Echo And The Bunnymen-Porcupine

For a brief moment, Echo & The Bunnymen seemed poised on becoming England’s next big musical export. Then came The Smiths, but that’s another story altogether, and probably one that is more relevant to my own musical upbringing. Nonetheless, E&TB had a brief shining moment among Anglophiles here in the States and, like The Smiths, never quite fulfilled their promise.
Like I said before, The Smiths had more of an impact on me than Echo. It wasn’t until E&TB released their compilation “Songs To Learn And Sing” that I actually took notice of the band.
About a year or two later, a friend in college who remains a huge musical influence on me today, introduced me to the back catalog of Echo. I’m sure the exposure seemed tepid to him, after all he was preaching the brilliance of Sonic Youth’s “Bad Moon Rising” to me around the same time, but he did rediscover a few of the key nuances of Echo’s third release “Porcupine” after my repeated plays.
Keep in mind, I went through a huge Doors phase in middle school, so I was pretty comfortable with Ian McCulloch’s Morrison replication. But prior to the band’s 1987 single “Bedbugs & Ballyhoo” (which perfectly lifted a Doors keyboard sound) and their version of “People Are Strange” (which did nothing except overshadow the band’s original material) Echo had a stronghold on combining 60’s psychedelia with Britain’s fruitful post-punk output.
Echo’s 1987 album totally turned me off as 1.) it appeared that the band was verged on becoming hugely successful (and big no-no for me at the time) and 2.) I had fallen into the band’s creative counterpart Julian Cope. Julian writes eloquently of the rivalry in his autobiography and I viewed his drug intake during the time as something intriguing. Of course, Mr. Cope was himself catering to the mainstream with the release of “St. Julian" and "My Nation Underground,” but I had just been exposed to his earlier material with The Teardrop Explodes and the acid-fueled solo release “Fried.” He may have followed a linear path with Echo & The Bunnymen, but to me the discovery made it fresh.
It’s been almost two decades since I’d heard “Porcupine” but Sire re-released it with nice packaging and bonus tracks. A recent surge of nostalgia prompted me to fork over full retail price for it and the luxury of hearing the album properly mastered. Listening to it again with several years removed has brought me back to the idea that maybe they were indeed the shit that Cope envied and a pretty stellar group in retrospect.

At first listen (again), I was a little put off by the 80’s production values, but then considered this to be a cop-out as I didn’t feel the same way about dated material from the 60’s and 70’s. I mean, this shit is “hip” now, right? With Yaz on commercials and leg warmers being reconsidered as fashion statements, people are paying top dollar for the sound and vision of 80’s culture. A few deep breaths later, I understood the entire 60’s via 80’s revival and how understated the performances in “Porcupine” were. This band could play and, at times, truly rock. It’s underneath the sheen of the mixing board, but it’s there if you listen close enough.
Each song is awash in reverb and other textures. Lyrically, McCulloch reaches high but falls somewhat short of anything truly significant, unlike say Morrissey, Robyn Hitchcock, or Andy Partridge. But you’d never guess what he’s singing is a tad shallow; he approaches much of the album with an emotive bombast that’s missing in a lot of his 60’s influences. Try to decipher a bit of the song “Clay” for me:

Am I the half of half-and-half
Or am I the half that's whole
Am I the half that's whole
Am I the half that's whole
Are you the wrongful half
Of the rightful me
Are you the mongol half
Of the cerebral me

What the fuck? Thank god the music saves us from this kind of pretension…
I never considered Will Sergeant to be much of a guitarist, but the side two opener “Heads Will Roll” reminded me how clever a guitarist he can be. Sometimes you hear musicians mention how understated and complex Johnny Marr is with his fretwork, but I’ve got to confess that Sergeant is ripe for a rediscovery himself. Playing off effects and changing chord progressions flawlessly midstream, Sergeant is a master of tone and technique.
Admittedly, it was Ian McCulloch that got the band noticed. And while Will’s playing probably stood backstage to Ian’s boyish good looks and badass rooster hair, it’s really the music that transcends decades of fashion sense. But enough about Ian McCulloch’s pouty lips…

The alternative tracks that complete the “Porcupine” reissue are actually a nice edition that helps piece together some of the arrangement attempts that led to the final mix. The choices the band made for the final mix are the best, but the bonus material included is different enough to examine. You also get the nice “discothèque” version of the single “Never Stop” which is pretty cool.
From what I understand, Echo & The Bunnymen are still going at it and releasing new material just as they did a quarter century ago. I’ve also heard that the latest group is kind of bitter about aging and supplements a lot of live performances with Ian being retardedly drunk. I guess he’s fulfilling that Morrisson prophecy after all.

Willie Nelson & Bob Dylan-Live Review

Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson

Cedar Rapids, IA 07/09/2005

Bob Dylan twice in a year? Fuckin’ A. Only this time it’s in a minor league baseball stadium and this time, Willie Fucking Nelson is opening. Bobby, still hot on the tour that never ends supporting his latest album from Starbucks, decided to team up with another troubadour and smoke weed. I’m half kidding about the Starbucks thing. In all actuality, the release at the coffee chain is an essential night from Dylan’s youth, one that has been bootlegged repeatedly and is considered by some Dylanophiles as a crucial performance in Bobby’s career.
He didn’t perform any of that material on Saturday night in Cedar Rapids. Instead, he focused on a few staples from the ’05 tour and threw out a surprise acoustical “Tangled Up In Blue” as the first encore. Other than that, there were no real revelations that night other than the fact a twenty-something girl can still get drunk and fall down from heat exhaustion in the middle of a Dylan set. The paramedics came over, took her blood pressure and still allowed her to stick around until the end of the set. The same wasn’t true for three drunken saps that had to be escorted out of the ballpark by police. Whiskey river took their minds and the Cedar Rapids Police Department took their arm.
Willie did essentially the same set as the other two times I’d seen him. His son, a fucking incredible guitar player himself, did a nice Stevie Ray Vaughn cover and then Dad came back out to show him who pays the bills and has the best herb. Speaking of, rumor has it that the CRPD canine unit parked right next to Willie’s bus and that Mr. Nelson and company splitsville no less than ten minutes after their set was over.

Bob came on after a quick stage change that basically consisted of hauling out the band’s vintage equipment and throwing up the badass Dylan logo over the back of the stage. During “Positively 4th Street,” Soy Bomb jumped up on stage and did a little dance.

The band’s eyes were glued on Bob throughout the entire performance and Bob uttered “Here’s another fucking song I wrote” before each number. Just kidding. But he did prove to be Mr. Sociable once again by failing to acknowledge the crowd even once during the entire performance. The '05 tour finds a nice addition with Donnie Herron on pedal steel which gave the songs a nice twang. Bob again stuck with his electric piano and harmonicas.
After a fucking smoking version of “Watchtower,” Bob met the band on center stage and clutched two harmonicas as the generationally diverse crowd applauded their approval. A park that traditionally houses America’s pastime decided to give the field to two of America’s own that helped change the face of our musical landscape. It was a nice doubleheader from a couple of road dogs that still have plenty of swing left in ‘em.

Bobby’s set:
Maggie’s Farm
To Ramona
Cry A While
Positively 4th Street
High Water
Highway 61 Revisited
Ballad Of Hollis Brown
Most Likely You Go Your Way And I’ll Go Mine
Just Like A Woman
Honest With Me
Girl Of The North Country
Summer Days
Encore:
Tangled Up In Blue
All Along The Watchtower

The Fearless Freaks

Having seen The Flaming Lips in various configurations at least 8 times in their 20 year history, I guess you could say I enjoy these Okie noodlers. The truth is, I love these guys. And my affection is for many different reasons.
The documentary “The Fearless Freaks” nicely summarizes why I’ve followed this group throughout the years. Leader Wayne Coyne is not the most proficient musician in rock, but he may possess one of the most creative minds in it. Coyne finds ways to execute this creativity despite his musical limitations: initially it was through sheer volume and Spencer Gifts gimmickry. When he got too old for Spencer’ s, he enlisted actual talent, most notably in the form of multi-instrumentalist Steven Drozd. Through it all, bassist Michael Ivins stayed with him, but the warped journey took its toll on his hairline.

