohead's "Black Star" this time, and instead look for something different.  But pop music?  Shitty pop music?  Oh, brother...

I reluctantly allowed him to continue.

He compared my state to a 100-mile race.  He explained how, just as in life, there are times during an ultra race where you feel worse than you've ever felt before.  Times when you want to give up.  Times when you can't envision yourself going even one step further.  But, he countered, it's all about getting to the next Aid Station.  Once you get there, all of a sudden you feel better than ever, and you have renewed energy to keep going.

That made sense to me.  But what, I thought, does that have to do with pop music?

UltraMan went on to explain that KDWB-style pop is the best music for running.  Upon the onslaught of argumentation, he cut me off, fully anticipating and squashing my adolescent fit.  He explained that Shitty Pop is perfect to run to--and to listen to when you just don't think things can get worse--because there is rarely, if ever, any emotional attachment to it.  The beat is typically strong (as evidence, we've all caught ourselves rocking out to Taio Cruz's "Dynamite", have we not?), and the lyrics are often so ridiculous that there's absolutely nothing we can do but smile, laugh and keep on going.

Smile, laugh and keep on going.  Strangely poignant.

Unlike our favorite songs--the songs that spur something deep inside, that remind us of another place, another time--Shitty Pop can and does offer a way out of emotion.  Shitty Pop's beat keeps our feet (and hearts) moving forward, because there's little that looking backward can do for us.  To start, UltraMan gave me "22" by Taylor Swift:

Unlike our favorite songs, Shitty Pop can't mess with our heads because there's no emotion attached to it.  (Some might argue that there was no emotion even going into the making of it, but that's neither here nor there.)  I was then prescribed "This Kiss" by Carly Rae Jepsen:

Unlike our favorite songs, Shitty Pop isn't attached to anyone we know (because we never listen to it!), so it allows our minds to be free and clear of the drama that comes along with "Oh, this song reminds me of so-and-so because we listened to it together during such-and-such".  And of course Britney's "'Til The World Ends" was forced upon me:

Somehow, it made sense.  I got it.  I started to listen, and as soon as I began sharing the merits of this theory with others, the recommendations came flying in.

"Oh, you have to listen to 'Good Life' by One Republic!"

"Ke$ha's 'Die Young' has a good beat and would qualify here!"

"Check out Flo Rida's 'Whistle' 'cause it's catchy, but 'I Cry' will make you want to dance!"

Now, all of this is not to say that I'm ready to surrender my vinyl collection, nor that I'll start exclusively listening to Clear Channel-fueled radio.  Not by any means.  Rather, this marks an important step in my education.  Musically, it's about swallowing some pride (and maybe a little self-respect, at times) and letting new music in.  Friendship-wise, it's about remembering that there's not much better than having your grown man UltraFriend queue up this teenybopper hit and give you his own Grammy-tastic rendition in the car:

So, somewhere in this process of putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward does Shitty Pop become actual good music?  I guess that's up to the listener.

For this girl, Shitty Pop is serving a purpose: getting me to the next Aid Station.

Jane's to Slash

When someone shoots a "brick" in basketball, it's not a good thing.  The shot goes up, ricochets off the backboard without a prayer of falling in and all-in-all just isn't pretty.  I can't help but make the comparison to Minneapolis' own The Brick.  It seems like the owners were wide open when they took this shot--they had a great location, booked huge acts on a small stage, and opened with great fanfare--yet they were so far off the mark in the execution, that we're left to wonder if they were simply an overrated player in the downtown club game.

As a gesture of goodwill, the Brick "refunded" my Jane's Addiction experience with two comp tickets to the Slash show, and although hesitant to spend more time at a place that seemed to suck the soul out of music itself, I dealt with it to see Slash.  (Furthermore, I had seen Meshuggah at First Ave the night before, and I felt as though I needed musical balance in a way that only a Guitar God could deliver.)

Myles Kennedy has a good gig.  The man left Creed Sans Stapp and found a musical home with Slash.  (Talk about rags to riches!)  Is he the best singer there ever was?  No.  But three truths remain:
1.  He can hit the notes needed to cover the biggies in Slash's hit-ridden catalog.
2.  He is a decent enough front man and vocalist.
3.  Most importantly, he is never going to leave Slash.  For literally decades now, Slash has been the object of Steven Tyler's ridicule with Tyler asking him every time they meet, "Dude, where's your singer?"  For once, Slash doesn't have to reply "Off the deep end" or "In rehab".  Kennedy, to his credit, appears to be smart enough and sober enough to keep it that way.

