Sha-la-la-la

One of the things that’s interesting about planning a wedding is how much you strive to make everything mean something. From the cake to the songs to the ceremony itself, every little piece of the puzzle ends up being associated with some shared memory (or memories) between the bride and the groom. While that’s a good thing, it can be maddeningly frustrating sometimes because there’s a finite time you have to nail everything down. I could spend a month just going over the playlist for the reception. But I’m a music dork/Nazi, so that’s not surprising.

One of the biggest hurdles Lucy and I have come across is the song for our first dance. It’s supposed to be something special, the words and music encapsulating how you feel about each other while appealing to the sensibilities of the both the bride and the groom. That’s proven to be an interesting task since Lucy and I have much different sensibilities about music (part of me wants to say hers are nowhere near as good as mine, but that would just be mean … though the jury is still out on the accuracy of said statement. Yes, that is a joke.) I was pushing for “Pigs on the Wing” by Pink Floyd, which is one of the most heartfelt and honest love songs I have ever heard – a surprising fact, since Roger Waters is the king of hamfisted metaphors. But Lucy said that, while a great song and definitely worthy of inclusion for the reception, it’s not enough of “our” song to be the soundtrack for our first dance as a married couple.

The closest thing she and I have to “a song” is “Bobcaygeon” by The Tragically Hip, which is about a cop  who, after a riot, considers quitting his job to go be with his significant other in the titular country town (it’s in Canada). When we were dating long-distance – she in Durham, me in Sylva – the song’s sentiments were something we shared. That and, along with almost every other song by The Hip, it’s pretty amazing. I am forced to play it every time I have my acoustic at the ready. However, it’s not much of a “first dance” song. It talks about riots and Aryans and all kinds of stuff that may not go across very well when family members are listening. So again, it’s on the playlist, but not as a “first dance.”

The current front-runner is an odd choice, but one I’m totally happy with and I think Lucy may like too (she liked it when I told her my idea). The song in question is “Keep Me in Your Heart” by Warren Zevon.

Anyone who knows Warren Zevon is well aware that the vast majority of his music is totally out of place at a wedding. But this song is different. In 2002 Zevon was diagnosed with mesothelioma, which was well beyond the point of operation. Knowing that he was going to die, Zevon set to work on his last album, “The Wind,” with this song that he wrote to his wife and kids.

Now I know, it may be a bit of a morbid choice. I told a friend of mine and she said that, even had she not known the backstory, you could tell it was about a man who was dying and thought that there had to be a better selection for our first dance. Maybe. But the more I think about it, the more I like it. There’s something beautiful about it – it’s an amazingly simple song, with no grand statements about life, death, love or anything else. I think it’s summed up best by this bit:

Sometimes when you’re doing simple things around the house
Maybe you’ll think of me and smile
You know I’m tied to you like the buttons on your blouse
Keep me in your heart for a while

I know the day of your marriage isn’t a time when you should ponder your mortality, but I think there’s something more universal at work. I can only hope to be a good enough husband to Lucy that when I’m not around, for whatever reason, that the thought of me would make her smile. I know that’s the case on my end, no matter how incredibly sappy it sounds. I’m working on it … I think that I’m doing a good job. You’d have to ask her. But to me that is a worthwhile hope for the beginning of your life with another person.

Does that make sense? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But we’ll see what happens. There’s a couple months left to go.

There’s something happenin’ here

Actually, a lot has been going on (though a big up to Stephen Stills for inspiring the blog title. Buffalo Springfield = awesome). Some of it it is still up in the air, but promising. Some of it amounts to little more than stupid, childish drama. And the rest of it has been work in some degree or another. So I’m taking my one night at home before 9:30 p.m. to visit my rather neglected corner of the Webs.

- Wedding planning is … fun. Definitely interesting. I never knew people cared so much about small sandwiches until now. You don’t mess with the small sandwich platter. That junk will start a fight. Thankfully the tuxes are ordered, the honeymoon in Jamaica is booked (our room, which is at an all-inclusive resort, has a fully stocked bar. WHAT?!) After getting the music down, the groom is done.

- On a similar note, I’m turning in my passport application this week. Guess who will soon get to show foreign peoples how utterly lame he is? OK, don’t guess about that.

