Extremely Biased Album Reviews with Bradley Wik - "Try Again" by the Fraidies

Extremely Biased Album Reviews with Bradley Wik

            Welcome to a brand new segment I’ve just invented, since I’ve the right to do so, seeing as, well, it’s my own fucking blog, called “Extremely Biased Album Reviews.”  The purpose of this is to both share some love and raise awareness for some of my favorite new listens.  It just so happens that two of my favorite records right now are albums released by friends of mine.  Does that affect my objectivity towards them?  Probably, but who gives a shit.  They are wonderful records that deserve as much praise heaped upon them as possible.  So, I’ll start the heaping…

            First up is The Fraidies debut album “Try Again.”  Now, for those of you who don’t already know, this is the band led by none other than Mr. Jon Fickes.  Yes, the one and only.  I don’t know how to put this, but he’s kind of a big deal...  Jon has been teasing us with self-released demos and home recordings put out at various places on the interwebs for a couple of years now.   The songs were infectious and sing-along ready; and we were getting pretty wet in the pants waiting for a finished product.  I remember vividly the first show I ever played with the Fraidies.  I was already so obsessed with the unreleased tunes that I sang along to every fucking song.  No joke.  I hadn’t been such a fanboy since the first, oh, I don’t know, six god-damned times I saw the Hold Steady.  So, needless to say, when I heard Jon had booked time in the studio and was FINALLY fucking doing this thing, I was so pumped.  I had unrealistic expectations for the record.  In my head, it was already multi-platinum-co-headlining-with-Katy-Perry-to-sold-out-arenas big.  I mean, Taylor Swift would suck Jon’s dick to do a twenty-minute opening slot on the “Try Again” album release tour.  Which, Jon would consider. And, the next time a hurricane hit mainland America and there was a huge, star-studded benefit for the victims, Jon would do an acoustic version of “Life Under Water” before Kanye West came out and brought the house down with a spirited live version of “Drunk and Hot Girls”(to take us all back to the better times of, uh, 2007) with Jon Fickes staying on-stage to fill in for Mos Def, I mean, Yasiin Bey, who wasn’t allowed back into the country for the benefit show.  Wait, wasn’t there just a reunion of Black Star for Dave Chappelle’s residency at Radio City Music Hall?  Is there anything Dave can’t do?  Fuck, I mean, how did he get Mos, I mean Yasiin, back into the country?  I thought he was blacklisted, no pun intended…  Whatever, I’m losing my train of thought…  Oh, yeah, that’s right.  So, I had very high expectations for “Try Again.”  Yet, somehow, Jon and the boys surpassed them all…

              To put it simply, and succinctly, The Fraidies have made the perfect sleeper album of the summer.  This is the “Oh, Inverted World” for 2014.  It’s the kind of album you remember and associate with a time and place; like “Gold” or “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” WAS the turn the of the century.  Or “Transatlanticism” or “Ghosts of the Great Highway” or “Funeral” WAS 2004.  Like “Boys and Girls in America” WAS 2006, “Try Again” is the milepost for your life in 2014.  It’s the places you lived and the people you knew.  It’s who you were, and always will be, when this record comes on.  It’s a remembrance of youth or an acknowledgement of age.  It’s beautiful and it’s sad and it’s fun, and it will become a part of your life’s story.  Entire chapters of people’s lives will be scored by this album.  I know mine already is.  But most of all, “Try Again” is a wonderful pop record that is destined to garner the praise, and fans, that it deserves.  There aren’t enough good, honest radio stations to give “Never Love Again (It’s Doubtful)” the spins it’s rightfully due as one of the best, most innovative pop songs of the past, fuck, who knows, ten years.  I haven’t been so helplessly taken by a pop song since the first time I heard “Sussudio.”  “Never Love Again (It’s Doubtful)” has elements of Rock N’ Roll, Whammy-ridden guitar fills, synthy, dance-inspired breakdowns and is summed up brilliantly by a pure pop chorus.  In short, it’s fucking awesome.  It’s definitely the highlight of the record, but is by no means the only one.  “The Clang of the City” is going to be a showstopper during live performances.  “You’ve Got Nothing but You’ve Got Love” is the album cut that is destined to be one of everybody’s favorite Fraidies tunes.  It’s such a sweet, sad, honest song about a failing relationship that it’ll melt your heart every time, even as you can’t help but sing along and hope for love to win out, knowing full well that it won’t.  Every musician/artist/dreamer can feel the full weight of every word when Jon sings “There’s nothing left inside of me.  I’ve got nothing to give you. Why do you insist on loving me?  I can only destroy you.”  It’s heart-wrenching to hear the sadness and resignation in those lines.  Over the course of the record, Jon frequently lays it all out very simply for us; neither trying to hide his sentiments nor be too grand with his lyrical brushstrokes.  This is never more poignantly exemplified than with the song “Gold Miner.”  There are many experiences in life that are too beautiful and too personal to ever try to put into words.  Things that our human language isn’t complex or complete enough to sum up for another’s comprehension.  Such is the case with “Gold Miner.”  I could waste ten thousand words trying to explain what it means to me.  Why each verse is perfect, nothing wasted, nothing wanted.  But I would fail.  There are some moments in life that can only be appreciated.  There is nothing I could say that would express the emotion I felt upon hearing this song for the first time, other than, most people do the best they can and hope there is some sort of validation at some point.  I got mine…