“The Fearless Freaks” manages to touch on each phase of their career as well as the three primary Lips’ personal background, which would have turned mortal men into felons. While learning about the drug use, criminal background, and mental difficulties of the band’s family members could have easily turned the film into an episode of “Behind The Music.” Instead, the filmmaker manages to capture so much heartfelt emotion that you get the impression there’s no one as amazed about the Lips’ success as the band themselves.
The Flaming Lips started like so many other bands directly influenced by the D.I.Y. ethos of punk: a couple of brothers and their mutual friends joined up to make a racket after seeing a few nationally known punk bands make a racket in the local club. Being in Oklahoma can be a disadvantage, namely, the musical soundtrack to any bumfuck upbringing can turn you into an A.O.R. loving complacent music “fan.” What they were able to do is to take this upbringing, combine it (unknowingly breaking a fundamental punk “rule”) with punk elements and make a bastardized version of the very thing that makes rock & roll so vital.
To support it, the original trio was on the road all the fucking time. My first exposure to The Flaming Lips came in the form of a Nuggets mix tape a guitarist from a local band made for me in the mid-80’s. He named the compilation “Sonic Cavestomp,” and at the end of all the legitimate 60’s garage tunes he through in the Lips’ “Scratching The Door” from their first e.p. Having no prior exposure of the band or their music, I logically assumed The Flaming Lips were a 60’s band. After all, their name fit nicely next to The Chocolate Watchband.
A few months later, a friend declared “Oh My Gawd!!!...The Flaming Lips” a masterpiece and made me a cassette copy of it. The album was too long to fit on one side of the C-90 format, so the album closer “Love Yer Brain” started side two and he filled the rest of the side with selections from their debut “Here It Is.” That cassette played continually and with “Love Yer Brain” starting the second side, it forced me to listen to it all the way until the end when the band completely demolished a piano in the studio. A masterpiece it was and I will continue to defend it as such despite all the progress the guys continue to make.
The band regularly performed in Iowa, which was a van ride away from Oklahoma, and I made it a point to see them during their endless tour of “Oh My Gawd.” The performance was life changing: the club was filled with fog, the fog was penetrated by a cheap laser light show, and the music was a sludgehammer of fuzz over (then) drummer Richard English’s no-tom-left-untouched skinwork. Sure I was under the influence and of course it made a difference, but I was clear minded enough to understand that I had witnessed something special.
A year or so later, I was talking with the owner of my favorite collegiate hangout and he was noticeably excited. At least fifteen years my senior, the guy was animated beyond his normal stoner exterior. He explained that The Flaming Lips would be (hopefully) playing there soon. I immediately got on the phone with the provider of aforementioned C-90 and urged him to make the drive from Minneapolis to see The Flaming Lips in such an intimate setting. The club was very small and it typically didn’t have the funding to secure up-and-coming national acts. To make things a little interesting, the club owner later explained to me that he was unsure if he could secure a deal with the Lips, as their rider called for a lot of off the wall goodies that certainly belied the clean and sober statements that Wayne Coyne now likes to project. I believe him now, but back then it would be hard to convince me that Coyne and company didn’t partake in a lot of illegal substances. If you ever saw them live during this phase, you’d surely agree with me.
The deal was worked out and overnight plans were secured for the out of towners to attend.
A very poor local band was tapped to be the openers and, unfortunately for us, we were obligated to attend their performance out of respect and because one of the members in our party used to be in a band with the singer/guitarist. Thankfully, we had a number of different drugs between us all to tolerate their performance and to get ready for the headliners. It became known as a five finger drug night: for every finger on our hand, we complimented with a different drug. Needless to say, we were all pretty tore up before the opening band even ended. Fueling the paranoia was the fact that we hadn’t seen heads or tails of the Lips at all. Eyeballing the club owner, I could determine that he was more than a bit concerned as they had even failed to show up for the early evening soundcheck and faced the real possibility that he was about to be stuck up. The opening act tried to placate the audience and unfortunately co-opted to extend their set a while longer.
Suddenly, the back door to the club opened up and the members in my group let out a collected cheer. The Flaming Lips had arrived. With a brief soundcheck, the band took the tiny stage and immediately filled the club with smoke, lasers, and strobe lights. The band played a total of six songs, but interspersed in them was another two or three. For example, the band would start into “Can’t Stop The Spring” and then would segue into Zeppelin’s “Nobody’s Fault But Mine” and then into a Doors song and, finally, back into “Spring.” We seldom could see the band at all thanks to the enormous fog, but thanks to the strobe, you could vaguely make out a dancing body directly in front of you. It was the equivalent of seeing the band in your own living room with the security of knowing that the neighbors wouldn’t be called because of the noise. For the second time, The Flaming Lips blew my mind live. To thank them, we gave bassist Mike Ivins a few joints for the road.
“Telepathic Surgery” was their third album, and life on the road sounded like it was taking its toll on the band’s creative juices. By this time, I was swooned by The Stone Roses and had essentially written the band off as finished. Their next album, “In A Priest Driven Ambulance” proved me wrong.

In fact, with every subsequent album thereafter The Flaming Lips proved me wrong; despite personnel changes and a jump to the majors, the band never ceased to amaze. It wasn’t until their support tour of “The Soft Bulletin” that I had a chance to see them live again, but their recorded output became fixtures on the play deck with each new release. It was a hoot to see them on “90210,” it was nice to hear the band on top 40 radio with “She Don’t Use Jelly” and it was even better to see them get the critical success that I knew they deserved no matter how many drugs were used to alter my perception.
“The Fearless Freaks” tracks this rise and provides fans and novices with an even better appreciation of how much they had to go through to get there. I never knew the impact of Ronald Jones’ departure, I’ve spent some time contemplating why Jonathan Donahue left, and I wondered how the fuck they got Warner Brothers to release “Zaireeka.’ These and other trivial items are answered in the film and it includes a ton of home movies, personal videos, and live performances including a few that I was actually in attendance.
What isn’t answered is why original drummer Richard English left the band. There were stories floating around the time he left that I would like clarified and, even though Drozd is a better drummer, English’s work definitely added to the soundscape of the band’s earlier work. His whereabouts now are never identified and the reason why he left remains unanswered.
Another item left unaddressed is their tour with Beck a few years ago. Having attended this tour as well, I was convinced that the combination was of historical significance. Coyne later revealed the difficulties in working with Beck and it would have been nice to have this brief liaison mentioned.

These minor details don’t take away anything from the documentary. Indeed, the inclusion of things like Steven Drozd shooting heroin and acknowledging the drug’s destructiveness as he fastidiously prepares his works. If you know anything about Drozd’s enormous talent, you understand how heart wrenching this scene is to watch.
I must confess that, as of late, I’m growing tired of the lack of spontaneity that comprises the Lips’ current live situations. The mixture of audio and video means that many nights are an exact replica of the night before. And even with months in between shows, I’ve noticed how similar performances are, and I felt cynical about it. I guess what I was looking for was at least a few examples of going beyond the setlist. I would have given anything for an impromptu version of “Love Yer Brain” or even a brief sidetracked cover version like the ones you hear in so many of their e.p.’s. What I failed to consider in this is that there are probably more individuals seeing the Lips live than I imagined. I need to be reminded of this and I need to recall how utterly blown away I was the first time I saw them. That feeling was also present the first time I saw the “Soft Bulletin” tour, because the performance combined with the overall message of the songs from that album made yet another impact on my musical memories. The best thing I can do is to encourage everyone to see one of their shows and witness the reason why they remain one of my favorite bands of all time.
I can’t tell you how many times I smiled after discovering yet another batch of confetti remnants from a show long since past. Others need to experience this too. A band that is able to incite these types of feelings are few and far between and, I believe, are getting scarcer. “The Fearless Freaks” is an excellent intimate look at a band that has been able to give its fans such intimate feelings for so long. The best thing the movie does, is provide a feeling that they’re not done trying to make an even longer lasting connection with us all.

Relocation Expenses

Relatively settled in the second town I’ve lived in with the word “Cedar” in the title. The commute is more of a pain in the ass; it’s like the city planners never considered shit like bottlenecks when expanding the city outward. And it’s a curious expansion as the downtown area is filled with huge homes that, with a little bit of tax relief, could be revamped into huge abodes with character. Then again, what city considers future eyesores when the tax base moves to rural areas that are just going to be incorporated in a few years?

The amenities are here and there’s more of a redneck contingent than my former college bedroom community that was devoid of any real city center. Coralville was simply a place where people could crash at the end of the day and a strip mall developer’s wet dream.
The neighborhood people seem nice and the backyard is a haven for the little dude. We’re utilizing the gas grill tremendously and getting the most out of the fire before it dies on us. The one thing that keeps popping up is the reality that a lot of my shit is on the verge of breaking down and then the reality hits that you need money to replace it all. Prime example is the vehicle situation, which I didn’t fully prepare to address at the moment but may need to regardless of my financial state. Isn’t it a rule that you’ve got to have reliable transportation in order to survive? Automotive issues is a headache I don’t need and yet I’m getting a headache worrying about potential automotive issues. Oh, the irony…
They call these the salad days. What a fucking lie.
Speaking of Minor Threat…
Nike skateboarding decided to use, without permission, a carbon copy of Minor Threat’s first e.p. of their upcoming skateboard tour/marketing campaign, creatively titled “Major Threat.” Minor Threat/Dischord Records is steadfastly again any corporate ties and the skater-sellout-marketing department should have (and probably knew) about this conflict. But because Nike is all powerful, they went ahead with it. A few individuals (including yours truly) wrote Swoosh and complained. In just a couple of days, Nike pulled the ad campaign and apologized to Dischord Records and their supporters. I’ve got no problem with a huge corporation trying to tap into a subculture and I’m sure there’s a ton of willing employees who would sell out their beliefs for a paycheck. But the thing is, these people were hired for creative input, and to simply lift an iconic album cover does not demonstrate any sort of creativity. To simply take it without permission is, the last time I checked, a crime.
It’s back to the Adidas Stan Smith for me…And I’m in the market for tennis shoes, bitches..

Telemundo Free

It’s moving day, which means that the landlord had to provide me with the same soundtrack as to when I originally moved in: Candlebox. I can’t think of a time in which I actually looked forward to moving. For those of you that thought their only hit “Far Behind” was left far behind in your memory, please stop by and visit him after I’m gone. You’ll discover that it can be 1993, or whenever that piece of shit song was released, and that people with shitty taste in music are still among us. To further prove my point, he’s now listening to the new Rob Thomas album before tucking his selfish, materialistic, egotistical, alcoholic, narrow minded and weak ass off to bed. Night night, for the last time, fuckface.
It's my Mother's birthday...And her birthday card was returned with not enough postage. I buy a card, I put a stamp on it, I put it in the mailbox. How hard is that shit? I have no idea why the thing was returned; it's not like the card was huge. I guess it was a different size and that required someone to actually put it in the sorter by hand. They now want an additional twelve cents to mail it, meanwhile, my Mother won't receive it until after her birthday. My Grandfather worked for the post office. He did the route with his fucking dog in the car, so it's not like those fuckers are working too hard. He also had a guy pull out the odometer cable of his Chevy Citation. He put a lot of miles on his car delivering the mail everyday and he didn't want the warranty on the Citation to run out so quickly. This example of a letter carrier's "honesty" should make you feel real good the next time you find your Hustler arrives ripped and sticky.
By the way, I’ll be without internet for a while so this blog is taking a short rest until I can scrounge up a high speed ISP that will at least wait for the wink before they fuck me in the ass. A pictorial of that event will be featured in next month's Club International, which was my favorite dirty mag back in high school. I guess they've come a long way now since most of 'em feature full on buttfucking rather than the flaccid pretend shit they had when I was growing up. These kids today don't know how good they've got it...

Judas Fucking Priest

Judas Priest Live Review
Tweeter Center Chicago, IL 6/3/05

Isn’t there anything more Tap-ish than a group of 50+ guys playing heavy metal music years after their prime? Not really. And in this day of “let’s reunite, go on tour and make a buttload of money” mentality, it would be easy to put a Judas Priest reunion in the same category as Van Halen or Motley Crue. Unlike those two bands, the Priest actually put out an album of new material this year, which made a reunion tour a little bit easier to swallow. Honestly though, the album “Angel Of Retribution” is not a return to classic Priest form and doesn’t take away from the fact that just a few years ago Judas Priest were playing small venues with Rob Halford sound-alike Ripper Owens after Rob left the band over a decade ago. He may have felt that the Priest had run its course and that the members, firmly planted in obvious middle age, were quickly becoming heavy metal caricatures that would soon reach a point where statements like “I told them to put ‘Judas Priest’ before ‘Puppet Show’ on the marquee!” would be commonplace. With this in mind, blended with my own cynicism, I really didn’t know what to expect from Judas Priest when I saw them on Friday night in Chicago.