Of course "Slash featuring Myles Kennedy & The Conspirators" were touring to gain support for their soon-to-be-released "Apocolyptic Love", so it was to be expected that solo work was going to be showcased.  "Starlight" got the crowd going, but I found it sub par and, quite frankly, a boring song to simply smile politely to.  When bassist Todd Kerns got up to rock the mic, however, the crowd went NUTS!  Kerns' voice was less tinny than Kennedy's, and he had what it took to tear the crowd away from their cell phones and back to the stage.  Well done, Todd Kerns.  Impressive!  When do we get to hear you again?

To keep fans happy, of course Slash & Co. had to play some classic GnR.  (Is it technically a cover if you're covering a band you were in???)  "Night Train" had everyone singing along but seemed a bit lackluster, and "Mr. Brownstone" picked things up in a way that only a heroin-fueled song can.  My personal favorite was "Sweet Child O' Mine", with the classic intro that Total Guitar named the #1 Greatest Guitar Riff, and though "Paradise City" rocked hard, it was upstaged by Slash's intensely ripped bare chest.....I didn't exactly mind.

No doubt fewer in number than GnR fans, there were undoubtedly Velvet Revolver devotees in attendance at the Brick as well.  "Slither" was one of the best songs of the night with Slash, Myles and the Conspirators actually reaching the level of true raw rock that VR gave to that track.  Conversely, if you're going to play something as blatently Weiland as "Fall To Pieces", why not just go ahead and cover "Mary Mary" off Libertad?  Or, better yet, let's put Kennedy in front of a grand piano with a Liberace-esque candelabra on it and make him belt out "November Rain"?  To whomever wrote the final set list:  "Fall To Pieces" was a poor choice.  "Do It For The Kids" would've been better.

While it's true that Slash's current line-up can't compete with his past bands, I think it's fair to say that Slash doesn't give a fuck....nor should we.  Watching Slash play reminds me of a line from With Honors:  "Winners forget they're in a race; they just love to run."  Slash clearly has no concept of being in a hit-making race--he just loves to play guitar.  The guy seems to want to surround himself with people with whom he can write songs, take risks, make music, tour and play guitar....and that's enough for him.  He can walk to the front of the stage, rest his propped up Gibson on his knee and showcase his skills with a "take it or leave it, but I'm just gonna play" attitude.  He doesn't create attention-seeking scenes at the mic, nor does he gyrate his body and contort his face in full theatrical rock god style.  The man just plays, hitting every note with equal parts force and grace.  This is not a problem--this is a gift.

All in all, it wasn't the overweight and under-attractive couple making out next to me the whole time nor was it the unspoken discontent in the crowd that Slash is no longer making sweet sweet musical love with Axl Rose that bothered me Monday night....it was the $3 that the Brick charges for water.

Nevermind the Appetite.

(Let it be known that, for purposes of this blog post, the current Guns n' Roses lineup will only be referred to as "Guns n' Roses" or "GnR".  The use of quotations around that band, as it currently stands, is arguably the most appropriate use of quotations that ever was.)

The course of true lithium use never did run smooth.

As a kid, I distinctly remember two times where I knew that music was evolving; where I knew that the landscape of music history was being forever changed before my youthful eyes:

The first time was when Guns n' Roses exploded on the scene with Appetite for Destruction in 1987.  I was in second grade when I realized my sweet Bret Michaels was getting blown out of the water by these unapologetic miscreants.  Music suddenly got more raw and distinctly more real.   These guys didn't try to hide who they were behind the fashionable façade of Aquanet and Androgyny.  They were in-your-face, hotel-room-trashing bad-asses, and they didn't give a flying-V that they weren't as pretty as Jon Bon Jovi.  They seemed so untidy, yet played so tight.  As a young musicophile, GnR were my gateway drug:  they got me musically curious.

The second time I knew music would never be the same was a mere four years later, when Nirvana released Nevermind in 1991.  When the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video was released on MTV........(moment of silence for the death of a formerly great channel, please)......I had that same "Something big is happening" feeling.  As a then slightly older, though still naïve rock chicklette, I moved on to guitar-based rock as my heroin.  Incidentally, 4 out of 5 doctors agree that aural mainlining is perfectly safe. (That fifth doctor must be a Nickelback fan in recovery or something.)

GnR were the bridge between the unfiltered rock of the 70s and open angst of the 90s.  Without Appetite for Destruction, I'm not convinced Nevermind could have existed, or at least not in the same way.  Both bands triumphed something that had long been missing in music: the idea that who you actually were was okay.  GnR were beyond unwashed--and the girls loved it.  Kurt Cobain was depressed--and it gave teenagers something to relate to. 

This is why I found it so fitting that I attended my first "GnR" show the year of Nevermind's 20th anniversary.  These guys didn't try to be something they weren't--something the 80s demanded of you--and it worked. I place the emphasis there on the past tense: worked.  What Axl is doing now with his current lineup of "GnR" is, most decidedly, not working for me.  Kudos to Dave Grohl for understanding that what is lost cannot be resurrected, you can only start anew.  Axl has yet to learn that lesson.