            For sure, none of this would land as hard if the band didn’t hold up it’s end musically.  Andrew Angell does his part on the drums, guiding the band through the many complex rhythms and changes throughout the tunes.  Jack Shriner(bass) is tasteful and driving while David Solomon(keys) helps build the sonic backdrops and flourishes when necessary.  Jon Fickes, the guitar wizard he is, handles both the rhythm and the lead guitars, which dance in and out of melodies and counter melodies with the vocals.  Jon constantly challenges the boys with his tunes and they handle them beautifully.  The recordings themselves leave room for the performances to breathe and they shine through.   Of course, Jon’s songs always stay at the forefront, and rightfully so.  He is a master of melody and his songwriting talent is prevalent on every tune on “Try Again.”  The Fraidies are already a staple of my summer party playlist, and hopefully, this isn’t the last we hear of Mr. Fickes and company.

This Old House... Goddamn, I'm A Genius...

This Old House and various other amusing things…

            So, I was initially going to try and make a slightly less angry and much more thoughtful blog, but that got sidetracked right off the bat.  This morning, right as I was ready to leave for band rehearsal, I had to poop.  Normally, I would squeeze it in and just head out but it felt like one of those “eight thirty in the morning,” “quick and light” shits.  It was not.  I hate being blindsided by my own bodily functions.  It threw my whole morning off kilter.  Now, I was fifteen minutes behind schedule, had to carry my guitar eight blocks in the rain to my car, which some drunken asshole, presumably a fucking Timbers fan, had decided to kick multiple times and put several dents in my drivers side door for which I now have to call the fucking cops about(there was a police officers business card on my window, I don’t know); and, worst of all, I still had not had a cup of coffee.  I currently have a pretty nice headache from my lack of caffeine intake this morning but that’s my problem I guess.  And so is the pooping and the door dents.  Well, not really the dents unless you count living in sort of shitty neighborhood my fault.  But anyway, there goes the less angry and more thoughtful.  I now want to punch a person that I have never met, in the back of the head, Homer-style, for kicking my fucking car and have already mentioned bowel movements.  Hot dog, we’re off and running…  But, on a more positive note, I just found out that the entire series of “Duckman”is on YouTube.  So, peaks and valleys.  Some people go out and have fun with other human beings on a Saturday night.  Others have no money, hate everybody anyways,  sit at home and watch “Duckman.”  I, sadly, and to my girlfriends dismay, fall into the latter category…