After all, the band is over 30 years old and considering the music they perform and the fact that age must assuredly take its toll on a singer notorious for octave antics and general high-pitched screaming. The reality was, this band laid waste to their Chicago faithful and reclaimed their rightful role as the World’s best heavy metal band in the arena today…Just as they were twenty years ago with the release of “Screaming For Vengeance.”
My cousin and I missed opening act Queensryche, but what we gained instead was a glimpse at how far Judas Priest fans have come in twenty years. The answer, of course, is not very far. Black t-shirts filled the $7.75 for a cup of beer lines, some with the most retarded of advertisements (Slipknot), some with the most obscure (a lone Uriah Heep shirt that actually got a bit of attention from passers by), and some with the obvious (Iron Maiden). A few actually dug out their authentic tees to demonstrate their loyalty, but most were obvious retro-minded reprints of albums from decades before. Besides, many of those in attendance couldn’t possibly fit into those shirts they originally bought when they attended a Priest show during their heyday.
The concert goers were primarily male and, not surprisingly, between the ages of 30-50. The women that did brave the sea of the heavy metal parking lot futilely attempted to mask their size/age with, surprise, the exact same fashions that they wore when they were 21 and a size 4. It was not a pretty sight, and I’m not even talking about the ladies.
Heavy metal isn’t exactly known for its fashion sense or I.Q., but what it is known for is lyrics on the north side of juvenile and sound levels that keeps Beltone in business. Even after 32 years of doing it, Priest demonstrated their contributions both tinnitus and speaking in a language that even a baked 14 year old could understand. It doesn’t take a G.E.D. to know that “Up here in space/I’m looking down on you” is probably about a spy satellite, or at the very least, a big ass robot floating up in the sky checking out the titties on Earth.

With the opening (taped) intro to “Electric Eye,” Rob Halford triumphantly entered the stage in the iris of, you guessed it, a big electric eye. He took his own sweet time in that thing, and when he finally headed downstage during “Metal Gods,” he did it slow and methodically like, you guessed it, a big robot. This caused the 40 year old man in a headband directly in front of me to absolutely lose control. He began to jump up and down, scream, and remember the words “from techno seeds we first planted” in perfect unison with Rob Halford. Then he ran past security and got to the front of the stage. Security then escorted him back to his seat. I guess that was enough for him, because by the fourth song, the forty-something was pretty much tapped out and sat on the back of his seat only to occasionally take a drag off of his one-hitter and make devil horns during a guitar solo or high Halford scream. Clearly, this headbanger’s endurance was not the same as it was during Priest’s “Turbo” tour.
But Halford’s endurance was in top shape, as was his voice. Throughout the show, Rob Halford seemed to be on a mission to prove to anyone that his voice has not diminished at all and to prove to men half his age that he can destroy them with his larynx. To prove his point, Halford took the obligatory audience call and response a step further: In addition to having the audience sing the choruses to Priest’s biggest hits, he schooled them on vocal scales and holding notes for thirty seconds at a time. The crowd attempted to keep up, albeit a little off-key, serving as proof how obedient metal fans can be even in the face of impossible expectations.
This is why “Breaking The Law” could be the most fitting song in Judas Priest’s extensive catalog. The story of a downtrodden man who, after reaching the end of his rope, decides to pursue a life of crime to survive while informing the listener that if they were faced with the same circumstances that they’d be “doin’ the same thing too.” I’m almost positive that nearly half of the crowd at the Tweeter Center faced a similar situation at one point in their lives, which may be why the line “You don’t know what it’s like!” rose above the band’s own amplification when Rob pointed his microphone towards them at the end of the song’s bridge.
Glen Tipton, in my mind a grossly underrated guitarist, completed more than half of the band’s guitar solos and proved to be their knockout punch. Lightening fast and breathtakingly versatile for his genre, Tipton should be cited in the same breath as Eddie Van Halen, Randy Rhodes, and Dimebag. He isn’t and perhaps he would be if the band hadn’t decided to have him share lead guitarist duties with comrade K.K. Downing.
While K.K. is good, and may have been my favorite Priest guitarist as a teenager, he doesn’t possess the same tonal nuances as his counterpart. Twenty years have made me wiser; Glen Tipton is now my favorite Judas Priest guitar player and his soloing in Chicago has earned my utmost respect.
As mediocre as “Angel Of Retribution” is, the band brought three songs from the new album to the stage and demonstrated that this material is better served in a live setting. Every member seemed intent on making sure these songs were just as well received as their classics, and they succeeded. Had I not heard the album before, their live renditions of it may have prompted me to automatically purchase it after the performance, which is exactly the intention. After selling over 50,000 copies in its first week and charting in the U.S. Top 20 before quickly falling off, the band needs to get this album into the hands of fans who haven’t bought a Priest album since Halford was in the band 15 years ago. They should have no problem if they continue to replicate it on stage with the same intensity as they did on day three of their month long U.S. tour.
A man from the lawn seats snuck past security and landed directly in the row in front of me. Like a moth to the flame, he had to be a little closer to the Priest. And to show his appreciation for letting the real seat owners allow him to hang out with them, he lit up a joint and shared it with those around him. The weed took effect during “Victim Of Changes,” a classic track from their “Sad Wings Of Destiny” album and certainly the show’s standout performance. Halford reached inside and pulled out another impressive vocal workout while Tipton delivered the night’s most memorable guitar solo. The seat crasher gave us all high fives throughout the song, acknowledging its greatness. He then shook our hands and retreated back to the cheap seats. I can’t imagine this example of community at a Slayer show, or fuck, even at a performance by some Nu-metal band. This is the kind of bond that comes from a tenured “heavy metal maniac” and a demonstration of what a heavy metal concert should be.

A long haired Mexican then joined our group, again, another metal refugee who made the slip past security. He spoke little English, but he was glad to be with us and showed his appreciation by high-fiving everyone around him and putting his arm around my cousin while singing broken English song lyrics into his ear. He grabbed my arm and screamed “I’m your turbo lover!” before clarifying that he didn’t really want to be my turbo lover and that his English was not too good. Another high five acknowledged our mutual heterosexuality as did his attempts of trying to get lucky with a very rode hard/put away wet women in her mid 30’s. A few songs later, they were gone too.
The uber-aggressive “Painkiller” ended the set and Rob Halford was now going on 90 minutes without fail. To put this in proper perspective, I would ask that you look at another rock band with notable longevity: the Rolling Stones. 32 years into their career, they were doing “Bridges To Babylon” and everyone was declaring how energetic they were during the subsequent tour. It’s now 32 years into Judas Priest’s career, and they’re performing a song like “Painkiller” at breakneck speed, at deafening volume, and at the fucking end of their setlist. Unbelievable.
Without much of a breath, the sound of a Harley-Davidson signaled the start of the three song encore. Rob drove it out on the stage in his fourth leather jacket and revved the engine to get the band started on “Hell Bent For Leather.” While the lights were dim, a sneaky bastard in a Black Sabbath t-shirt made his way to the row directly behind us, but not before catching the electric eye of a female security team member. Oblivious to their requests for him to return to his proper seat, the man began to shake his fist at the stage like a man, well, hell bent I guess. A fourth security personnel came and the man finally obliged, only to return to the same location as soon as the security people left to hassle someone else. He yelled “What the fuck?!” and I turned to offer him a handshake to support his efforts of breaking the law. The same female security guard noticed he had returned and commenced to further headbanging. She approached again and then signaled for someone beefier to assist her in removing him. He tried to bribe her with money, but when it became clear that she would not leave him alone, he did the most impressive thing: he ignored her completely. No matter how loud she yelled at him, no matter how long she pointed her flashlight in his eyes, he was glued to the stage and he concentrated only on one thing: the music of Judas Priest. It was the most impressive example of tunnel vision I have ever witnessed. And it was executed by a thirty something white man who clearly knew better. He then did what any man in his situation would do: he tried to get even closer to the stage. With four security staff members following him, he made his way seven rows up and continued to ignore them. By the time the last song, “You Got Another Thing Comin’” hit, the security team had given up and they let him stay in the seat that wasn’t his. The power of heavy metal exemplified.
The band joined together for a triumphant bow and with the stage lights on for the road crew to start on the load out, the crowd initially refused to leave their seats. They chanted “Priest! Priest! Priest!” and began to bang on the seats. In my haze of $7.75 beers and community pot smoking, I joined them. What is so clearly lacking by today’s metal bands was brought home by Judas Priest on that night. Heavy metal is about joining together for a few beers, a few joints, and a whole lotta devil horns. It’s about getting down to the most basic level and just getting stupid. The irony is sometimes a little deeper. While a lot of Nu Metal bands may whine, bitch, and perform about the lack of a father figure, it took a veteran metal act to demonstrate that we can also just forget about that shit and hang out like guys and help another man up if he’s had too much to drink, misplaced his cigarettes, or gets lost in the parking lot on the way to the car. “Out there is a fortune waiting to be had” sang Halford on the last song, and for a brief moment in Chicago we believed him. We deal with reality every day, and Judas Priest may be the only heavy metal band around today that understands what metal music can do. Not only can it reflect the anger of our plight, but it can also cauterize it. For two hours, Priest destroyed our reality and had us believing in cartoon characters, motorcycles, and rocking ‘til the dawn. It’s no stretch to say that those two hours have provided me with a lifetime worth of memories. That, my friends, is the true power of rock and roll.

Setlist:
The Hellion/Electric Eye
Metal Gods
Riding On The Wind
A Touch Of Evil
Judas Rising
Revolution
Breaking The Law
I'm A Rocker
Diamonds And Rust
Deal With The Devi
lBeyond The Realms Of Death
Turbo Lover
Hellrider
Victim Of Changes
Exciter
Painkiller
encore
Hell Bent For Leather
Living After Midnight
You've Got Another Thing Comin'

Death Says: "Remember Me?"

