I had heard of Wilco before, though had never given them much of a chance until seeing them last summer.
It’s very rare to fall in love with a band after seeing them for the first time. Ironically, thanks to the internets, it doesn’t seem to be rare to find footage of the exact moment you fell in love with a band after seeing them for the first time.
Enjoy. I did.
Or perhaps a better title is, “Moment of Explicit Absurdity.”
I tune into the Top 40 radio station on my drive home more than I care to admit. My “on the record” excuse is that I like to know what music most people are listening to and try hard to understand why they do. Off the record? The Fray is my latest guilty pleasure and no one else plays their music.
True story. (Now leave me alone!)
Anyway, Panic! At The Disco is one of those fortunately unfortunate bands that has transcended alternative obscurity and crossed into the mainstream with the likes of John Meyer and the Goo Goo Dolls (not a guilty pleasure of mine) over the past year and a half. Their song, “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” was on the air on my commute home this evening, which was censored awkwardly, masking out the “god” in “goddamn.”
I’m certainly not a bleeding heart nor even a radical defender of free speech. However, the radio station blatantly misses the use of such censorship. Whether or not they realize it, the choice to remove “god” identifies it as the controversial half of that conjunction.
Doesn’t that sound like an oxymoron? Remove one word that so many people associate with purity and holiness for another that most would consider a mild, if harmless, curse. If maintaining the purity of what we hear on the radio was the station’s objective, I think it missed the target. (Unsurprisingly, I have yet to hear a rock station to even partially bleep the word.)
If by some freak accident I wind up in a band, my first single will just repeat “goddamn” over and over again. And the title? You guessed it: “The Purest Song in All the Land.”
So, here’s the deal. It happens every nine months when the leaves turn brown and we consider for the first time all year of actually wearing an extra layer to bed. That’s right, Summer is officially ending and there seems to be a tangible feeling of jet lag wafting in the air.
We need something to sustain us.
We need to GET PSYCHED.
I’m employing a new strategy influenced by the show How I Met Your Mother - The Psych Mix. This is unlike anything you’ve ever heard before because, unlike other so-called “mixes,” there is no up and down here. That’s right: all PSYCH all the time. This will be an annual release meant to usher in a fresh-baked pan of awesome just when we need it most.
The bar has been raised, my friends. You’re welcome.
1 :: Welcome to the Jungle – G’n’f’n’R
2 :: Somebody Told Me – The Killers
3 :: You Give Love a Bad Name – Jonathan B. Jovi
4 :: We Are All On Drugs – Weezer
5 :: C’Mon C’Mon – The Von Bondies
6 :: Intergalactic – Beastie Boys
7 :: I Believe in a Thing Called Love – The Darkness
8 :: Eye of the Tiger – Survivor
9 :: Around the World – Red Hot Chili Peppers
10 :: Same in the End – Sublime
11 :: Jump - Van Halen (the D. Lee Roth era)
12 :: Peanut Butter Jelly Time - Chip Man & The Buckwheat Boyz
Just a thought.
And maybe you’ve had it, too.
I believe that Kriss Kross was shortchanged. Their success was erected on the foundation of “Jump,” a monster tune that propelled Mack Daddy and Daddy Mack into the stratosphere of musical stardom. (Did anyone catch them on In Living Color?)
“Jump” fails to even scratch the metaphorical surface of genius that is (or was) Kriss Kross. By the time we sobered up from Totally Krossed Out, many of us were simply too hung-over to appreciate the phenomenon that should have followed. “Warm it Up Kriss” positioned itself to rival Dylan’s finest work.
Just a sample for you: Warm it up Kriss / I’m about to. / Warm it up Kriss. / ‘Cause that’s what I was born to do.
One word: Sweet.
And don’t even get me started on the teenage years of Kriss Kross. Their talent aged like fine wine and the music fell on deaf ears. Can anyone else recall Da Bomb, their under-celebrated sophomore release? Do yourself a favor and pick up 1996’s Young, Rich and Dangerous from the $0.99 cent bin at Tower Records. The album plays less like a rap classic and more like an epic opera full of dramatic build-ups, heartfelt arias, and suspenseful crescendos. The boys churned out titles including “Tonite’s Tha Night,” “Hey Sexy,” “Da Streets Ain’t Right,” and, my personal favorite, “Mackin’ Ain’t Easy,” each displaying a level of maturity that far exceeded their deceptive young ages,
But all we remember are funky cornrows and backwards jeans. I think we all “Missed the Bus” on this talent.
There are so many gorgeous people in Long Beach. I don’t mean to sing that in the key of hippy, but rather from the most objective perspective I can muster. Both the girls and guys in this area are extremely attractive in the textbook (a.k.a. People magazine) sense.
I noticed this as I scrambled from store to store looking for new clothes to wear at a wedding. I noticed it again as I sat in the hair salon, inconspicuously eyeing people past my own reflection in the hairdresser’s mirror. “How does that length look,” she said (she didn’t pose it as a question, but as a statement of affirmation).
“Umm, good.”
I make eyes with others all the time. Sometimes the glances are accompanied by a smile, other times with a sharp head turn in another direction. I try to meet eyes with most people I pass because I believe the reaction is such a telling indication of the other person. The attractive brunette who looks as primped at 9am over coffee as any of us at a formal evening event forces a bored look at her table, but reveals a tiny smile, obviously pleased to receive the attention she’s given. The red head reading across the room shoots back a long, closed mouth grin before turning her eyes sharply back into her book. The suited man standing in line for a misto digs his hands deeper into his pockets in search of something not really there. Anything to avoid shared eye contact.
Consider a few of the many songs borne out of eye contact:
I’m Looking Through You - The Beatles - “You dont look different, but you have changed. I’m looking through you and you’re not the same.”
Have You Seen Me Lately? - Counting Crows - “Give me your green eyes… I thought someone would say something if I was missing.”
Such Great Heights - The Postal Service - “I think its a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and when we kiss they are perfectly aligned.”
Alison - Elvis Costello - “With the way you look I understand that you were not impressed.”
Tears in Heaven - Eric Clapton - “Would you know my name if I saw you in Heaven?”
Bring me to Life - Evanescence - “How can you see into my eyes like open doors?”
Near You Always - Jewel - “Please don’t look at me like that, it just makes me want to make you near me always.”
I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor - Arctic Monkeys - “Stop making the eyes at me, I’ll stop making the eyes at you. And what it is that surprises me is that I don’t really want you to.”
Sifting - Nirvana - “The lady whom I feel maternal love for cannot look me in the eyes, but I see hers and they are blue.”
My belief has always been that shared glances are personal moments. Now I’m convinced they are also the most intimate. Think about it: they are direct, intentional motions that are willed simultaneously by both individuals who scan one another hoping to learn something that words simply cannot extract. These moments can mean so much more than any kiss, nudge, or hand-holding. I’ve left rooms shortly after eye contact feeling more involved with someone than if we had spoken for hours.
Is that bad. (Notice, it’s not a question.)
Geoff GrahamWho needs action when you've got a tagline?
© 2010 Geoff Graham |