            What I wanted to talk about, before the unexpectedly large shit and the door dents, was memories.  Specifically, their subjective nature and the romance that we, as imperfect humans, project onto them.  So, where might a thought like that come from?  Well, if you’ll be patient, I’ll tell you.  Last night, I was getting drunk and playing guitar(one of my favorite hobbies) and started playing some songs I haven’t played in a while.  Songs that I had written that never really made the cut or songs that the band hasn’t played in a while; which is most of them.  BWC(Bradley Wik and the Charlatans, for the uninformed) has been busy getting ready to record our second full-length album, tweaking and obsessing over the same twelve or so songs for the past two or three months.  It’s fun…  If you could see my face, it would reveal the necessary Seinfeld-like look intended and widely used for indicating sarcasm.  But, in all seriousness, it isn’t all terrible.  It is kind of fun to see how far you can push a song before it sounds stupid and you throw out all the changes that you just spent six hours pursuing and implementing.  Its all part of the process for people like us.  That is to say, people too neurotic and anal to just leave it alone without first proving that any other way is just terrible(see:  Billy Joel’s alternate, “Reggae” version of “Only the Good Die Young.”  Just thinking about it gives me the shivers).  Basically, that’s been our band rehearsals for a while now.  And, because of that, we haven’t played hardly any of the old songs in a long time.  So, I dusted some of them off last night and played “This Old House” for the first time in months.  I forgot how good of a song it was.  Man, I’m so fucking talented.  So wise and full of insight as well.  I was so taken aback with myself that when I finished, I paused for a moment of reflection.  You want to know the first thought that popped into my head?  Probably not, but I’ll tell you.  I immediately thought of that episode of Wings, also entitled “This Old House,” where Brian and Joe find out that the house they grew up in is about to be demolished.   They go through the myriad of emotions that a lot of us do when confronting a large block of memories all at once.  It’s a really good episode.  Brian and Joe’s first reaction is to be angry that the house is being torn down, regardless of the fact that the soil around it is eroding and soon the house will plunge into the ocean.  Their next thoughts are of all the good times and happy memories they shared there.  They, along with Helen, their childhood friend, decide to take a cooler of beer and head to the house to reminisce and pay their final respects.  After a few beers and some good memories, the boys head upstairs to their childhood room.  Within a few minutes of talking about how much they love and miss the old place, they quickly realize that they also had a lot of terrible memories at the house as well.  From trying to sleep through parental arguments to the eventual divorce of their mom and dad and so on and so forth, they slowly see that they also hate this place.  They then decide to start the demolition of the old house on their own.  The cathartic smashing of the house allows them to keep only the memories they want to and let the rest fall into the sea with the decrepit, abandoned house.  But the joke is on the Hacketts because Fay, unbeknownst to Brian and Joe, and clearly for our amusement as the watcher, has convinced the historical society that the house be preserved as a landmark, forcing them to deal with their anger towards it and all the bad memories it encompasses.  That’s a lot of bang for your buck in a scant twenty or so minutes of network television. 

On a personal note, it was not even one year ago, so it’s still quite fresh in my mind, that the bank repossessed the house that I grew up in from my mom.  I have to say, I went through the same series of emotions as the Hacketts.  The anger, the fond reminiscing and eventually wanting to destroy the house with my  own hands.  Unfortunately, I did not get the pleasure of smashing the house to bits nor do I have the satisfaction of knowing that it will soon fall into the sea.   The hardest part of going back to the house was knowing that it would be the last time that I would.  It’s nice to be able to keep those chapters of your life open because sometimes you need the comfort of nostalgia and the remembrance of simpler times.  I lost that.  And I miss it.  I really do.  And, since the house still stands, whenever I go back to visit Wisconsin I see it; and I still remember all the bad stuff.  When I was going through all the old shit that I had left there, I found a bunch of old notebooks wherein I had written terrible song after terrible song, from when I was still trying to figure out how to write a song that wasn’t a total piece of shit.  Needless to say, almost every song was a complete failure on that end.  There are only a few songs that I wrote in High School that aren’t completely unlistenable.  But, as I flipped through the pages, I noticed how much sixteen to eighteen year old Bradley hated living in the tiny, redneck town he grew up in.  The anger, the depression and so on was hard to read.  I wanted it all to disappear.  I wanted to remember it differently.  I might’ve thrown out all those old notebooks, but the house is still there as a reminder of it all.  Slowly, as an adult, I have begun to accept and appreciate the childhood that I had.  After all, a lot of kids aren’t allowed to spend entire days going wherever they want, doing whatever they want with no adult supervision.  We left the house in the morning and didn’t come home until supper and then went back out til the streetlights came on.  Not too many of the people I know now were afforded the same luxury as kids.  The places they grew up didn’t allow for that.  So I got that going for me, which is nice.  Hopefully, one day I’ll be able to reconcile the bad with the good and realize I quite enjoyed my childhood.  Or, at the very least, call it a wash.  I don’t know, however, if I’ll ever be okay with my teenage years.  But, then again, who is…  Also, since we’re on the topic of going back to the shitty towns we grew up in, I recently re-watched “Young Adult” and somehow, as if by magic, I have some pertinent thoughts on that as well.  God, it’s weird how this shit comes together…  I must be a fucking genius or something…  On a side note, I’ve realized there are actually three types of people in the world:  those who go out and have fun with other human beings on a Saturday night, those who have no money, hate everybody anyways,  sit at home and watch “Duckman,” AND those who have no money, hate everybody anyways, sit at home and learn how to play “All for Leyna” between episodes of “Duckman.”  I, sadly, and to my girlfriends dismay, fall into the latter of the latter categories…  The last one…  If you couldn’t tell, I’m going through a bit of a Billy Joel phase…  Anyways, Young Adult…