It’s gotta be like this: when one thing takes flight another thing lands. And now an upcoming death has got me thinking about mortality ‘n shit ‘n purpose ‘n happiness. Just when you think you have it all figured out, someone passes on and you get angry when you understand that they didn’t have it all figured out. You want to shake them from death’s grip and say “Listen up! See what you’ve missed! Look at what you could have had!” I’m talking about the things that money can’t buy. I’m thinking about the things that should be important.
So will death’s reminder bring my own Father the epiphany that he needs? Probably not. My thinking is that the death of the last substantial lineage with where he comes from will either cause him to retreat further into himself or produce a resentment that has been increasingly noticeable in the past few years. There are things that he can’t control, and it bothers him. The sad thing is that what he actually could control isn’t being addressed. He’s very lucky to have my Mother; I’m not sure if others would receive his emotional shallowness in much the same way as she does. I really hope that one day he can put away the baggage and demonstrate some feelings. The mindless bickering that he often creates does not serve his intelligence well and is extremely unpleasant to be around. And regarding that epiphany? I’m not waiting around for it to happen.
So with that bummer in mind, some things that have brought things into perspective. Think of it as the “enjoy every sandwich” list.

• Episode III-Quite simply a badass piece of work that renewed my faith in the whole George Lucas franchise. Aside from a few minor flaws, it’s the best thing since “Empire.” And even “Empire” had a few minor flaws. Let me remind you that Billy Dee Williams was in that thing, and even he makes Samuel L. Jackson look Shakespearean. There were times during the film in which I was actually thinking “This thing is totally awesome!” If you don’t believe me, consider the Godshonesttruth that I went into the theatre expecting just a hair better than Episode I or II. About halfway through it, I began realizing that is was on par with the original trilogy. By movie’s end, I was firmly convinced it was right on par with “Empire.”
• Take 5 Candy bars-I want to thank the pothead who came up with this motherfucking delicious confection. Don’t let the “let’s throw a bunch of shit in there” ingredient list fool you. It’s most awesome and, again, even I went into my first one with a “what the fuck are they putting pretzels in candy bars?” attitude. Every single Goddamn person I have recommended it to has walked away from one with a “damn, that’s a tasty sucker” comment. Except for one douchebag at work, but that fucker is into Butterfingers. Hershey is the shit. Fuck Nestle.
• Cat Power’s “Willie Deadwilder”-Now before you think “Oh great, here’s Worpswede going off on yet another Chan Marshall jerkoff” let me declare how fucking great this two-chorded eighteen plus minute piece of work is. Swear to God, this song has brought me close to tears and perfectly summarizes my love of the S.L.F. in more ways than I could possibly compose myself. It’s like Chan got into my head and wrote down the words I was too chickenshit to admit. Sample:
  

With your love I have foothold

I can carry on

But please don't let me worry you now

Please don't let me worry you now

There's nothing I am saying

That could ever be made wrong

I love you, love you so

I love you so strong

Please remember your heart in me

Please remember it's not anatomically correct

Please know there's no boundary

And if God is willing to protect

Our love, a world of love

I think you'd be willing too

Where are you from

And where are you going to

We have so much to do

Where you are going is

Where you do come from

And where I will be is with you

We have so much to do

We have so much to do

We have so much to do

Hurry, hurry, hurry let's go

Hurray, hurray, things are gonna be okay

Hurry, hurry let's go

All them children are waiting

It's time and they are ready

We got so much to do

And if God is willing

We have got so much

We have got so much

And if you thought the post would end without another picture of Chan, you'd be wrong...

Fucking Tweekers

The SLF and I recently visited our “friendly” fuckers at Wal-Mart to buy some allergy medicine. This event happened at 6:00 pm on a Sunday. In the aisle featuring all good things that mask allergy symptoms, we found disclaimers instead of products. Essentially, the disclaimers said that we must ask the pharmacist for these non-prescription items. The trouble was, the pharmacy closed at 6:00pm. We asked for a manager to ask why we could not purchase a non-prescription medication to complete our wonderful one stop shopping experience. He informed us that Iowa law prohibits selling allergy medication beyond a certain time. When we asked if Wal-Mart was going to extend the hours of the pharmacy to better serve the customers, he advised no. In retrospect, I guess we were a little hard on the fuckface, as he really was the messenger and we were just looking for yet another reason not to shop at the Smiley Store.

Here’s the Iowa law, in case your thinking about cooking up a batch:
Under new SF 169:
o Licensed pharmacists may dispense, on a nonprescription basis, products containing ephedrine, pseudoephedrine, or phenylpropanolamine, as the sole ingredient or in combination with any other ingredient, pursuant to rules currently being developed by the Board. An individual may not purchase from a pharmacy more than 7500 mg. of these substances during a 30-day period.
o Purchasers must be at least 18 years of age and, if they are unknown to you, must show a photo ID. Purchases must be logged. Pharmacies are not required to disclose the contents of a dispensing log to law enforcement officials unless the log is the subject of a court order or subpoena.
o Larger amounts of pseudoephedrine may be dispensed by pharmacies for legitimate medical purposes pursuant to a prescription issued by an authorized prescriber.
o Retail (non-pharmacy) outlets may sell only limited amounts of select pseudoephedrine products in controlled settings. Retailer sales are limited to one package of liquid or liquid-filled gel caps containing no more than 360 milligrams of pseudoephedrine to a single purchaser in a 24-hour period, and no more than 7.5 grams of pseudoephedrine from a pharmacy or retailer, separately or collectively, in a 30-day period. Retailers shall NOT stock or sell any non-liquid pseudoephedrine products or any products containing ephedrine or phenylpropanolamine.
o Retailers must keep liquid and liquid-filled gel cap pseudoephedrine products behind a counter inaccessible to the public or in a locked case, shall require a government-issued photo ID, and shall maintain for 12 months a pseudoephedrine purchase log including the purchaser's name, address, and signature.
o A pharmacy may elect to keep ALL pseudoephedrine products in the pharmacy and dispense the liquid or liquid-filled gel cap products in compliance with requirements and limitations for dispensing Schedule V pseudoephedrine products.

Jesus Christ, is there really an army of tweekers out there gobbling up allergy medications (even infant formulas) for their own recreational usage? Since these dipshits are up all night, can’t they just as easily drive to a neighboring state and purchase the ingredients there? A friend who’s a pharmacist foreshadowed this inconvenience by purchasing some extra pseudoephedrine products prior to the law, but I had no idea this shit was now as heavily monitored as heroin. Can I now purchase smack at the Wal-Mart pharmacy just as long as there’s a pharmacist on duty? Twenty bucks says the meth problem continues to rise even after SF 169 has been around for a while. Fucking tweekers. They always manage to throw a wrench into people’s business.
In the “good idea” department:
• A friend and I think it would be a good idea for me to throw a pair of men’s underwear on stage at a Judas Priest concert. You know: show Rob Halford a little love.
• I’m thinking about commissioning some art from a guy at work. Apparently, he will, for a modest fee, create a work of art from photographs. Many people are using him to create artwork containing images of deceased family members. This way, a family member who’s dead can be combined with those that are living. My goal is to have him make an image of Dale Earnhardt and Jesus Christ. Kind of taking the whole halo above the number three thing to the next level.

This is just a few examples of how my mind operates. Another example is to get off line for fear that the Man will see this post, check the time of the posting, and then conclude I’m cooking meth down in the basement.

Dig!

Anton Newcombe is unstable. This is why I just e-mailed him asking for some different guitar tunings to work with. I’ll let you know if he replies, but you’re probably asking why I would e-mail a crazy person. My thinking was: why not start with someone who is completely committed to thinking outside of the box. Anton Newcombe definitely thinks “outside of the box.”


Anton Newcombe is also completely committed to his music. Anyone who fucks with it, be it audience or band member, will soon feel the wrath of his manic ways. If you’re not all too familiar with the manner in which Anton runs his life, band, and career, I strongly urge you to purchase the documentary “Dig!” which chronicles his band, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, and his fixation on The Dandy Warhols.
After filming over 2000 hours of footage, you know there are some great moments that make up the rockumentary. So rather than repeat what you really need to witness anyway, let me say that “conflict” is a part of Anton’s life and musical direction. Those that try to work with him end up fighting. Those that try to assist him end up frustrated. Those that try to understand him end up confused. In the end, only his music manages to reveal him and even that is hidden under a retro fabric from a time and place that he wishes he had taken part in.
Anton is probably one of the most notorious targets for confrontation since Henry Rollins during his long hair phase. People actually attend a BJM show to either 1.) witness a meltdown or 2.) create one. And while you may not be able to control #1, it’s hard for me to understand why you would even want to provoke someone who obviously has challenges with dealing with confrontational people. It’s the equivalent to challenging a retard to a spelling bee; it’s just too easy.
Take a performance from Schubas in Chicago, Illinois. A man threw a full glass of beer directly at Anton only to be hit and escorted out….by his girlfriend. Prior to this incident, Anton got into a verbal argument with his guitarist over the volume of his instrument. The guitarist attempted to appease Anton, gave up and then increased the volume of the instrument again. Angry, Anton marched over to the guitarist’s amplifier and adjusted every control knob until his vision and his anger were under control.
While this incident is not on the movie, “Dig!” provides viewers with many other examples of “confrontation,” some of which end with broken sitars. “This doesn’t happen in my band!” reminds Courtney Taylor of The Dandy Warhols after performing with the BJM, as if anyone really expected differently.
The fixation that Anton has on the Warhols is fascinating. It’s almost as if he wants to live vicariously through them and use their success as both a rationale for his own band not succeeding and as a focal point for his own self esteem. The Warhols are also used as creative fodder, causing Anton to resort to bullying tactics both in song composition and as a marketing tool. Anton may be the star of the film, but the Dandy Warhols certainly come off as the hapless shells that jump when their major label asks them to do so. They have nearly no power over their direction while Anton meanders through the states with complete control over whatever he wants to do. It’s both an envious and unhealthy situation which adds to his own instability. This is clearly a man who needs direction and a peer that he can relate to. Courtney Taylor is unable to provide either as his own drive places his band as priority one. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
I consider The Dandy Warhols as a guilty pleasure, but nothing they’ve done will be treated with the same amount of reverence as what The Brian Jonestown Massacre has managed to accomplish. Never mind the fact that the BJM’s own catalog is filled with misfires and severely crippled ideas. While the movie may boost the catalog sales for BJM, it goes without saying that not even a lucrative inclusion on a soundtrack to a Hollywood smash would make them successful. And that’s what makes Anton’s band and music so appealing in the end: with this understanding, Anton continues to work out of sheer passion which is exactly what rock music needs more of these days.

