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Outing Ninnies, Retards and Sycophants – Part 1
I once broke up with someone because I thought my band was more important than her.
Dating on and off long-distance for over a year, we (she) decided to put all our chips on red and hope for the best – we got a tiny house and moved our stuff, and ourselves, in. And, like three or four beers in the morning, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Hindsight, friends, is golden.
Our lives were hell. She made mine shitty by demanding domesticity. I ruined hers by not knowing what that meant. That and I dared to have a band, our point of contention that flowed like a fountain. Besides the constant practices, shows and touring, I just liked being with my band mates more than her. They were funny, brave and daring, everything she was not. In the end she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, play bass or drums to save our lives. Her problem stemmed from the fact that she had moved from a bigger city to be with me in Saskatoon – a move anyone could have said “told you so.” I refused to go anywhere due to my band. I loved my band. I didn’t tell them that and I should have; I had been telling the wrong person all along. In the end she and I came to an agreement: She would go back to where she came from and I would get to be with my band, guilt-free. And, of course, it was a little devastating yet extremely satisfying. But I was right. My band was more important than her.
Outing Ninnies, Retards and Sycophants – Part 2
Bands are ridiculous. They are comprised of ninnies, retards and sycophants. They make unreasonable demands and live in a bleak, bleak world that is essentially one big full-length mirror. Their songs are the equivalent of screaming “look at me, look at me!” And they are ruining the earth with their pollution, carbon and noise. Writing and interviewing bands is like constantly looking into a window of shittiness. You get to see musicians for the dipshit werewolves that they really are. Listening to them stumble over sentences about themselves and why they are relevant is taxing – writing about it is just plain perverted. But for whatever reason I am in love with records and I adore live shows. I just prefer bands to melt into the crowd afterwards. My friends are good, their bands are good, but the ability to play a power chord like any other bimbo is not why I like them. Still, I am in awe of the rock star, especially small-time, chump change, five-minutes-of-fame-types. I admire their jackassery. And I am constantly amazed at their ego. A couple of years ago a friend came to town, managing a couple of bands who were on tour together. Too bad, I thought, that my friend didn’t operate a carnival ride or something a little more fun and rewarding. Still, it was nice to see her. The show, however, was typically lackluster and devoid of originality, free thought and energy. After the show, we all hung out and partied together, another lackluster event. However, one of the bands had made a new friend, a female who for some reason or other had latched on to them. Alcohol, friends, is wicked. When I bothered to pay attention, the band talked about who was going to fuck the girl. She was standing right in front of them. And I thought to myself, “dudes, come on, you ain’t shit. You’re in The Reason.” Pfft.
Go to www.myspace.com/thereasonrock and listen for yourself.
End notes:
1. Maybe Smith, your music is like mushrooms fried in butter to me – your little songs are so funny and sad. Please keep on. 2. To everyone who takes pictures at rock shows: please don’t. Or, to be fair, try and restrain yourself. Your camera, no matter how overpriced, does not give you the right to push your way to the front and blind everyone else with your constant flashing. Try watching the show like a normal human being once in awhile. 3. The Dirtbombs, Montreal. Best rock show to date. Best moment: when one of the drummers climbed to the second floor balcony, berated everyone who “had been blinding me with those fucking cameras all night,” and then threw several chairs at opener Kelley Stoltz. Most disappointing moment: Kelley Stoltz narrowly avoiding thrown chairs (as well as several aspiring photogs).
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