This is a very strange subject for me.  There are a lot of conflicting emotions and thought processes happening all at once.  Most of the time, I’m not quite sure how to feel about it.  There’s a lot going on.  But let’s see if we can sort it out.  First off, there’s my fairly intense hatred of Diablo Cody.  I watched Juno for the sole purpose of being able to make fun of it and the people who like it.  People always like to throw it back in your face if you haven’t actually seen the movie.  I always hear “How can you hate it if you haven’t even seen it?”  Which, is dumb.  I know what I like and what I hate by now.  I’ve refined my Tick-like abilities to sense this shit as it happens.  Also, I wonder why whenever I think of an annoying person they always have a Long Island accent.  “When is Jerry going to see the baby…”  Anyways, with Juno sucking so much, I was unsure of how to proceed with Young Adult.  I liked the blurb on Netflix.  It sounded like a movie I would probably watch.  It was depressing enough.  It was set in the Midwest.  The character was going back to the shit town she grew up in.  And, best of all, it had Charlize Theron in it.  BUT, it was written by Diablo Cody.  So, that was all kind of a wash.  Then, I saw Patton Oswalt was in it and that intrigued me.  Now, I’ve never watched him do his standup, but I have seen him in a number of things that I like and he was always funny.  I’m talking about Reno 911 as the weird, nerdy guy, Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee as the weird, nerdy guy, King of Queens as the weird, nerdy guy…  So, what the hell.  At the very least, if it sucks, and I mean sucks my dead grandfather’s hairy, German nutsack, it’ll at least add to my arsenal of Diablo Cody-themed hatred…

But, it really wasn’t that bad.  In fact, I might even venture to say it’s pretty good.  Not great, mind you; let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  It made fun of the fake superiority people gain when they leave a small town for a big city.  It poked fun at the notion that those people still living there would have to be miserable while everyone who got out is so much happier; which is also not true.  Most people who leave places for other places seeking happiness are doomed to fail.  Happiness is not a place, nor can it be found in one.  Now, to be sure, this rule does not apply to people who are being discriminated against, in shitty towns across this great country.  Like where I’m from, that would be a gay person or anyone whose skin is not white.  In that case, leaving is definitely the right move and they will certainly be happier almost anywhere else.  But the happiness that most people crave, when they leave a place in search of it, is usually a happiness that they have denied themselves.  I’ve found this out the hard way.  I’ve put my theoretical “happiness” in a “lock box” where the only way in is the loosely-defined “musical success.”  It’s tortured me for years.  I’m slowly, again, as I get older, beginning to reconcile this with my actual life and what’s happening to me.  Believe it or not, I’ve actually become less bitter and angry over the years.  My girlfriend has a lot to do with that.  I’ve found a lot of lost happiness in her and the way she makes me feel about me.  It’s nice.  Hopefully, someday, that will be all happiness that I need…  Whew, and all this from a Diablo Cody-penned flick.  Who would have thought?  But the major takeaway from the film was that hardly any truly shitty people get what’s coming to them.  Even after Charlize Theron’s character was terrible to everyone that she came in contact with and was beaten down and hating herself, as she should, Charlize’s character still gets an esteem boost from Patton’s character’s sister.  Patton’s character’s sister tells Charlize’s character that she is a good person and that they sort of idolize her back in the shit town; and Charlize’s character gets to not hate herself as much as she should.  Which is, oftentimes, the way things work out in real life.  It’s bullshit and I should really pay more attention to character names in movies…  Also, I really want to punch the asshole who kicked my car in the back of the head.  I’m kind of obsessed with that.  Oh, right, I’m less angry and shit.  This is my “less angry” and “more thoughtful” blog. 

Someone Help! I've Been Trapped in my Apartment for Three Days!