Spoon-Gimmie Fiction

If you’re like me, Spoon’s 2002 release “Kill The Moonlight” took you completely by surprise. Typically, most bands become too bitter, too fractured to really rebound from a major label dropping. Their fans, typically, become too uncaring of such a drama to really give a shit about a band having their feelings hurt by the aftermath of a R.I.F. at WEA. Being dropped by a major was probably the best thing that ever happened to Spoon: “Kill the Moonlight” plays like a classic on the cusp of larger acclaim. In short, it sounds like a call up from the farm league rather than an effort of a band who’s time in the majors had come and gone.
And for that Cinderella story, Spoon suddenly found themselves the dubious distinction of trying to top themselves. Considering how good “Kill the Moonlight” was/is, it’s no shock then how their latest, “Gimme Fiction” comes up a few songs short of “Moonlight’s” majesty. That much you should know before entering into their latest, but it shouldn’t prevent you from hearing what they’re doing now. Because any band that possesses as much knowledge about rock music as Spoon does, deserves to have more attention than Soundscan currently acknowledges.

While “Kill the Moonlight” examined some insanely catchy medlodic patterns, “Gimme Fiction” replicates that direction with the electric guitar stepping up, front and center. There’s less of a cut and paste feel to the album, but it’s still a little difficult to understand why it took nearly three years to come up with it. I mean, I probably would have been thrilled to death if “Gimme Fiction” took a year to make but the shear fact that after all this time, the forty-four minutes represented here is the best that they came up with, well, it makes me feel a little disappointed. There’s a sense of some songs just on the verge of being finished and a few more songs that feel like they could’ve gone just a few steps further. “They Never Got You” is a prime example of this. It’s a song that maintains a new wave chord progression, but fails to really build a memorable agenda and after three minutes, you’re tired of the whole track. “Merchants of Soul” follows suit, this time with a neat piano pattern that once again fails to get past the idea that it may have made a nice bridge in some other song if they’d put some extra time behind it. There’s also a few Anglophile elements spattered throughout the entire effort but it only points to the sad fact that there’s a ton of other bands out today that focus their entire musical direction on post-punk Britpop and they’re doing a better job than Spoon is of replicating it.
Just when you’re a little testy about it, they’ll throw in a few songs that would fit right at home on “Moonlight” (“My Mathematical Mind,” “The Delicate Place,” “The Infinite Pet,” and “Sister Jack”) and then add a few that actually build upon that album. “Was It You” sounds a few yards away from a Talking Heads song and “I Turn My Camera On” may be the reason why this album suddenly reaches a few more music fans. If anything, I’ll bet you there are a ton of cellular phone manufacturers that would pay top dollar for this song to be playing underneath commercial images of their new camera phones. There’s a reason why marketers would be drawn to it: because it’s a crafty little pop tune that posses more heart in a mere three minutes than most contemporary soul songs do in an entire full-length outing.

“It took its time a-working into my soul/I got to believe it came from rock and roll” Britt Daniel sings on the opening track, “The Best And Dragon, Adore,” and “Gimme Fiction” took its sweet time hitting the streets. The members of Spoon have a good understanding of their rock history and their passion for it is prevalent throughout the new album. I’m still a little pissed at why it took so long to get released, at the same time, I’m glad it’s finally here.

Cinco De Mayonnaise

Another shitty week. It's been a while since I've been this bumming. It's like an old friend that you really don't care for much anymore. Lots of life dramas, werkloads, and financial poopyness fill each day. It's easy to get lost in the routine and smoke more cigarettes. Fucking sometimes allows you a little solitude with it and music provides a brief distraction. I've gone from The Human League to Iron Maiden to Public Enemy to Superchunk to Black Flag to Richard Marx in single bounds, and I woke up the next morning to breathe again. I think I can shake this funk. I've kicked the shit out of depression ten times this bad.
On top of this, I need to move.
One has to ask themselves: What would Keith Richards do?

Now I understand that Keith is relatively wealthy now and has the ability to buy his way out of any major problem. But there has to be a few times a year where Keith just doesn't have things go his way. My guess is that he throws down a few Rebel Yell's, picks up a Telecaster and lights a smoke. My dream is that he throws a needle in his vein, slips his cock in the ass of a underage chick and lights a smoke.
Today kept reminding me of the Liz Phair song of the same name. The lyric "Cinco De Mayo/burn down Ohio" kept repeating through my head. Notable activity from today:

• A near retired woman felt sorry that the new Muslim girl had to wear that clothing all year long.
• I had two conversations with a guy we call "Milton." I used to jokingly bet that every time we had food, he would suddenly show up and ask for the leftovers. I would then purposely give him donuts and candy thinking it was quite humoring. Until I noticed his hands shaking. Then I became concerned. Indeed: a quick investigation with input from the training lady revealed that Milton shouldn't be eating sweets at all! He has diabetes. The fucker also drinks like a gallon of Mountain Dew each day. So anyways, I talked to him a few times today. It's a trip. Part of the conversation was about Keith Moon.
• I had my one-on-one with my boss. I still haven't quite figured her out and her departing Administrative Assistant didn't reveal much intel. I did learn that some of the other supervisors hate me. Ha! Me and the new guy are quickly becoming a threat and we're throwing down enough jack to be in first place overall.
• I missed "Flap Jack Day" again and saw a stunned hummingbird fly out of the building after getting trapped in the cafeteria. Some dumbass almost stepped on it. Geese also come up and poop in the smoking section outside.
• The Shins' "Chutes Too Narrow" is a fucking incredible album

Living In The Past

Jethro Tull. What the fuck? Can anyone possibly like these guys? I mean, they rank pretty fucking low on the cool meter and it’s hard to remember a time in which they were ever cool. But they were once. And I tolerate them.
These unshaved English minstrels pooh-poohed around hard rock in the late 60’s and, from what I’ve been told, were second to The Who during The Rolling Stones’ “Rock & Roll Circus.” I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never seen “Rock & Roll Circus” and, prior to Tull’s “Living In The Past” single, I know jack squat about Jethro Tull.
For some reason, “Living In The Past” b/w “Christmas Song” entered into my singles collection when it was originally released. I thought the flute sounded cool, but consider that even a fart sound pretty cool to a 6 year old. I liked the b-side of the single too because Ian Anderson references Santa at the end of it. To a 6 year old, Santa’s pretty fucking cool too.
The following year, Jethro Tull’s “A Passion Play” made its way into my album collection. The artwork was cool: a ballerina bleeding from the mouth graced the black and white cover art while a more appropriate one graced the back sleeve. The gatefold album opened to reveal a mock play program guide. One figures that this was to represent the actual performance of a passion play.
When one finally gets around to playing the one track album (literally, if you don’t include the “intermission” piece) they’ll find that there is very little tying this album together. Occasionally, you’ll hear a word about “acting,” “passion,” “play,” and combinations of the last two words, but that’s really all a listener has when looking for some linear meaning. And when you approach “A Passion Play” with any attempt at linear thought, you’ll walk away from it considering the effort to be one of the most worthless albums ever cut.
Consider approaching it instead with no expectations and with an eye on execution. When I do this, I find “A Passion Play” to be a work of extreme curiosity and intricate performances. Essentially, there are different songs within the one track structure of the album, but they’re segmented affairs filled with lyrics like “the ice cream lady wet her drawers to see you in the passion play.” It’s as if Ian and company simply threw some lyrics together without any idea that maybe they should review and possibly rewrite some passages after they worked out the musical arrangements.
And there’s where the album really takes off. The men of Tull pull out some incredible musical chops on the album, with total disregard for the fact that all of the rehearsal time would be spent on accompanying a piece that would be universally panned upon release.
For a young boy, that kind of highbrow criticism was lost. I knew Dylan wrote some strange words at that age, so it was totally acceptable for me to hear the lines:
“And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulders of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision. (The examining body examined her body.)”
Plus it had the interlude “The Hare That Lost His Spectacles.” This is a fucking children’s story placed smack dab in the middle of the rockin’! As a child, it was cool. As an adult, it was annoying…until I picked up the cd re-issue of “A Passion Play” and saw the promotional clip for the “song” that was included on the cd. Its trippy Alice In Wonderland meets Winnie The Pooh is refreshingly bad and nicely dated to 1973.
Apparently, there is an actual story to the album. There is a guy who dies, he’s taken to a viewing room to revisit moments in his life, he’s sent to Heaven, doesn’t like it, sent to Hell, doesn’t like that either, so the fucker is reborn again. Got it? Fuck it, just nod like a retard and agree “the rain only gets in sometimes and the sun never leaves you alone” is a pretty clever line, even when you’re not baked.

The album made enough of an impact on me to explore Jethro Tull further with the albums “Heavy Horses” and “Songs From The Wood.” Both of these albums were purchased on 8-track and have not been replaced digitally. I did throw down some cash for a Tull comeback album of sorts called “Broadsword And The Beast” or something, but the album sucked and I sold it back to the record store a few weeks later. It must have been bad enough for me to even avoid some of Tull’s more popular moments, or I must have finally grown up enough to realize that they were an uncool band to continue supporting.
But fuck that shit: I actually like “A Passion Play.” I love the pretentiousness of it, I love the grandeur of nothing, and I love guys that wear overalls when they rock. Seriously, every dude in Jethro Tull looks like a farmer down the road in Iowa. I’ll grant you that the farmer’s probably growing organic foods and weed at his farm, but he is a man of the earth nonetheless.
Probably my biggest respect now comes from the fact that at their core, J.T. is a band firmly entrenched in England’s musical roots. And as uncool as that looks or sounds, it’s pretty cool that some hippies stumbled on to the idea and were able to make a pretty successful career out of it.
Did Ian go punk? Fuck that shit, Ian didn’t even go disco. He did go a little overboard with the “A” album where he starts the thing as an overdue solo album, but then realizes there’s more money to be made on a Jethro Tull tour than an Ian Anderson one. The only notoriety they seemed to get during the 80’s was a “Best Heavy Metal” award at the Grammy’s and they only won that because half of the voting committee had heard of them.
For the past 15 years, Tull has pretty much stuck to a compilation album every three years followed by the occasional memory lane tour. I’m sure that they’ve released a few original titles during this time, but name me a rock station that plays them. Like other progressive sorts, theirs is only pursued by hardcore fans, glanced at by novices, and ignored by children who now know John Fogerty was once on The Wiggles. A musical retard would also add that the drummer for Crowded House, who just committed suicide, also had a recurring role on that God-forsaken children’s show.
Anyway, for all of you musical elitist who constantly bag on the Tull: I completely understand and will even provide you with stones to throw. But when we’re done talking about how pretentious a progressive rock band can be, I’ll throw in “A Passion Play” to remind myself how innocent even the most overreaching band can be when listened through child’s ears.