"GnR" performed last night at Target Center, and as "GnR", I would give the show a 'C', but if Axl hadn't been trying to be something he's not (perhaps by calling this new band something other than "GnR") it could have easily attained an 'A-'.  

BAND LINEUP

grade of A-:  Tommy Stinson!

Although I wish Axl would given props to our frozen homeland as a breeding ground for talent, I was pleased to see Tommy Stinson (formerly of The Replacements) as his long-time bassist.  Even better, Tommy got his time to shine singing lead on a cover of the Who's "My Generation".

grade of C:  THREE guitarists do not equal ONE Slash/Izzy combo

On the one hand, I pity anyone playing guitar alongside Axl Rose.  It might just be the second-worst job in modern music; the first, of course, is being the lead singer in Van Halen.  Who can survive either?  That said, the current guitarists can deliver technically accurate solos but the classic GnR's melodic smoothness of touch wasn't there.  The guitar feel last night had a metallic edge, a step further away from hard rock, just as the step from Adler to Sorum was.

WHAT'S NEW
grade of A-:  Chinese Democracy
It maybe wasn't worth the wait (or the weight) for its release, but damn, Chinese Democracy is a good rock album!  Axl did not disappoint on this one.  Plus, now we can replace sayings like, "You're so slow we're going to have to time you with a calendar" with "Chinese Democracy moved faster than you!"  It's good to change up the old standards from time to time.
grade of C:  stage show
What's with all the theatrics?  The pyros were nearing the magnitude of a Kiss show, and it was out of place.  The real GnR didn't need all of those, and they sure didn't need the floor to vomit confetti into the air at the end of the show.


WHAT'S OLD
grade of A-:  The Raunch Factor
Women throwing their bras on stage.....women making out in the front row and getting on the big screen....Axl's in-your-face persona with spot-on screams into the big red mic.....CLASSIC.  Way to go Axl, you still got it.
grade of C:  Faux (Foe?) Slash soloing up front
Let's get something straight, D.J. Ashba: YOU.  ARE.  NOT.  SLASH.  I don't care how many dumpy, top hat/fedora cross-breed hats you own or how often you solo with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth like during "You Could Be Mine".  YOU.  ARE.  NOT.  SLASH.  

SONG CHOICE

grade of A-:  Set list

As promised by others in the blogosphere, the set list was all over the board, dishing out a healthy helping of Democracy while at the same time including all of the classics that benchmark our youth.  I got a little choked up thinking of Shannon Hoon's hauntingly beautiful background vocals during "Don't Cry", and when "Welcome To The Jungle" was the second song out, I knew a long night of rock was in store.

grade of C:  Attention to detail

Since when is it necessary, okay or even preferred to speed up tempo on "November Rain"?  Hell, it should almost be downright illegal!  (Which, I suppose, would only further entice Axl to do it, so scratch that.)  And where was the hip sway when we all needed it during "Patience"?  

By any other name, I wouldn't have been as critical, but when you call yourselves "GnR", well, there's a certain level of hope and expectation set by everyone coming to see you.  Expectation is the very thing that kept me from full-on loving the show, free from nostalgia, and expectation brought on by fame is the very thing that your counterpart in my musical upbringing, Kurt Cobain, couldn't handle.

Sadly, and coincidentally, both stories have ended with one Gun left in the room.  

-E

Cage The Elephant: Yes, please. Cage it. Forever.

There ain't no rest for wicked?  Well, that might be true--who knows?  Satan may very well have rested on the seventh day too.  One thing I know for certain to be true is that there ain't no rest for those forced to listen to the mindless, juvenile clamorings of Cage The Elephant.

Everyone knows (and Paris Hilton capitalized on the fact) that with the right producer and the right money backing you, anyone can be made to sound decent.  Hell, almost anyone can be made to sound good.  And if you're Anthony Keidis, your lisp can even be magically digitalized away.  A true test of a band's prowess, or lack thereof, can only be seen at their live shows.  A good band will sound, at the very least, equally as good as they sound recorded with little-to-no "what the hell was that?" surprises.  A great band will, at the very least, blow it's recorded self out of the water, causing fans to re-think spending their hard earned cash on basic needs like food and shelter and instead spend it on a fan club membership for the sole purpose of getting pre-sale tickets to the latest tour.

(Note:  I fully realize that CTE is getting good reviews all over the music community, but by this point, I'm in too deep.  I already made an indirect comparison to Paris Hilton, so I have to keep on with my assault against mediocrity.)