Random Snowed In Thoughts…

            I would like to start by qualifying that, yes, after three days of snow in the fair city of Portland, Oregon, I am still snowed in.  In fact, my phone yelled at me violently, well, not yelled, it was really more of a fire alarm at short range, that the City of Portland has issued a statement urging people to stay inside and not travel due to poor road conditions.  Now, to the layman, the everyday tax-paying citizen, if you will, the proper course of action would be to, oh, I don’t know, maybe take some action.  Maybe hire some plows and salt trucks, something.  Their advice was to just sit tight, as it was supposed to warm up over the next couple of day and the rain should, hopefully, wash away all the snow…  What a plan.  They must be fucking geniuses.  Hopefully they all get re-elected, or better yet, they leave their houses for some coffee or orange juice or a prostitute, whatever, and they slip on the ice and the shitty, packed-in snow on their roadways and crack their heads, and since everyone was advised to stay in they bleed to death, concussed and unable to call for help, lying in the road, like the fucking morons they truly are…  Or at the very least, they could stub their toes.  And I mean really stub it bad, like bend the nail back and chip a little off because that’s what happened to me walking around my tiny apartment trying not to get all “The Shining” all over everyone.  Anyways,  I’m going to devour five or six cups of coffee while I type, got to get this wonderful day going.  So, let’s move on to the randomness…

            Cup of Coffee #1:  Bruno Mars…

            Now, I haven’t actually written anything about the Super Bowl yet, or hardly even spoken of it, since that tragedy of a football game on February 2^nd, 2014, except to congratulate my friends who happen to be Seahawks fans.  They should enjoy it though, as it’s only a matter of years before Pete Caroll fucks the team over, they get busted for cheating and their Lombardi trophy gets revoked(see:  USC)…  Just kidding, the NFL doesn’t revoke trophies like the NCAA.  Theres no real punishment for cheating(see:  Belichick)…  Oh yeah, Bruno Mars.  So, the one thing I did want to talk about, in regard to that dreadful waste of advertising money(Tim Tebow’s “no contract” ads were my favorite, if you were wondering, which I know you probably weren’t), was the Bruno Mars halftime show.  To be fair, most of the people I ask about this actually LIKED his halftime performance and found it quite entertaining.  And, since a lot of people I knew grew up in the nineties, the RHCP thing was a nice touch.  Like most things, I fall on the other side of the fence, I fucking hated it.  FUCKING HATED IT.  Maybe it’s the fact that he constantly gets compared, by critics and therefore unthinking morons who have been diligently trained, by facebook and twitter and 24-hour news, to regurgitate talking points as if they were their own, to Michael Jackson and James Brown.  Not only are those two giants of the music and entertainment industry that we’ll never see the likes of again, they are also two of my favorite performers of all-time.  No one will ever compare to Michael Jackson.  I’m pretty sure that’s what Sinead O’Connor was singing about.  So, I take offense to that.  Also, it set a bar and a standard to which Bruno couldn’t possibly reach even if he(or she, I’m still not sure exactly what this untalented lump of shit is.  The closest thing I can approximate is that if James Brown, hence Bruno's blackness, had a retarded, illegitimate child, who claimed all of his recessive genes, none of the talent or creativity or awesomeness,  and that child knocked up Katy Perry, hence the shitty pop “music,”the resulting baby would be called Bruno Mars) was talented at all.  I think my favorite thing that was written about this, was when Steven Hyden of Grantland wrote:  “A band comes onstage wearing suits that match what Mars is wearing. You typically only get that sort of showmanship on cruise ships.”  His overall review was pretty positive, but still, I crack up every time I read that.  To be honest, I wasn’t really listening to the songs.  After about five seconds of each new song, I wanted to murder someone.  But seeing as I was in a room full of people I had just met, I didn’t want to make a bad impression.  Afterwards, I almost felt bad for Bruno.  It’s bad enough to be a douche on national television, but to be shown up by a fifty year-old RHCP, featuring Will Ferrell on the drums and a guitar player who was either experiencing a bad acid trip or just ate Jack in the Box and was trying desperately not to shit himself in front of America,  must not feel so good.  And he most certainly was shown up.  It’s clear RHCP were comfortable and ready to rock, no matter how big the stage, as they’ve been doing it for years.  Bruno seemed like he was trying to prove he wasn’t the product of James Brown’s retarded, illegitimate, recessive-gened child and Katy Perry…