To The Paramedic Who Saved Nikki Sixx

AC/DC released the DVD “Family Jewels” this past week; a collection of rare television footage, promotional clips, and shitty 80’s videos. Yes it’s true: you can now own the entire “Fly On The Wall” video again in a handy digital format. The good news is that the discs are broken up into two sections, one for Bon Scott and the other for Brian “There’s a bowling pin in my anus” Johnson. By the end of disc two, you’re ready to knock that silly hat off of Brian’s head and scream “What the fuck is with all that shit after “Flick Of The Switch?” Or if you’re like my S.L.F., you’re going “Oi! Oi! Oi!” (like in “T.N.T.”) by the time they hit the “Highway To Hell” clips. Yes it’s true; I had to explain why it’s cool that every single AC/DC song sounds the same. And again, don’t get me started on “Mr. Metronome” Phil Rudd…

I would be remiss in mentioning that I broke down and bought Motley Crue's “Shout At The Devil” last week and will again declare that it’s a good album, but it definitely is not the “classic” album that those money fuckers want you to believe. I had forgotten how utterly bad some of those songs were (pointless version of “Helter Skelter,” album fillers “God Bless The Children Of The Beast” and “In The Beginning”) and how retarded Nikki Sixx could be as a lyricist. Let’s take a closer look at the song “Bastard.”
At first, you’d think the song is about a dude that pisses off Nikki so much that he declares “consider that bastard dead!” What’s confusing is the line that follows:
“Get on your knees
Please beg me, please
You’re the king of the sleaze
Don’t you try to rape me”
So is Nikki afraid the dude is going to fuck him and, in order to save his masculinity, has to kill him? It’s shit like this that prevents “Shout At The Devil” from being anywhere near a landmark release.
To top this shit off, there’s a recent interview with Mick Mars who basically admits he thought the whole make-up and metal thing was retarded but that, essentially, he was getting old and wanted to be famous. I guess his shitty bar band from the 70’s wasn’t paying the bills for Mick, his wife and children, so he took the Crue route. Trust me when I say “shitty bar band;” I’ve heard songs from his old band and I can say “shitty” with conviction. I guess Mick really wanted to be a blues guys, yet even after making some jack with Vince, Neil, and Tommy, still has yet to produce anything that refers to his love of the genre. It’s what they call “selling out” and it’s something that these fuckers have known about all along.
I will be fair in saying “Shout At The Devil,” “Danger,” “Looks That Kill” and “Knock ‘Em Dead Kid” all rock nicely, but I’m having a hard time with the entire “It’s a big deal that we’ve reunited for the fans” bullshit that Sixx seems to be pumping out with as much fervor as his “I almost died from an overdose!” sound bite.
Shout at the devil…and ask for a higher guarantee on tour.

Kiss - Live At The U.S. Cellular Center, Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Here's the infamous Kiss concert review that I did a few years ago. I'm posting it because I lost it and a post pretty much guarantees I won't lose it again.

KISS
Live at the U.S. Cellular Center in Cedar Rapids, Iowa
September 2, 2000

I’ll admit it; I can’t stand Kiss. Even during my formidable days as a young boy I hated them. Back then; I really couldn’t adequately describe why I disliked them. As I grew older, I understood that it was the cheesy theatrics, the poorly aped Stones riffs, and the blatant marketing tools they used that really turned me off. A pretty advanced criticism, I’d say, for a young boy growing up in a small Midwestern town in the 1970’s. Cameron Crowe can suck my dick.

Don’t get me wrong: Every other kid that I knew ate the shit up. My cousin, for example, was so into this New York quartet that he (like so many others) bought every single Goddamn solo Kiss album the first day they were released simply so he could get the poster that came with each album…In a brilliant marketing move, kids had to purchase every one of these Godforsaken records to make the poster complete. It struck me odd that it was the posters and not the music itself that made him shell out the $7.99 x 4. My cousin continued to collect this Kiss memorabilia and probably has a goldmine sitting in his closet. I also need to mention that my cousin ceased buying Kiss products the day they took off their makeup. When confronted with this, he explained that he felt that they “sold out” when they trotted back into the spotlight with Ace and Peter back in the fold during the mid-90’s. When I asked him the night before he got married in 1999 of what band he now follows, he said “The Church” without missing a beat. God finally gave rock and roll to him in.

Then there was my next-door neighbor, Bobby H., who also loved the kings in Satan’s service. Bobby marveled at Gene spitting blood on the cover of “Alive II” and declared that they were indeed the hottest band in the world. I think it was Bobby that perpetrated the rumor that, at every Kiss concert, a goblin was passed through the audience where the concertgoers were required to spit into the large cup. When it was filled with the saliva of the crowd, it would be passed back up to the stage where Gene would drink the contents of it proving how insane he really was. I didn’t buy it. I was more interested in the retarded open letter that Gene included inside the gatefold of the Kiss “Alive” album. If I recall correctly, it was filled with lots of sexual innuendos and encouraged people to buy the new Kiss comics that Marvel put out because they used their own blood in the ink. It should be noted that Bob grew up and later hung himself in his garage leaving a wife and several kids to ponder “why.” Perhaps it was because he could never afford to complete the collection of all four solo albums, and that really bummed him out.

During the seventies, my parents were friends with another married couple, Vel and Eric, who didn’t have any children. I enjoyed going over to their house my folks because the dude had an enormous record collection. While my parents socialized, I was left to Eric’s records and turntable and would often fall asleep with his enormous Koss headphones still attached to my skull; Eric always loved interrupting my slumber by suddenly turning up the stereo, sending me jolting up with eyes wide open. It’s important to note that Eric introduced me to Frank Zappa and never clued my folks in on the fact that I was memorizing the lyrics to “Dinah-Moe-Hum” while they were playing cards in the other room.
Vel and Eric came over to my parent’s house one evening to help wallpaper our guest room. Eric soon grew tired of the activity and joined me downstairs in watching a movie. That movie was “Kiss Meets The Phantom of the Park.” We laughed together at the ridiculous plot, at Gene’s demonic growls and laser eyes, at Ace’s sudden bursts of “Ha!” and, most importantly, at why this piece of shit could possibly even be considered for airing on network television. It was reassuring to have somebody older and with more records than me to acknowledge that this band was a bunch of dumbasses that got lucky by taking an Alice Cooper routine to the next level. Only women and Gene bled back in 1979…

I almost bought Kiss’ “The Elder” back in the early 80’s because somebody told me that Gene and Paul were working with Lou Reed. It was a struggle: on one had I was curious to see if Kiss actually had some talent and Uncle Lou was there to give their image some creditability, or was he simply desperate for a quick buck because his contract with Arista had run out? I could never bring myself to buy it and, years later when I finally heard “The Elder,” thanked Jesus that I spent my hard earned money on Reed’s “The Blue Mask” instead. Other Kiss fans must have felt the same way too; “The Elder’ remains as the only Kiss album not to go gold. I heard that there was a local band in Iowa City that seriously contemplated performing “The Elder” in its entirety. That idea alone is more brilliant than the “concept” Kiss came up with and those guys, whoever they may be, deserve all future royalties of “The Elder” should they ever grow balls big enough to actually go through with it.
Kiss, by this time, decided to “rock out’ with their next release “Creatures of the Night.” I also seriously considered buying this one because of the big drum sound of “I Love It Loud.” The video ruled because it implied that, by simply listening to the song, Kiss could break the windows in your parent’s house and make your eyes glow. Shortly after that, you would find yourself wandering the streets with other teenagers whose eyes glowed like yours. Better believe it….
The make-up cash cow had run it’s course and Gene and Paul (rightly) assumed that they could gather some additional press if they appeared “unmasked” for “Lick It Up.” It was enough for Bobby H to forget what a piece of shit the real “Unmasked” was and go out and buy “Lick It Up” He expressed his glee at the new direction and I continued to chastise him by pointing out that even a monkey wearing a diaper could probably figure out the guitar part for “Lick It Up.” Bobby confirmed this by not naming his new Spaniel puppy Vinny Vincent and instead opted to name the dog “Jake” in honor of Ozzy’s new axeman Jake E. Lee. I was beginning to think that Bobby was coming around to my line of thinking.
I was almost floored soon after when a gay friend of mine went out and purchased “Animalize.” Our friendship was started on a mutual love of The Knack and it progressed into him supplying me with import Scritti Polliti singles and rare remixes of Yaz songs. How could this same individual who actually owned and enjoyed a Dead Or Alive album have Kiss in his record collection? Years later, it dawned on me that Paul Stanley often pranced around like a fairy and I came to the conclusion that “The Lover” probably played for “the other team” and my friend’s recent purchase of “Animalize” was merely a bad case of racing hormones. Whatever the reason, the album was full of shit. Only Gene’s track “Burn Bitch Burn” (sample lyric: “Burn Bitch Burn, ooh ooh ooh”) produced a smile on my face. I honestly felt that Kiss would be history within a year.


