ROCK 101:

A How-to Guide on Being in an Unsuccessful Rock Band

in addition to music reviews, i've decided to write a rock band survival guide in semi-weekly installments. here goes nothin.

INTRO:

        so, you wanna be in a rock n roll band? before you begin, there a few things you've gotta learn. some of you might think that the golden rule of rock n roll is 'there are no rules,' but don't be naive. rock has rules just like everything else in this world. rules you'll have to follow if you wanna be any good. keep in mind, these are not commandments set in stone. not by any means. some rules are meant to be broken, others, bent. the mark of a great rock band is their ability to manipulate the rules, not completely obliterate them. and if you want to do this well, you've got to at least be aware of some of the rules and regulations of rock n roll.

PART I: REALITY CHECK

        first off, let's get one thing straight. forget about getting famous. the chances of that are about as likely as getting struck by lightening while being eaten by a shark after winning the lottery. if you want to be in a rock n roll band, it's gotta be about the music. who knows, maybe one day you'll have a best-selling album, legions of fans, your face on magazine covers, just don't bet on it. forget fame and fortune. settle for being great. but keep in mind, being great is no guarantee you'll get famous either. tin pan alley is paved with the greatest bands you've never heard of. if you want instant rock stardom, try american idol.

        learn an instrument if you haven't already. tone-deaf need not apply. if you're completely incapable of being a musician, stick to videogames like guitar hero or rock band. a poor substitute i know but hey, it could be worse. contrary to popular belief, rock music takes talent and if you wanna be taken seriously, you've gotta be able to play. now you don't have to be a virtuoso by any means. really all you've got to do is keep a beat, play a few chords, and carry a tune. sometimes not even that much. but beware of sid vicious syndrome. by this i mean, don't think you can substitute a lack of musical talent by being wild and crazy onstage. charisma will only get you so far.

        most people when they think of being in a rock band, they picture playing sold-out shows to an ocean of screaming fans. they picture binge-drinking, drugs, trashed hotel rooms, and gorgeous groupies. that's the glamour. the reality, though, is quite different. for example, the shows my band plays, which are few and far between, happen in small hole-in-the-wall clubs with shoddy equipment that's older than i am. the meagre audience usually consists of parents, a few close friends, and an apathetic bartender. a far cry from the overly romanticized sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll dream-world.

        it's easy to play an engaging and energetic show when you're in a famous rock band playing to a mob of hysterical fans, in an arena, using state-of-the-art equipment. there's nothing to it. it's a-whole-nother story playing a small show to a few lackluster spectators in a club that's really nothing more than a glorified basement. motivation in a place like that is hard to come by. but we play like we're playing to a crowd of thousands. we play each show as if it were our last, as jim morrison would say, because that's how things start. famous rock bands don't start out famous. they start out in the basements and garages of the world playing to small crowds that are barely aware of their existence, if at all.

once you've accepted these sad truths, you're ready to begin.

as dark as the blues of your ultraviolet soul:

pj harvey's to bring you my love

pj harvey makes me feel all warm and mushy inside. there, i said it. i mean who could blame me? this girl's what wet dreams are made of. so what if she's way out of my league? so what if she's rich and famous and i'm neither? so what if she's got fifteen-plus years on me? so fuckin what? i think we could make things work. whatever it takes...

dearest pj,

as god is my witness, you'll be mine one day.

love,

will

...but in the meantime i guess i'll listen to her album 'to bring you my love' again (and again and again.) listen and bide my time. yeah, this is the album that made me fall head-over-heels-kicking-and-screaming in love with her. here's why:

(1) to bring you my love
werewolf-thick guitar fuzz, death march pace, organ so evangelical it makes you want to die just to be born again. not to mention her voice. smooth as snakeskin, sweet as cobra venom, and just as deadly. it sets the tone for the rest of the album.
          a godforsaken love song
                    surrender to temptation in the desert
that's the eponymous opening song in a nutshell. you can practically feel that dry desert heat and see the heatshimmer on the horizon.

(2) meet ze monsta
IT'S ALIVE! clanging assembly-line rhythm, guitars on sizzling overdrive, and woodsmoke-thick vocals have been stitched together by some mad scientist into this...this beautiful monstrosity. it sounds downright industrial. a biblical tempest, the great deluge, and the gruesome aftermath all rolled into a single song. musical monstrosity at its finest.

(3) working for the man
scene: driving beneath a full moon. bass line slinks down back alleys, the electric guitar twangs in the shadows, plush cat-like vocals purr. this one's not so much quiet as it is hushed. passion detained, like putting a silencer on a pistol or restraints on a raving lunatic, cries muffled by pillows.