            Cup of Coffee #3:  Rick Astley…

            Last night, while being cooped up again in my shitty little apartment, I was trying to pin down exactly what it was about Rick, and more specifically, the “Never Gonna Give You Up” music video, that was so amusing to me.  Maybe its because he looks like a sixteen year old ginger who stole his fathers yachting clothes. Maybe its because he sings lines like:  “You know the rules and so do I…” or “You wouldn’t get this from any other guy…” or “I just want to tell you how I’m feeling…”  Maybe its because the video features a random black dude who likes to do flips while he’s cleaning and getting ready for work.  Maybe its because Rick could be, quite possibly, the worst dancer ever.  What the fuck is that side to side hand shimmy thing that he does the whole song?  It’s the single worst white guy dance move I’ve ever seen and its so hard to watch.  I never thought I would see someone who made Phil Collins seem black by comparison.  Rick could be be the whitest guy ever.  Who knows.  But, for any guy who feels like he’s unlucky with women, Astley and the video for “Never Gonna Give You Up” is proof positive that any guy can get laid…

            Cup of Coffee #4:  Random Lists…

            Anyone who knows me well knows that I love making lists.  Top five albums or songs or movies or whatever.  I know, very High Fidelity, but its fun.  By the way, if you have never read the book, you need to stop whatever you’re doing, unless you’re listening to Rick Astley and boning, then by all means keep it up, go find it(hint:  there’s these things that the kids hardly ever use anymore, ever since Al Gore invented the internet, called libraries where they keep tons of books) and read it immediately.  Nonetheless, here’s five random top five lists for you…

            Top five human sensations or feelings.  Now, I’ve never been married, had a child or won the lottery, but I assume those would be my top three if they should ever occur.  Since, I’m not that lucky insofar, here’s what I do know:

1. Predictably, having an orgasm.
2. The first time I put on socks after having cut my toenails.  A close second...
3. The feeling I get just after having taken a large poop that’s been brewing for a while.
4. Taking a shower when I’m really gross or dirty or sweaty or whatever.  Very often following #1 or #3.  Hopefully “or” will never turn into “and.”  I have never had, and cross my fingers, never will have, a sex-pooping problem…
5. Peeing after holding it for as long as humanly possible.

I’m kind of surprised at how low “peeing after holding it” came in, but there you go.

Honorable Mention:  Performing onstage and eating, which leads me to...

Top five favorite sandwiches:

1. Meatloaf, which just might be my favorite food in general
2. Egg salad, I wish I had the patience to make egg salad but I don’t
3. Tuna, the whole concept of lunch is based on tuna
4. Cucumber, tomato and spinach, probably the most refreshing sandwich you can eat, ever
5. Meatball sub from Subway, I think they put heroin in it because it always makes me sick, and for some reason, I always want more

Honorable mention:  Turkey, and I’m talking real turkey like left-overs from Thanksgiving turkey, and the Reuben.

Top Five Monty Python Sketches:

1. Upperclass Twit of the Year
2. Ron Obvious
3. The Dead Parrot
4. The Ministry of Silly Walks
5. The Homicidal Barber/Lumberjack Song

Honorable mention:  The Piranha Brothers, The Bishop and Confuse-a-Cat

Top Five Ramones Songs:

1. Blitzkrieg Bop
2. Sheena is a Punk Rocker
3. Judy is a Punk
4. Teenage Lobotomy, how can you beat a line like:  “Now, I guess I’ll have to tell’em that I got no cerebellum”
5. I Wanna be Sedated

Honorable mention:  Glad to See You Go, Rock N’ Roll High School(partially, well mostly, because of my PJ Soles obsession), Cretin Hop, Surfin’ Bird(Damn you Family Guy!), She’s the One

      My music listening goes in extreme patterns of obsession.  I’ll listen to the same records for months on end.  Right now, the two artists I am obsessing over are the two artists I’ve made Top Fives for.  The first being the Ramones and the second being…

Top Five Shania Twain Songs:

1. Any Man of Mine
2. From This Moment On
3. Man! I Feel Like a Woman!, my favorite memory of this song is when I was like 10 or 11 my good buddy’s seven year old little brother loved this song so much and used to run around the house singing “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” all day
4. Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?
5. I’m Holding on to Love (to Save My Life)

Honorable mention:  You’re Still the One, That Don’t Impress Me Much

For the record, I am a huge Shania Twain fan.  Come on Over and The Woman in Me are just great records.  Each quite different in scope but both are chock full of wonderful country pop.  I even own, and occasionally listen to, Up!  I’m not exactly sure the reason Shania’s music is so near and dear to my heart.  It probably has a lot to do with nostalgia, as she was the biggest thing in the world when I was around 12, and she’s pretty easy on the eyes, if you know what I mean.  But it also probably has a lot to do with the fact that Come on Over and the Woman in Me are two great pop records that are fun to listen to.