My first through third run-ins with Cage the Elephant's live show came this past fall when they opened for Stone Temple Pilots in Saint Paul, Chicago, and Cleveland:

Saint Paul
As soon as CTE's stage was set up, I knew there was going to be a problem: I expected to see a logo or maybe even an elephant on their bass drum, but I didn't.  Instead, I saw a panda.  Not the cute, furry variety, mind you, but a bloody panda, gnawing on another unfortunate mammal with blood running out of it.  Classy.  Ironically, said panda was sitting amongst bamboo, so there was really no need for such violence and gore -- the bamboo would've happily conceded and no blood needed to be shed.  At this point, I'm thinking that any band that puts a bloody mess of a fine creature on their bass drum has a tuning key loose.

Realistically, that's just cosmetic, so I hoped that the band would deliver something of more substance.  I'd heard a lot about them, so I wanted to give the benefit of the bass drum doubt.

From the moment they started in on their first song I knew I was in for a long set, and a long set in Chicago and Cleveland too, for that matter.  Their frontman (I refuse to call him a singer, for the fact that his vocal talent matches that of the Atlanta Real Housewife who is "working on her singing career"), Matt Schultz, came out with one goal: to assault our ears.  And it worked!  Congratulations, Matt!  In one song you managed to make me believe your poignant lyric "The crowd will only like me if they're really fuckin' drunk".  The problem is that I did not do my homework and learn their lyrics before the show.  If I had, I would've shown up drunk and hopeful, but alas, I was sober and irritated.


As the set went on, Matt seemed intent on convincing the crowd that he was less of a singer (which I already believed) and more of a medical marvel.  How he could seizure his way across the stage and remain standing was truly a miracle.  Halleluiah!  (hands raise, eyes close)  

It wasn't until 3/4 of the way through their set that they came through with their big single "Ain't No Rest For the Wicked".  I had hope!  Maybe they could nail their single!  Thirty seconds in and I realized that Matt had less chance of nailing the notes of his single than he had of nailing me or my friend post-show.  He has no range, sings less than he simply "talks", and he is constantly wheezing his inhales into the mic, no doubt from exhaustion of convulsing around the stage.

Chicago
I truly did step into this show with an open mind and open ears.  This time I was front row, center, instead of front right, so maybe it was a whole different experience a dozen people to the left.  I was hoping so, anyway.

Hope, I learned, is a fickle, fickle thing.

This time, I had a choice: I could stand there and take it, or I could try to make an enjoyable 45 minutes of it.  I chose the latter, making a lovely game of "Lyrics and Sarcasm".  It's an easy enough game, and anyone can play.  You simply listen intently to every word you hear, and make sarcastic comments back to the "singer"/convulser/stage idiot.

Here are a few CTE examples:

They say that we ain't got the style, we ain't got the class
We ain't got the tunes that's goin' to put us on the map
"They" are right as far as lacking style and class go, but I DO feel like I'm meeting you on some kind of map....the Road to Hell?

Rock and roll is dead, I probably should've stayed in school
Ahhh....a self-aware man-child!  You just won yourself a point with me!

They say the devil is my pal, I do a lotta drugs
Really?  I wouldn't have guessed.  You seem so salt-of-the-earth. 

The stunt that really cinched the Chicago show for me though was Brad Schultz, the guitarist.  Nearing the end of their set, Brad was having technical difficulties (which actually livened things up!) and was messing around with his equipment.  After a couple meager attempts to rectify the situation, it culminated in the rockest of wanna-be rocker moves: he took off his guitar, held it high above his head, and BAM!  Down it came!  The crowd goes wild!  The cliché is complete!  No one appeared to have told him that the guitar smashing period is long gone, nor that watching someone who looks like an 18 year-old pretending to be a rock star isn't nearly as fulfilling as watching actual, bona fide rock stars.  Enter: Stone Temple Pilots.

Cleveland
By this point, I can't take it any more.  I can't play the game, and I can't listen.  I'm ready to go backstage, wrestle the prescription painkillers out of Scott Weiland's veinless hand, stuff them in my mouth and wash them down with Jack Daniels.  Anything to put me out of my misery.


And now, with the newest CTE singles overtaking the airwaves, I look to find escape.  Please, dear radio, let me out of this hell of dying pandas bleeding their way through my daily nightmare!  I look to find sanctuary and solace in the most logical place possible, in the one place where Payola has no power and musical intellect and taste reigns supreme:  The Current.

Then Mary Lucia says she likes them.  Fuck.

I immediately make the executive decision to tune in to Mark Wheat more often.  I bet he thinks they're "wankers" with a "ghastly" sound.  Please Mark, give me hope.

Stone Temple Pilots

I've now had three weeks to soak in the beautiful goodness that is Stone Temple Pilots.  Three weeks to pick it apart, to compare it to albums past, and to spend long hours in a blissful haze created by the DeLeo brothers.