- I have a messed up spine. I medical terms, if my spine were a clock, it would be at 6:47. Haven’t been able to run, but the chiropractor lady who does a Bruce Lee number on my back twice a week says I’m getting better. Huzzah! With a heart condition, bad back and graying hair, I’m 25 going on 73. Fun …

- The kids who work at the shop are on vacation (I know, at 25 I can’t call a 19 and a 20 year old “kids.” But as above bullet point states, I’m getting old before my time. Whippersnappers.) This means Lucy and I are at the shop a lot. I’ve thought about setting up beds and a small shower in there just to make life a little easier. Though that would greatly disappoint the cats. Sigh. But business is good. People love coffee.

- My fellow reporter Stephanie is leaving The Sylva Herald. I’m a little jealous. Granted, I’ve been there four years and had to laugh at my fair share of inane things (anyone who’s seen this week’s edition got to see a good bit as well), so in a way I should be. But enough of that. Good for her. She’s following … not her dreams, I guess, but will to leave Jackson County. Go with what you can, I guess.

- My dear friend/almost sister Miss M has been leading an interesting life lately. This has absolutely nothing to do with me, but her blog is about the most interesting read on the Internet. That and Cracked. Those guys mess my junk up.

That about does it. Boring and uninteresting, I know. But It’s been more than a month. I had to put something up here before the blog gods smited me. Besides, both of you who read this had more important things to do, I’m sure. In any event, I leave you with the great Wilco.

I like to boogie …

I don’t need a cure …

I read a review once calling Pere Ubu’s “Final Solution” one of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll records of all time … the only downside is that maybe five people outside of Cleveland heard it upon its 1976 release.

“However,” the reviewer said, “all five of those people told their friends.”

Which is a good thing, as this video so clearly states.

However, it’s a testament to Dave Thomas and the rest of Pere Ubu that the combined talents of TV on the Radio, Peter Murphy of Bauhaus and Trent Reznor (Mr. Nine Inch Nails himself) couldn’t match the original recording, as good as their version is.

So yeah, go tell your friends now.

This charming man …

Listening to The Smiths lately. No clue why – I think Morrisey is annoying. Johnny Marr is a fucking genius, though. Thought I would share.

If I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don’t know

After reading 1001 Rules For my Unborn Son, I started thinking of observations and pieces of advice. At first I thought they would be good for my future offspring, but then I realized they would be good for me as well. So here’s a few I thought of today.

– There’s an adage, “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” Well, if that’s true, then the job I want today is obviously “Roadie for Metallica.” (“Speed of Sound Tour. Bunch of assholes.”)

– Never try to pick up a woman who’s hanging out in front of a courthouse. Unless, of course, she’s a lawyer. Then by all means ask her out. However, the first part of the rule stands if she’s your lawyer.

– Upon retiring, one should not make “annoying public officials” their hobby. Gardening and fishing work just fine. (I guess this one makes more sense if you deal with the people I have to deal with on a daily basis.)

– When speaking, get to the point. Unless the point is “let’s see how foolish I can make myself look.” Then you’re doing just fine yammering on and on.

– “Ain’t” is a word – don’t ever trust anyone who will tell you otherwise. However, it’s probably not a good word to use in college applications.

– Listen to the blues. It’s the backbone of rock ‘n’ roll. But don’t ever try to play the blues. You didn’t grow up on a farm in Mississippi during the Great Depression.

As ugly as I seem

I was stuck in a meeting until 11 p.m. last night. One of the perks of being a journalist … not only does the pay suck, but the hours are horrible.

To pass time while everyone was droning on and on, I found myself just writing what came to my mind. Lo and behold, going back over my notes to write a story this morning, I read this charming little tidbit.

All that’s left – for me or for anyone else – is to numb ourselves and prepare for oblivion. Maybe we can beat our reason into submission and watch our collective end come while smiling, drool running down our cheeks. This is what we deserve.

Aren’t I just a ray of fucking sunshine?

No one here gets out alive

Ears ringing. Adrenaline still pumping, though it all ended nine hours ago. A few bruises that I didn’t wake up with yesterday morning.

All things considered, Mastodon killed it at The Orange Peel. “Crack The Skye” was played in its entirety, as was much of “Blood Mountain.” Both albums did not lose their mind-blowing awesomeness in the translation. Brent Hinds and Bill Kelliher proved they are the best guitar tag team of the new millennium once and for all. At least in my mind.