They weren’t, of course, so I had to settle with surrounding myself around people who despised Kiss as much as I did. I went almost an entire decade without hearing any new Kiss material and life was good.
That trend ended when I received a promotional copy of Kiss’ “Revenge” cd while working at a top 40 station. Initial reviews had been positive and with this in mind, I took the free copy home to give it a listen. It wasn’t bad. As a matter of fact, “Revenge” remains as the only Kiss album that I’ve ever heard in which I didn’t mock while listening to it to this day. Is it any surprise then that, a couple of years after the release of “Revenge,” Gene and Paul sacked the album’s line up? Perhaps they felt out of their element with critics actually liking their music.
During 1995, in one of those moments that you just can’t quite explain, I went out and bought the Gene Simmons solo album. The cover caught my eye: a cartoon Gene looking menacing with a trickle of blood creeping from his snarling lips. I’ve got to own this simply for the cover, I thought. I looked at the liner notes and noticed the album contained an amazing assortment of guests: Liza Minelli, Cher, that dude the slut-groupie Pamela DeBarres married, and a cast of others who should have known better
I forked over three bucks for the thing and felt smug. Technically, I hadn’t really bought a Kiss album. Since it was used, there was no risk of any member of Kiss receiving royalties from my hard-earned dollar. As I walked out of the record store I was still rationalizing the purchase with myself. Even if the music was a total farce, I could still salvage the sleeve as a reminder of how much I hated Kiss. Besides, I was almost thirty years old at the time, and it would be almost sacrilegious not to own at least one Kiss album. Sometimes it’s tough being a white boy.
The album is a total hack job. I’m not joking when I say that it has to be one of the worst albums ever made. The best thing on the album is Gene’s (straight) rendition of “When You Wish Upon A Star” which I later learned he included on the effort as a joke. I couldn’t contain myself in telling others at what a piece of shit the Gene Simmons solo album was. Most people were confused by my passionate hatred at a record that was approaching twenty years old. Only my cousin Jason understood my pain. “If you think that one sucks,” he said, “try listening to the Peter Criss solo album…It’s even worse.” Another friend of mine also said the exact same thing and even added that the Paul Stanley solo release ain’t no Sgt. Pepper either. Of course, none of this could erase the fact that the hottest band in the world had finally duped me.
Around the same time as the Gene Simmons solo album fiasco, I went out and bought a copy of their “masterpiece” album “Destroyer.” I bought it for no fucking good reason at a Wal Mart in Shenandoah, Iowa while visiting my wife’s parents. We had grown tired of listening to an alternative station in Omaha play 311 over and over in anticipation of these hometown boys return to Nebraska. 311 originally started in the state’s largest city and then realized that Chip Davis wasn’t going to release shit from them on his American Gramophone record company. Chip had found sickening success with his Yuletide moog noodle outfit Manheim Steamroller who’s name makes me think of Bob and Doug McKenzie rolling over each other yelling “Steamroller!” in the movie “Strange Brew.” Chip hadn’t even attempted to do anything pop since manning the boards for C.W. McCall and milking millions of dollars out of retarded Americans who thought that c.b. radios were something they had to own.
Anyway, 311 got brains, moved to L.A. (just like Poison) and then found themselves with a gold album on Capricorn. The kids in Omaha ate them up because they were “hometown” heroes and the only alternative radio station in town would play them every goddamn hour. This grew really old really fast and I joined my wife on a make-up run (no pun intended) to Wal-Mart. The Shenandoah Wal Mart had plenty of 1.) country music and 2.) bad hair band music. On this day, the cover for “Destroyer” was looking mighty good and, since our Honda didn’t have a c.d. player, I settled on a cassette copy of their most popular studio album. It was a masterpiece, all right…a master piece of shit. This is what prompted people to start bands? This is the same group that the Replacements covered? Either there’s something really wrong with me or the rest of the world became hypnotized with Gene’s laser eyes while watching the phantom of the park movie.
First of all, the production. Bob Ezrin, in typical Bob Ezrin fashion filled the album with a bunch of corny sound effects (just like he did with Pink Floyd’s “The Wall”). Gene and Paul’s songwriting made it easy to understand why 15 year old white boys loved them so much, because they sound like they were written by 15 year old white boys. The performances were far from “heavy” or “metal” but I attribute this to the lads themselves and not Mr. Ezrin. Bob did a fine job with Alice Cooper’s “Love It To Death” album and that thing was 10 times heavier than “Destroyer.” If you want a real picture of what heavy metal was in ’78, stay clear of “Destroyer” and go straight for “…Bullocks” by the Sex Pistols. I’m also a firm believer that Sid Vicious could play bass better than Gene even while nodding out in his own drool.
About five years later, I get a call from my friend Brad who works at a classic rock radio station in Iowa City. He had scored two extra comp tickets to see Kiss in their “Farewell” tour in Cedar Rapids and asked if my wife and I would like to go. It took me a second…I had to consider the gas it would take to get there, but I eventually said yes. I was surprised at my wife’s reaction when I told her the news. She seemed genuinely excited about going and her enthusiasm slowly spread to me. I had been told time and time again of how Kiss really never translated well to vinyl. The best way to truly appreciate the majesty of Kiss was in a live concert. I dug out the cassette copy of “Destroyer,” played it until Gene uttered the words “I command you to kneel” before pushing the eject button. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?
My wife soothed me with words like “It’s not like we’re doing anything this weekend” and “It’s not every weekend you get to see Kiss.” She was right. We hopped in the car and headed up to the Kiss concert.
I picked up Brad and his friend Tanya (who hates Kiss too) in Iowa City. Brad must have sensed my hesitation because he kept saying that the show would be very entertaining as we shared obligatory pre-concert bong hits. I noticed how Brad used the word “entertaining” rather than “rocking” or “intense” or “fuckin’ awesome.” My wife fretted over he appearance feeling that she would somehow be outdone by some Kiss hotty. I assured her that her worries were unjust as Kiss only attracts skanks who think that wearing leopard skin pants four sizes too small is acceptable in the new century. With everyone in good shape for the show, we drove to Cedar Rapids.
Dinner at Denny’s made us miss both Skid Row and Ted Nugent. Brad and I were bummed at this, as we were both excited at the prospect of The Motor City Madman screaming at the crowd to kill animals and to leave the country if we didn’t speak English. Michigan has produced some pretty fucked up people…and they all need our support, including Uncle Ted.
Remember that time when a rare white buffalo was born on a farm in Wisconsin? Ted, God bless him, asked if he could buy it with the sole purpose of killing it. He even managed to offend some Native Americans who viewed the white buffalo as sacred. I’d probably feel like killing The Nuge myself if the fucker hadn’t written “Free For All.” With head hung low, I accepted my fate that I would not be seeing “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang” on that Saturday night.
Unfazed, the four of us took our seats as the house music played The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” over the p.a. The sound guy cranked up the music when Keith Moon starts to lay into his kit after the synth part in the middle, right before Daltry comes back in. Right when Rodger hits the crescendo “Yyyyyeeeeaaaaahhh!!!” the road crew drops a Kiss curtain covering up the stage entirely. This was a que to all of the retards and drunks that it was almost time for the show.
Less than ten minutes later, a man comes on the P.A. with the same motherfucking spiel that they’ve been doing for over 25 years: “Alright Cedar Rapids! You wanted the best and you’ve got the best! Please welcome the hottest band in the world….KISS!!!” And with that, they launch into “Detroit Rock City” just like they do on their live albums.

My wife was so happy that I was right on with the “skank” comment I made before and she thoroughly enjoyed watching the middle aged sluts make a “rock ‘n roll” symbol with one hand while clutching a plastic cup of Budweiser in the other. Most of the men in the audience had to be in their mid to upper thirties and most could use a shot of Rogaine in addition to their $5 beers. We sat next to two gentlemen who felt that the farewell tour of Kiss was such an important event that they towed their kids to the show. Both kids had to be younger than nine and both sported what looked like huge 70’s era headphones guised up as hearing protectors. They looked like Mathew Sweet did on the cover of his “100% Fun” album with the biggest difference being that Mathew was grinning from ear to ear in his child photo, and these kids were so fucking far from even thinking about cracking a smile.
I naively thought that the farewell tour with the original members would only focus on their material from the seventies. Gene and Paul, however, had other plans. This farewell tour would consist of the hits, including those that were made after Ace and Peter had left the fold. Ironically, Gene and Paul chose to avoid the band’s material from the 90’s and did not once acknowledge Eric Carr. Here’s a guy that manned the drum riser longer than Peter Criss and could actually keep a fucking beat. Gene made such a huge stink when Rolling Stone magazine failed to list his obituary when he died in ’91 and yet they now seem to have forgotten his role on the band’s farewell tour. The least they could have done was to display his image on the video screen whenever they did one of their “through the past” video montages.
It was quite a spectacle watching the old farts try to breathe some life into their awful 80’s material. Thankfully, they only did a handful of this shit and focused on their classic fare from the previous decade. They even let Space Ace do a couple of solo songs, which, after hearing his tone-deaf voice, made me wish that Paul and Gene pulled a song off of “Crazy Nights.”
Ace trotted out a “I can’t believe a man with so much technology at his disposal could sound so awful” version of the Stones’ “2000 Man.” It was so bad that The Glimmer Twins should file a restraining order against Ace Frehley for coming anywhere near the song in the future. To keep the fans attention away from the fact that Ace was so fucking far off key, the video monitors displayed some pathetic computer generated cartoon of the members of Kiss as superheroes. If the members of Kiss want to play cards, couldn’t they do it without an Ace in their deck?
Towards the end of the obligatory Ace guitar solo, smoke started to pour from the pickups. This was to signify that when Ace does a guitar “solo” it generates enough heat that his guitar actually catches on fire. In reality, it was just another ploy to distract the audience from the fact that even that Nigel from Spinal Tap played a better solo with his feet. Ace would often lose a pick while “jamming out” and flash a thumbs up to the crowd like the Fonz would. The crowd screamed, Ace continued, and then one of the most hilarious things I have even seen at a rock concert happened. The video monitors started to flash the word “ACE” on the screen in a desperate attempt to get the crowd to wake up. Like Iowa cattle, many in the crowd followed the instructions and started to chant “Ace!” as the word flashed on and off. Ace stopped, gave a “thumbs up,” said “Alright!” like he thought we were screaming for him to continue “shredding.”
Space Ace’s guitar started to produce some effects and it suddenly lifted from his arms and flew away. It is at this point that Frehley does a Henny Youngman one-liner like “Oh man! I that was my favorite guitar!” or “Oh man! I just got that guitar!” Before Ace could start doing more stand up, the rest of the senior citizens returned to rock our balls off.
Paul said the words “Cedar Rapids” forty-three times throughout the concert with three of them add-libbed in a ballad and one of them mouthed unmiked that I caught from watching him on the jumbo-tron. He did his “I want to get close to you, but you have to want me bad enough to scream” bit. The jumbo-tron displayed an image of a v.u. meter to which Paul instructed us to scream so loud that the needle would go “all the way into the red.” The crowd screamed. The man behind the soundboard turned up the audience mike. The needle went into the red. Paul grabbed a bar and flew to the other side of the arena. He sang a song about how much he loved us and said “Cedar Rapids” some more. He then flew back to the stage and left us feeling used like Pamela DeBarres.