"Between The Lines" - The first STP single since 2001 hits hard, proving that the band hasn't lost a step since its Core heyday, but don't bother with the studio record--skip right to track 16, the live from Chicago version.  It's far superior.  And what would an STP album be without the obligatory Ode to Mary Weiland--I like it when we talk about love/I like it when we talk about love/You always were my favorite drug/Even when we used to take drugs. 


"Take A Load Off" - Though the entire album has repetitive choruses running throughout, this is the song where it is least effective.  Once "Between The Lines" brings you up, "Take A Load Off" can't sustain the high.

"Huckleberry Crumble" - A re-vamped and modernized nod to Aerosmith's "Same Old Song And Dance", "Huckleberry Crumble" is easily in my top 3 songs on the album with it's bluesy jive and swagger.


"Hickory Dichotomy" - My vote for a radio single.  Track 15, the live from Chicago version, is arguably the best song on the album for the sheer fact that this song takes Scott's lanky gyrating and translates it to a great little swinging rock song.  My advice: listen to it LOUD.  Dance.  Rock out.

"Dare If You Dare" -  Good, nonsensical verses.  (I predict a Michael Stipe lyrics-on-the-music-stand set up coming.)  Boring chorus.

"Cinnamon" -  Caught somewhere between bubble gum pop and something Lifehouse would write, "Cinnamon" is by far the biggest WTF?!?  on the album.  Hear me, can you hear me, Scott--what is this?!?  Hear me, can you hear me, DeLeos--how did this happen?!?

"Hazy Daze" -  The mid-album rock song. 

"Bagman" - STP's version of "Mr. Tambourine Man" with a Beatles flair.  Impossible to listen to this song without bopping your head and feeling happy for Scott's dealer, who has worked hard and fully merited this, his very own song.

"Peacoat" -  Mid-tempo tune with a solid mix of edgy and soft.

"Fast As I Can" - And it is fast.  It's at this point where you appreciate the variation of the songs on the album because not any two songs resemble each other.

"First Kiss On Mars" - If the first rule to writing an STP album is including a song about Mary, and the second rule is writing a song about drugs, then the third rule is undoubtedly including a nod to Bowie.  Everyone knows that Scott blatantly emulates the Androgynous One, but no one seems to care because he does it so well.  "First Kiss On Mars" is a laid-back song that makes you want to go out and buy a convertible just so you can crank it with the top down and drive across country.  Unlike "Cinnamon", this song knows how to sprinkle in the 60s influence and make it work in small doses.

"Maver" - I don't exactly know how Maver constitutes a name, but that's neither here nor there.  This is the perfect first song to break down acoustically for VH1 Storytellers:  Scott on a stool in center stage, snapping his fingers; Dean playing slowly and chomping on gum; and the girls in the crowd swaying slowly and mouthing the words.


All in all, 'Stone Temple Pilots' shows the band can simultaneously rock like they're touring Purple, remain relevant in 2010 and evolve musically.  The new licks and hooks are enough to keep old fans happy and keep new fans lining up at the shows.  And speaking of shows, I am now the proud owner of tickets to the STP shows in Saint Paul, Chicago and Cleveland, but as all good STP fans know, holding a ticket to anything Scott Weiland is attached to is a little risky.  Will he live to see the date of the show?  Will he be coherent?

We sure hope so because this album is worth living for.

The Bangles Rock the Fine Line

Susanna Hoffs is still hot.

Yup, I said it.  She’s hot.

That fact alone might explain the near capacity crowd at the Fine Line for the Bangles show last week.  Though I don’t think you can discount the people who don’t give a rat’s ass about Susanna but were hoping that her presence would lure Prince out of Paisley Park to make one of his elusive public appearances and lust after his former (not-so-eternal) flame.

Alas, Prince wasn’t at the show, but it seemed that just about every other Minneapolitan male was.  At first, I was dumbfounded.  What were all these men doing here?  Were they all dragged out by their significant others?  No, that couldn’t be because a. there appeared to be more men than women, and b. why would any woman do that?  It’d be far more fun to go with the girls.  Were the men all huge Bangles fans?  Didn’t seem likely.  I furrowed my brows, looked every male within eyesight up and down and ruminated on this during the down time between bands.  I even had a bartender tell me to loosen up and not look so serious.  After careful examination, it became clear, and the tension in my perplexed face gave way to a triumphant smile.  I found that the men in attendance all fell into one of three categories:

1.  The Lusters
This polo-clad group was comprised of 28-37 year-old males who all had crushes on Susanna Hoffs when they were little and who now wanted to know if they could still legitimately use her as fantasy material.  They found out they could!  Her hair wasn’t as big as it was in the 80s (a known aphrodisiac of the time), but she now had perfected the sort of hair flip with Bambi eyes peering out from underneath that could stop any rock-loving man dead in his tracks.