The only downside, which cannot be blamed on any of the bands on the bill, was the absolute absurdity of a few people in the audience. I hate to get my Billy Corgan on here, but the man is right – moshing is totally fucking moronic.

My first experience with a mosh pit was at an Alkaline Trio show in what is still my favorite rock club, The Cat’s Cradle in Carrboro. Fortunately I was one of the biggest people at the show, so most of the moshers merely bounced off me. The only bad part of the evening was getting kicked in the head three times by crowdsurfers, but all three people apologized. People wanted to have a good time and blow off some steam, but if they saw that someone could get hurt they stopped their physical jackassery. It was a nice, communal attitude that I have yet to see anywhere else.

Unfortunately, last night I was not one of the bigger members of the audience. In fact, I was on the lower side of par with this crowd. This made it fun when Kylesa, the second band on the bill, started their interesting brand of metal, which kicked the moshers into a frenzy. For a while, the chaos was contained behind me and the nice fellows from Asheville I met, but once Mastodon started all bets were off.

Now, if it were just me, I would write this down as a mere annoyance. However, when there are smaller people in the audience it’s pretty dangerous. Granted, one of the women in question (who might break the 5 feet barrier while standing on a stool in some six-inch heels) definitely was not fragile. She took the incessant pushing and pummeling in stride. However, I don’t know if the same can be said for some of the other small women or men in the audience – and there were quite a few. I let said woman front of me as to avoid getting pulled in to the melee, but it still had to be hellish for her. I sympathized and did my best not allow myself and four other guys to be thrown on top of her (and the other people up front), but that’s hard to do when a couple hundred jackasses are pushing from behind.

I don’t want to sound sexist. I’m sure this lady could have totally handled herself. If she had to she probably could have kicked my ass, though I admit that ain’t hard to do. I guess, to me at least, she is representative of why moshing is at the least stupid and at its worst insanely dangerous. Not everyone out there is 6 feet tall and has 200 pounds to throw around. If one of these huge drunk assholes gets on the warpath it might be hard to get out of their way. A guy my size, that means a bruise or some other superficial wound at worst. Someone who’s not my size, we could be talking broken bones.

Honestly, what’s the point? I know metal music stirs up some aggression. This is one of the many reasons I love bands like Mastodon – they are cathartic. You go to a metal show, you scream and yell and headbang and have a great time. But for the life of me I don’t see what compels a person to run full force into someone else. I just want to see a badass rock show and enjoy the music. I didn’t sign up for the idiot’s version of Fight Club.

(Oh, and a note to some of the mongoloids out there … it’s called soap. It is your friend. If I have to beat off a bunch of jackasses just so I can see Brent Hinds rip off an amazing guitar solo, I at least don’t want to have that human dumpster smell to deal with as well.)

Granted, if I were the Rock God, I would change a lot of things. Like, say a three beer maximum. I see nothing wrong with that, though I know others would disagree. I’ll say it right now, though – those people are morons. Drunk people ruin shows for others, then forget what even went on because they were fucking drunk. Oh, and beers at most shows are expensive as hell. You buy three and you’re out $30 at most places. Go to a big concert and it’s like you have to take out a second mortgage to get drunk. So new rule – if you’re not in the band, the third beer is it. Case closed.

Sorry, tangent.

Maybe I’m in the minority here. I had a sneaking suspicion of this while standing in line. That’s when I noticed I was one of the few people not totally clad in black, tatted up from head to toe and/or pierced in every orifice visible. Hearing conversations around me sealed the deal – I knew some idiotic jackassery would be afoot. But it calls into question a conundrum I’ve been constantly dealing with – can you love a band but totally abhor their fans?

I love heavy bands like Mastodon and Tool. For both I can tell you each member’s name, what equipment they use, etc. But a lot of their fans should be drug out into the street, shot in the kneecaps and then fed to a pack of wild pigs. And you can clearly tell the ones I’m talking about. Just go to a show and they overwhelm you. Be it their monosyllabic speech patterns (used when grunting won’t suffice), their overwhelming aroma of alcohol and shame, and/or any article of clothing that is mesh or spiked, you can spot them from a mile away. Those that miss the intelligence and skill that good bands pour into their music, instead saying “Heavy music. Me like. Makes me want hit people hard.”