(4) c'mon billy
plaintive acoustic guitar, her voice pure seduction, violins pine desperately in the background.

(5) teclo
whereas most of the album's a collection of flickering live wires, this one's the thinker. the softer introspective side. sounds cautious and careful, like someone walking on broken-glass. and that hook! that haunting little melody of tandem piano and guitar, one porcelain-smooth, the other grainy as hell.
          the sound of still waters
                       the calm before the storm
then...

(6) long snake moan:

The Storm.

(7) down by the water
low-down bass guitar/synthesizer sludge thicker than mississippi mud
horror movie strings that prod and saw
the demented scratching of a serrated blade on guitar strings
this one's got it all.
sounds like the thing that crawled out of the swamp. and who could forget that whispered nursery-rhyme-turned-sinister-mantra:

'little fish, big fish, swimming in the water,
come back here and gimme my daughter.'

maniacal. diabolical. post-partem psychotical. infanticidal. this one gives me goosebumps.

(8) i think i'm a mother
if dem down-home southern blues done cast off de overalls and straw hats n put on cocktail dresses n stilettos instead, i reckon dis here is de song dey'd sing.
primal guitar, tribal drums, ice-cold vocals. primordial soup du jour.

(9) send his love to me
one of the gut-wrenching ballads on the album. somewhere between a spanish love song and a bible-belt church hymn. it reeks of sweet desperation.

(10) the dancer
sounds like carnal lust.

this album swaggers. swaggers and inspires. it makes me wanna
(a) revel
(b) rampage
(c) fuck
(d) write shitty rock n roll poems to polly jean, like this one:

roses are red, violets are blue

just not as deep as your marlboro-red lips

or as dark as the blues of your ultraviolet soul

most reviewers like to give out grades with stars. not me, though. seems too much like kindergarten. ah, what the hell...

if i have to give this album stars, i'll give it The Pleiades.

deadmetaphors:

tom waits' swordfishtrombones

where to begin? tom waits seems an appropriate choice, as one of his albums is right next to me at the moment. swordfishtrombones.

each song paints a picture and the music goes on where the words leave off.

it sounds
like walking into a smoke-filled saloon seconds before a brawl,
or during,
or seconds afterward,
like a bible-belt chain-gang with their pick-axes clanking,
like something you'd find in your granddad's collection of vinyls,
if your granddad was a crazed drunken degenerate psycopath,
like a sailor in a filipino whorehouse on a sultry summer night,
or the crabs and empty pockets the morning after,
like a hitchhiker on a lonely highway sharpening his bowie knife,
or a quiet sunday morning hangover,
like gasoline rainbows,
or a twenty-one gun salute,
like the soundtrack to a snuff film,
an evening stroll through the slums of hong kong,
last call at a sleazy swing-jazz speakeasy,
and that last shot of bootleg rye that's one too many,
like a dead man walking that jail-cell-lined hall to that decrepit electric chair,
shackles jangling against the cold linoleum floor,
like a rusted beltsander on a gravel driveway,
and death valley tumbleweeds,
like an irish wake,
or a mexican funeral,
or a shot-gun wedding,
or a messy divorce,
like black eyes, chipped teeth, and broken china,
like someone who's had enough and just don't give a shit no more,
like a .44 magnum chamber revolving,
its hammer clicking,
or a sawed-off shotgun caulking,
like a love song to a long-dead lover,
like bones rattling in a pine box,
or a ribcage xylophone,
or ice-frosted tree branches tinkling against window panes,
like all this and more
it sounds

metaphors don't do it justice, but then what could?
you've just got to listen for yourself.
or else...
"i'm gonna whittle ya into kindlin'."

is this thing on?

testing 1-2-3...check, check. hey, is this thing on?

so. this would seem the right time to explain the whole purpose behind this blog. you know, the thesis, mission statement, or whatever. it's pretty simple really.

my world revolves around music--listening to it, making it, watching it, talking about it, you name it. so it seems to me that the next logical step is to write about it.

i'll pretty much write whatever the hell i want, when i want, how i want. could be anything from zeppelin to stravinsky to tuvanese throat singers to the garage band down the street. anything.

this isn't for anyone else but me. if a few people like it, great. if they don't, oh well. they can go to hell. if no one reads it (and this seems to be the most likely scenario), then i guess i don't have to think of a way to end this sentence.

that being said, i guess i'll begin.