2. The Gay Men
Self-explanatory. (It should be noted that this group did include drag queens)

3. The Creepers
Basically, we’re talking 45-55 year-old men who fit the visual profile of sex offenders.  These men were all flying solo, talking to no one.  They stood there watching through their old school gold-rimmed glasses our fathers wore in 80s, not muttering so much as an “oh WAY oh” on “Walk Like An Egyptian”.  How could they?  They were too busy mentally undressing the women on stage.   

It seems clear that the Runaways have secured their places in rock history as the queens of rock’n’roll, but I would argue that the Bangles have climbed from the L.A. punk rock scene and safely earned the spot of rock’s rightful princesses.  Vicki Peterson (vocals/guitar), Debbi Peterson (vocals/drums) and Susanna Hoffs (vocals/guitar) still know how to put on a show that packs the Fine Line and has the audience actually digging the new songs instead of boasting the standard bored-to-tears faces of fans longing for nostalgia only. Not that there’s anything wrong with nostalgia, of course.  I’ll admit that’s why I went—to re-live the days when I didn’t know that she was late to work on Manic Monday because the night before she was…well…you know.

It was a solid choice to open with a hit single, "Hazy Shade of Winter", but smart to make it a cover, so as to get people revved up for the likes of "Manic Monday" (the third song in the set) and "Eternal Flame", which crept in mid-set.  It's a good bet that most of the audience was dying to hear "Walk Like An Egyptian", and when the Bangles brought out that classic for their first encore, the 80s vibe was so thick you could've sworn the Coreys were there!

As great as "Walk Like An Egyptian" was, and as much as I don't want to discredit its pop brilliance, it can't pass by without critique.  I'm sure I wasn't the only one there that night whose heart sank when the song finished with not so much as a hint of the whistling break-down mid-song nor the coo-coo-clock eyes that Susanna rocked in the video, giving every 80s boy a near heart attack and every girl a clear vision of what they wanted to be some day: the sultry sex kitten their father didn't want to let out of the house.

The Bangles have that certain je ne sais quoi that can bring together people as diverse as the Lusters, the Gays, the Creepers, the women, and the strangely gyrating couple in front of me who brought to mind the Chicken vs. Egg dilemma….only this time it was a question of what was moving what: was his wandering hand moving her butt or her squirmy rump moving his hand?   We will never know.

Happy Birthday 89.3!

If you can look beyond what can only be described as the giant clusterfuck that led up to The Current's birthday bash last Friday night (ie: server down, fast sell-out, and frostbitten fingers & toes from waiting in line for an eternity), you can see the show for what it was: a Minneapolitan masterpiece.

The Twilight Hours

You gotta love it when you can see a great local band twice in the span of two weeks.  Unfortunately, because of the ridiculous nature of the line, I spent The Twilight Hours' first song OUTSIDE of First Ave taking in the musical stylings of Dude on the Corner Singing About Jesus.  (Who, to be fair, I always find quite intriguing.  Annoying? Certainly, but intriguing all the same.  Who else makes up song lyrics as they go and believes in them so steadfastly?)  Having seen TTH three times now, I can say that "Queen of Tomorrow" has easily become my favorite song.  It has a certain "End of the World As We Know It" quality about it, but the tricky thing is that it lures you into thinking, "It's slower than 'End of the World As We Know It', so I'm sure I can sing along," and then BAM!  You're trapped in a Tommy Boy-esque scene of garbling your words and singing nothing that qualifies as actual English.   We all need these humbling experiences of inadequacy from time to time.  Thank you for that, John and Matt.

Lookbook

Always excited to hear bands I've never heard play live, I was drawn in by Lookbook's first song, hitting hard with that "make out song" quality that brings us all back to the wayward days of our youth.  (And wasn't that a great time when we had songs we'd just make out to?)  I was simultaneously perplexed by Grant and impressed by Maggie: Is his only job to run the drum machine?  Is his mic working?  Wow, her voice is incredibly commanding when backed by the subtle echo effect going on.  Once Grant got on the guitar it started making more sense, and the band was able to morph their sound from make out music to a Fame-inspired ditty that called for leotards and teased hair and ultimately ended with a song that left everyone wondering how we could have possibly left our glowsticks at home.  I could've done without Grant stripping down to the aqua tank, but wardrobe aside, I was impressed by their ability to experiment in a wide rage of feelings all while maintaining a solid level of cohesiveness and integrity to their sound.