While my imagined fate for them seems cruel, I seriously think we would be doing them a favor. A lifetime of Saturday nights killing brain cells by drinking paint thinner doesn’t sound fun. And, to quote Bill Hicks, we wouldn’t be losing a cancer cure. Maybe a few gas station attendants. Though with the economy as bad as it is, I don’t know how many customers we’d want to deprive Hot Topic of.

(Again, conflicted feelings – Hot Topic sells shirts for bands I like. Granted, the bands I like – ie good bands – and their merchandise take up about one percent of the retail space, but still, you take what you can get. However, do I really want to be someone who shops at Hot Topic?)

Sigh. Whatever. I know, a lot of this makes me sound like I’m an asshole. Well guess what, I’m an asshole. But I’m an asshole that leaves fun things on his blog. Things such as a link to Wilco’s new album, which they are streaming online.

Oh, and this bit o’ hilarity.

You’re welcome.

Relax

So R1N1 swine flu will probably end the world, right?

No?

OK. So … we’re freaking out about this? From what I understand, the vast majority of those who have contracted the disease merely had to stay home in bed, drink some OJ, sleep and catch up on their Netflix queue. Not to dismiss those that have unfortunately died from it, but the seasonal flu is much more dangerous (as it kills tens of thousands each year). This will probably be a major strain of the seasonal flu in the next few years, according to the experts they have on NPR – that’s a much scarier thought, considering that they’re still coming up with vaccines. Hopefully it won’t have mutated before there’s plenty of vaccination out there.

Quite honestly, I don’t care. I heard someone I work with totally freak out about this early this week. The same man went off this morning because of some other stupid, inconsequential thing, and in doing so has really pissed off the lady that GIVES US OUR PAYCHECKS each week. Who the fuck does that? Oh yeah, dumbasses who don’t know how to take a breath and say to themselves, “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal.” Or, you know, he needs to “relax.”

I really want him to get swine flu now. A really bad case.

I want 1,000 guitars, I want pounding drums

While doing my morning duties at the coffee shop, one of the girls that works with us had her Pandora station on. And I kid you not, for the hour I was there it seemed like there was one song that just kept repeating over and over and over.

Let me describe it … a slow tempo (no more than 70 beats per minute), some tinkling piano, acoustic guitars and lyrics such as “Everywhere I go, I go with you” (I threw up in my mouth a little just remembering the whole scenario). I wish I’d looked at the playlist just to see who needs to be told to stop. In any event, after about 20 minutes I wanted some Slayer just as a good change of pace. I’ll say it before and I’ll say it again, “Raining Blood” in the morning is almost as good as a cup of coffee.

I’m starting to think these things are something like aural porn for a section of women my age. Part of me can understand it. These “musicians,” as blatantly fake in their sentimentality as they are, put into words some sort of feeling people have or at least want to have. But seriously, listen to “Helpless” by Neil Young, a song on paper that is not a bit different than anything described above but done far, far better. Hell, half of Neil Young’s catalog is like that. Elvis Costello does the same thing as well. As do Loretta Lynn, Emmylou Harris, David Gray and a myriad of others. (Part of me wants to throw Van Morrison in that list too.) They just do it with … I don’t know if “gusto” is the right word, but it’s close. You can at least tell they mean it.

Not that I totally disrespect all the artist lumped into the “modern adult contemporary women music” genre. I have a passing fascination with Nora Jones, which is influenced in no small part by this –

That’s right … a Wilco cover does it for me. I fell in love with Norah Jones a bit when I saw that for the first time.

I don’t know. I hate to sound like somewhat of a taste Nazi, decreeing that some musicians and their songs don’t muster up to some arbitraty standard. (What am I saying, I love sounding like that. It’s as Nick Hornby once said, prejudices are easier to keep and honestly, they are more fun.) But I can’t honestly believe there’s a market for such half-assed garbage. That’s what it is to me. It’s like some guy is sitting in some big room with a cigar saying, “We need to make more money! Find some piano playing broad who sings dumb love songs. The ladies eat that shit up!”

But, to quote Dennis Miller – that’s just my opinion, I could be wrong.

And just so this doesn’t go out on such a dour note, I leave with these bits o’ goodness.

He even rocks acoustic …

(Here’s the orginal version, since the bastards disabled embedding.)