Peter Criss practically smiled throughout every minute of the show from behind his kit. Here’s a list of three things that I imagined him smiling about: 1.) I’m so happy that Gene and Paul asked me to come back…Christ I was this close to having the bank foreclose on my house. 2.) Unbelievable! The crowd can’t even tell that the drum track is coming straight from a D.A.T. deck beneath the drum riser! 3.) I’m glad you’re dead, Eric Carr…Like paper covers rock, a cat beats the shit out of a fox every day of the week.
From what I understand, Peter stopped doing a drum solo about the fourth week into the tour. I really could care less who recommended this, Peter or the other members of the band, but whoever’s idea it was deserves a medal. Anyone who struggles with just staying in time should not have the words “drum solo” in their vocabulary.
Later on in the show, the kitty came out under a friggin’ disco ball and mewled “Beth” karaoke-style to the crowd. Pete exclaimed that he had never seen so many women around the front of the stage (“Usually it’s all guys!”) as he handed out roses to the skanks who had, no doubt, heard the excuse “me and the boys will be playin’ all night” far too many times than they cared to remember.
Gene breathed fire and, goddamnit, walked away without any third degree burns. The lights turned to green and Brad looked at me to announce that next would be a bass solo followed by (oh Christ) “God Of Thunder.”
My wife, who received a bass guitar less than a year prior to the concert, could play a bass guitar solo better than Gene Simmons. A bass solo in Gene’s world consists of the sound guy turning up the bass until it distorts, having Gene pluck one friggin’ note over and over again, spitting up blood and saliva on the first three rows of the crowd, and having the stage crew lift his fifty year old ass up to a platform above the stage where he commands the crowd to kneel before the God of Thunder. “Fly, fucker, fly!” I thought.
“God Of Thunder” was probably the highlight of the show. Not because of what was on stage, but because I saw the faces of true horror on the two kids sitting next to us as they looked at their fathers pleading “I don’t like this, Daddy” who remained unconcerned. They lowered Gene’s ass back down to stage left and Paul came back out with another half dozen “Cedar Rapids!”

The skanks continued to show their breasts every time the video cameras were pointed in their direction. Paul, in a desperate attempt to display a certain amount of machismo exclaimed that Cedar Rapids had become a “nipple-fest” which encouraged more skanks to flash the meatheads that like seeing tities at rock concerts. For about a half second, I believed that Paul was not gay.

More annoying than Paul trying to cover up his homosexuality was his constant yapping in between songs. Kiss would play a four-minute song and then Paul would go on and on for about five minutes about how we “had made (his) dreams come true” and how “people said that we couldn’t last…But twenty five years later, (we’d) proved them all wrong!” I swear to God, they could have knocked off almost an hour off of the total time of the show if someone had the balls to tell Paul Stanley to shut the fuck up.

Remember that long falsetto yodeling that Paul did at the beginning of “Heaven’s On Fire?” He now does that at the beginning of almost every fucking song. Sample: “All right Cedar Rapids! We’re gonna do something off of “Love Gun” for yooooooooohohohohohohohooooo!!!!” This wouldn’t have been so bad if the sound levels hadn’t been so motherfucking high. At the risk of sounding old, they had this thing way too loud for the concrete slab known as the U.S. Cellular Center and every goddamn thing bounced off the walls like the Grand Canyon.

It was loud beyond annoying…it was painful. The only reason for this that I could come up with was that they wanted it loud so that you wouldn’t forget the show for days afterwards because of tinnitus. Let me make it clear that it wasn’t really the band that was too loud, just Ace’s treble-heavy guitar and Paul’s annoying “there’s a butt-plug in my asshole” yodels. My wife had to actually go to the doctor a week after the show because her ears hurt so much. It was determined that she had an ear infection (nothing to do with the concert) but the doctor did detect an inflamed eardrum and lectured her for not wearing ear protection. I have to admit, though, if you have to go to the doctor for an after-concert ear problem, it’s cool to tell the physician that Kiss brought you to his office.

In total, Kiss played for two and a half hours (or ninety minutes if you take away Paul Stanley’s banter) like this really was the last time they’d be in Cedar Rapids. Paul mentioned that the (U.S. Cellular Center) arena was like “home” to them because they had played there every tour since 1983. Before that, Paul exclaimed that they used to play at the “coliseum,” a venue that doesn’t even exist in Cedar Rapids.

Hello Cleveland!

For a “farewell” tour, I expected the place to be sold out and was surprised that there were plenty of vacant seats. Surprised until I found out that ticket prices were a staggering $55 bucks for general admission. I didn’t learn this until the middle of the show and Paul tried to justify the hefty ticket prices towards the end of the concert. He went on for ten minutes about how we would pay the same amount of money that we paid (nada…thanks Brad!) and would never see the kind of showmanship that we were witnessing on that night. He continued to preach about how they started the band because they felt ripped off one night after seeing a show that wasn’t entertaining. According to Paul, Kiss was formed to show the rest of the rock and roll world how heavy metal should be played on stage and to give people their money’s worth. Give me my money’s worth, Paul, send me a friggin’ check for my wife’s doctor’s visit!

None of this shit mattered to the crowd, which consisted (mostly) of overweight skanks and middle-aged meth-lab owners. Remarkably, there were very few “metal heads” in the audience, which may be the very reason that Kiss are throwing in the towel.

Kiss has always been about marketing and not, as Paul described it, about giving the people their money’s worth. Does a real music fan actually need comic books printed in blood, poseable action figures (they could hardly do anything), or posters depicting the lads as revolutionary soldiers in the Kiss army? Kiss has always been about taking people’s money and the “farewell” tour was a last attempt at getting a buck before the bottom fell out.

You have got to give the band props for lasting this long and, yes, there have been numerous times when they were declared dead only to make a full financial recovery. The props I’m talking about are working up a new way to market themselves just when they are about to leave the rock and roll radar screen. The unmasking of Kiss in the mid 80’s, the power ballads of the late 80’s, the return of Bob Ezrin behind the boards during the early 90’s when grunge bands cited them as influential, and finally the reunion of the mid 90’s. These are prime examples of a band (specifically Gene and Paul) working a marketing machine that generated hype among a fan base that doesn’t know any better.

Take a look at the bands that cite them as influential. None of them went to the lengths that Kiss did when it came to self-promotion. They understood that 1.) they would never be able to compete with them on that level and 2.) the band was in reality a scam that “masked” their lack of musical ability. Kiss were never really very good at what they did, but they provided an image that depicted them as being much better than they really were.

And dumbshits bought it. I believe that the Kiss Army is divided into two distinct camps: those that are too stupid to tell and those that “get it” but accept the decadence that they promote. Whatever camp you’re a part of is irrelevant, you’re still a dumbshit, and that includes me. I believe as a young boy that Peter Criss was an excellent drummer. Why? Because of the size of his drum kit! Duh! When you’re nine years old you logically assume that he needs all of those tom toms because he’s going to play them. Years later, you start to notice that, out of all those drum accessories, Peter only seems to play the snare, high-hat and bass drum.

My hatred started because I felt used; I was wound way too tight to really understand that what they were doing was perfectly cool. It wasn’t until after seeing them live during their supposed last tour that I finally “got it.” They sucked shit but the concert was probably one of the best things that I’d ever seen because I knew that they knew they sucked shit. Gene and Paul probably sleep well at the end of the day and they may even take offense at this idea, but I’m positive that deep inside, the lashing that they have taken from critics over the past twenty-five years has created a certain amount of self-doubt.

They’ve written some good songs, but they’ve never really been able to come up with an excellent song that rock radio embraces enough to look beyond their pre-pubescent image machine. The Dave Clark Five sold as many records as the Beatles at one time, yet one band has stood the test of time while the other has been demoted to Dick Bartley’s oldies show. Kiss will probably meet the same fate, and part of me “like(s) it like that.”

Let’s look at this another way. In my mind, the Bay City Rollers “Saturday Night” and Kiss’ “Rock And Roll All Night” are virtually identical. Both songs are based in a rock formula and are easy to remember (nice hook). My eleven year old knows (a little) about Kiss but has no idea about the Rollers. Why? Because she’s never seen the Bay City Rollers jumping around in their little Scottish kilts but she has seen Kiss in Pepsi commercials rocking all night, partying every day, and enjoying the joy of cola. Her children will probably feel the same way about Kiss as she feels about the Bay City Rollers and they’ll never hear their music unless an ad agency uses “Sure Know Something” to sell Dr. Pepper.

What I’m getting to is that Kiss, specifically Gene and Paul, need to be in the rock and roll arena to perpetuate the myth. Without them, the myth, the band, the songs, grow stagnate and quickly become a memory triggered by the local oldies station. We probably won’t see white teenagers stumble onto Kiss the way that my generation stumbled onto The Doors or Led Zeppelin. What you’ll have instead is a middle-age father listening to an oldies station while driving his kids when suddenly “Detroit Rock City” comes on the radio. Dad will get so excited and try to explain why they were the “hottest band in the world” only to have a tough time selling it. Again, the biggest obstacle is that the band won’t be around to promote themselves but, you must admit, Kiss has never really been groundbreaking in their music either. So the kids ignore Dad (just like I ignored my Dad’s enthusiasm for the Dave Clark Five when they came on the radio!) and the radio station they listen to won’t be championing the band either (like my favorite stations championed the Beatles, Zep, or The Doors). Suddenly Dad hears Kiss segue right into The Bay City Rollers or Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell” if they’re playing “I Was Made For Loving You.”

Nothing that Kiss did in Cedar Rapids changed my opinion of them. It promoted the myth to the converted at the same time they cleaned out their fan’s wallets (again). And Paul was wrong about justifying their hefty ticket price. I’ve seen better pyrotechnics at a Flaming Lips show in a small club and paid under $10 for that. Had I paid $110 for a pair of Kiss tickets, I would have been pissed. I would have fumed at the barking sound, poor musicianship, predictable showmanship, and endless banter.
As it stands, I didn’t pay for the tickets and it was worth the drive up to Cedar Rapids and dinner at Denny’s. At that price, it was one hell of a show and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I got to see the original members of Kiss do their shtick in full regalia and I had a good laugh at their expense.

After the band performed their final encore, the house lights came up to the sound of “God Gave Rock And Roll To You.” For many, the band was and will continue to be a religion but I remain an atheist. As the crowd filed out, we walked towards the floor. Our foursome saw the roadies start the load-out, the confetti-lined floor, and the garbage cans overflowing with beer cups. If there was a gospel to Kiss, it would have to be those three things: the workers that build the temple every night, the pageantry of the prayer cloths and the holy water the parishioners buy for just five bucks a cup. Paul Stanley is more cunning than Robert Tilton, however, as he has yet to be investigated by the I.R.S.

Our group was suddenly met by security as we were asked to leave the floor and exit the U.S. Cellular arena. With yellow jackets and walkie-talkies they ushered out the faithful and prevented us from watching the road crew dismantle the temple for just a few minutes more. Through the tinnitus I could hear one say: “Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain…”