Mason Jennings

As a Gustie grad, I have a special place in my heart for Mason Jennings.  It seemed like he played there at least once a year during my four years in Saint Peter, and every year--then 'til now--he's done nothing but expand and grow in popularity, thanks in large part to Jack Johnson.  With each artist only given sets of about half an hour, I wondered how he could possibly choose from his extensive catalog but was elated that he dug out "Be Here Now", a classic, for Friday night's long-time fans.  That said, I would like to impart an unpopular opinion….in the form of a criticism of Mason.   (Gasp!  Criticize Mason?!?!  Surely ye jest!)  I generally find myself listening to Mason and inwardly screaming for more--a crescendo here, a decrescendo there, anything but the typically flat range Mason appears to find comfort in and champion.  Once in a great while he'll start to rock out a little, with a little more drive and passion, and the crowd goes nuts.  Give us more of that, Mason! 

P.O.S.

I have now lost my P.O.S. virginity.  Sort of against my will, but still…  Rap isn't exactly what I'd call my preferred style, or anywhere in the top ten for that matter, but I held out and didn't retreat to the bathroom for the set.  I stood amidst the crowd and vowed to listen, like a good music-obsessed girl should.  P.O.S. knew how to work the lyrics like….well, like Live, actually.  Here me out:  You have to give a band like Live credit because never before in the history of music (and probably never again) will a band successfully write a hit single that includes the word placenta.  "How did they pull that off?  Will anyone ever achieve similar heights again?", we were all left to wonder.  Enter P.O.S.  My ears perked up and a smile spread across my face when I heard him equally as effectively use the word gingivitis.  Right on, P.O.S.  Right on.  You have earned my respect.

Solid Gold

With the live show that Solid Gold delivers, it's no wonder they're creating such a crazy buzz in the music community.  Solid Gold has an absolutely genius knack for melding rock and electronica, and they have created an original voice; a voice that can--and will--take the country by storm, especially now that Shön Troth is on board playing slide and putting the band over that edge of originality and creating a thicker, more layered sound.  It's almost as if Solid Gold's entire show is a hook, in and of itself.  And how about that cover of Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone"?!  Wow.  Really--wow.  Covers can be such a tricky arena in which to dive, but when a band can take a cover and a. make it their own, and b. make it potentially better than the original*, you know you're dealing with something special, if not monumental.  Speaking of covers, with the electronic rock sound came a psychedelic vibe (in synch with the lighting of the show), and I half-expected them to break into a crazy rendition of "In-a-Gadda-da-Vida" at any given instant.  Maybe an idea for a future show?  At the end of the night, I think Solid Gold was the band I was the most excited about and most refreshed by.

When my toes had re-gained feeling, I came to the conclusion that this was quite possibly the greatest $6.00 I've spent in a long, long while.  Happy 5th Birthday, 89.3, and thank you for a kick-ass show.

-E 


*Covers that at least compete with the original include, but are not limited to:
-Stone Temple Pilot's "Dancing Days"
-Aerosmith's "Come Together"
-Hendrix's "All Along The Watchtower"

Dynamic Duos

Holy terrific twosomes, Batman!

The first month of 2010 has brought a first for me: seeing more 2-piece bands than anything else.  Here are a couple not included in last week’s post:

Reverse Cowboy  (the BAND people, the BAND!)
Thinking New Year’s Eve doesn’t get much better than a dive bar and little-to-no crowd, I checked out this dynamic duo on 12/31 the Dubliner in Saint Paul.  Scottie Devlin and Cody McKinney serve up a solid mix of traditional Irish tunes, but Test Site 67 fans will be thrilled to hear a few Test Site originals thrown into the mix for good measure, including “Egyptian Skies”, which ranks in my All-Time Top 10 Favorite Songs.  This particular night we got a special treat when the duo tapped into some lighter harmonies and served up a hauntingly intense version of U2’s “New Year’s Day”, completely making the classic song 100% their own.  One of the greatest things about this 2-piece is that you never can tell who is having more fun, the crowd or the musicians because everybody rocks out like there's no tomorrow, and you'd be crazy not to join in.  If you’re lucky, you’ll hit the band on a night Scottie is sporting his kilt—yes, the Irish have their own version—and if you butter him up with comments about kilts being oh-so-sexy, you can secure nearly any song request.

Check out Reverse Cowboy for creative twists on Irish standards with a guaranteed good time.  No exceptions.

Gay Witch Abortion (hereby referred to as GWA)
While the name of this dynamic duo almost warrants an immediate exception from any sort of positive praise, I’ll bypass that urge…just this once.  Now, I’ve never been a metalhead, am not currently a metalhead, and I likely will never be a metalhead, but in the interest of an open mind, I saw GWA as an opener at the Turf Club.  Less than five minutes into the set, I was already scraping my jaw off the slushy bar floor, wondering when would be appropriate to feel impressed.  The sound coming out of one drummer and one (non-screaming) singer/guitarist was bigger, badder, tighter and more full than most 5-piece bands can produce.  My only criticism was the drummer’s excessive use of the floor tom because, let’s face it, too much floor tom can sound a bit “George of the Jungle”.  Overall, it wasn’t my style, but I was impressed with what they were able to do—make a rock chick think twice about metal.  No small feat!

Check out GWA to let out your metal angst with a band that you can actually bring NON-metalheads to see.


I leave you with the words of Cody McKinney:  "It's 2010--anything can happen, bitch!"

-E

Best New Bands of 2009

We’re three weeks into 2010, and I’m just now starting to feel like I’m actually in 2010—not 1992.  The sting of John Frusciante’s official (second) departure from RHCP is still there, but Soundgarden announcing it’s reunion has helped keep me from plummeting to the depths of despair.  This lack of plummetude has allowed me and my HLP* to renew our New Year’s Resolution from 2007 once again:

Resolution Part A:  Honor tradition.  When LEGENDS come through town, don’t hesitate.  Go directly to the show.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect $200—spend it.  When in doubt about money, remember how you felt after McCartney came and went and you weren’t there.  Was it more mortifying or heartbreaking?  Tough to tell, but now you know not to repeat that tragic error in judgment.

Resolution Part B:  Seek and explore.  Every month check out new local bands (top priority) as well as new national acts.

To that end, we took in First Avenue’s Best New Bands of 2009 showcase on Saturday, January 16, hoping to find a hidden gem or two.  I found solid sounds, eclectic vibes, and enough curiosity to lure me back to more shows of a couple of the bands that played.

Peter Wolf Crier
It’s an interesting practice to listen to a band without looking at them—just at first—so as to not let appearances get in the way.  (Would Kiss have more or less followers if this was common practice?  Insane Clown Posse?)  The first song was purely auditory for me, and I immediately was intrigued because I dig a band that can rock out on acoustic guitar, especially when it’s more aggressive than what their recorded tunes serve up.  This two-piece went to town, showcasing some acoustic angst with a slight Jack White eerie flair.  When I started watching the band I was thrown off by the frat boy-esque, white tee and button-up guitarist who played the entire show facing the side of the stage.  The shoe-gazer movement had its hey day two decades ago, but I have a hunch the side-stage-gazers will be slow to catch on….


Red Pens
Ahhh….what’s cooler: chick bassists or drummers?  Gotta love them both because they add something to the dynamic of a band that is simply impossible to achieve without having the token uterus on stage.  A solid indie alt-rock band with a dollup of pop thrown in for good measure.  Sounds like a new DQ treat.

The Afternoon DLight
Only listed as “special guests” on the bill, the crowd got a surprise from St. Cloud in the form of three high school boys, leaving the unsuspecting Joe Concert-Goer to wonder what exactly was going on.  The trio launched into a one-song set, featuring their Jay-Z and Alicia Keyes parody, “Minnesota State of Mind”.  By mid-song, the entire crowd was hooked.  It doesn’t matter that you’re not quite on key when you come up with a comedic genius of a parody that pulls at purple and gold heartstrings, taking us back to our youth when we, too, had dreams of playing to the big crowds at First Ave.  I especially liked their “Put your mittens in the air!” touch.  Well done boys, well done. 


The Twilight Hours
Cities 97’s Jason Nagel introduced these Twin Cities regulars, remarking that he’d seen them all on this stage, in various forms, a number of times.  Haven’t we all?  And don’t we all keep coming back for more?  John Munson donned his standard stage attire, a suit that manages to look both “business” and “party”—the apparel version of a mullet, really, but decidedly more awesome—and the relatively new band took off into their set like the seasoned veterans that they are.  Trip Shakespeare fans from the late 80s must be in seventh heaven: The Twilight Hours reek of TS’s influence, but lyrically, I much prefer The Twilight Hours, as Matt Wilson has noticeably matured as a writer.  The best part of the night was their cover of Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time”.  Way to dig out a classic!  A nod to their on-stage feeling that night, no doubt.

All in all, it was a solid night of great local tunes and important musical finds, made better by the fact that I was able to swing by the Orpheum, avoid Ticketbastard fees, and purchase my ticket to Experience Hendrix.  It’ll be one hell of a late winter including the Current’s Anniversary Party at First Ave, the MN Orchestra performing Zeppelin and Queen at Target Center, Evan Dando at the 400 Bar, and Experience Hendrix at the Orpheum.

Rock on.

-E



*HLP (Hetero Life Partner): (n.) modern term describing a friendship between two heterosexuals that are more than BFFs, less than related; more than close, less than inappropriately close.  Always a packaged deal as the whole exceeds the sum of its parts.

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.