Five Random television facts:

The television character I would most like to be:  Brian Hackett, Wings…

The television character that I think the most like:  Larry David, Curb Your Enthusiasm…

The television character I would most like to be friends with:  It’s a tie between Tracy Jordan, 30 Rock and Buddy Sorrell, The Dick van Dyke Show…

The television character I would most like to be “friends” with:  Audrey Horne, Twin Peaks…

The television character’s alter ego I wish we got to know sooner, before the television show was crappy and we didn't care anymore:  Serena, Samantha’s “evil” twin on Bewitched.  Bonus Points for being the impetus to one of the weirdest things I ever saw on TV:  Quentin Tarantino singing “I’m Gonna Blow You a Kiss in the Wind,” a song Serena sang in the episode of Bewitched when she wanted to be a Rock N’ Roll star, on SNL…

If you couldn’t already tell, I’m very bored from being trapped inside for so long without a woman's touch…

Cup of Coffee #6:

Six cups of coffee before nine o’ clock is just too much.  So, I’m going to go waste my time doing something else for a while.  I’ll probably be back sooner than later…  Goodbye for now…

Inside Llewyn Davis, Part II. This Time I've Seen It. I Swear...

Inside Llewyn Davis Part II, I’ve actually seen it this time…

            As promised, to the faithful few of you that actually take the time to read this fucking blog, I am dutifully reporting on the major motion picture “Inside Llewyn Davis,” now that I’ve actually seen the damn thing.  Now, I understand that my take on it, as a former folk singer, is highly sought after by those out there in the internet ether.  People have been clamoring for this for some time now.  I’ve had countless emails and phone calls regarding it.  Well, perhaps not.  But I do know that several of my friends have been patiently waiting for me to say something other than “I liked it,” or “it was good.”  So here goes…  Well, first let me say that I am writing to you now because, yes, I know its hard to believe but its true, I am snowed in.  Yep, in Portland, Oregon.  Snowed in.  Traffic is at a standstill outside my apartment and has been for hours.  No, its not nearly in the same ballpark as Atlanta’s recent catastrophe and failure of the state and local governments to provide any sort of assistance in maintaining adequate roadways for its tax-paying patrons in the case of an emergency and so on.  But its annoying nonetheless.  I was supposed to have band rehearsal, which of course was ruined.  So here I am typing away.  I also had the brilliant idea of going for a walk just a bit ago, which I thought would be fun, looking at the trees and streets filled with fresh snow, throw a snowball at a cop car or whatever.  It sounded like a good idea twenty minutes ago.  Nineteen minutes ago I realized that I’m an idiot.  No matter which way you walk, the snow is always blowing straight into your face and your eyes and it sucks.  It sticks to whatever facial hair you have, hopefully more of a problem for the men,  and then melts and then freezes into little clumps of ice in your beard, eyelashes, etc.  Also, since its not super cold out, the snow is very wet and sticky and I ended up with soaking wet jeans;  everyone’s favorite thing to walk around in.  It was not majestic or pretty or any of that.  It was a shit idea and now I’m cold and wet and in a foul mood.  Fuck, what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, Llewyn Davis…

            Now that I’m back indoors and fixed myself a stiff drink to fight off the chill, let’s get into it.  And I mean that quite seriously.  This movie brought back a lot of shit; some good, some not so much.  There was a very large chunk of my teenage/young adult life dedicated to the cause of folk singing.  I didn’t just play sad songs on an acoustic guitar, I WAS a folk singer.  I rode buses to random cities where I knew a guy or gal who would let me sleep on a couch while I played all the open mics in town.  I took a train to New York and played Carter Family, Guthrie and Bob Dylan songs in the dining car for tips and drinks(as I was only nineteen or twenty at the time, I don’t remember which).  I played on street corners and people would invite me to their homes, give me food and drink(possibly thinking I was homeless?) and have me entertain them with songs and stories from my travels; half of which I probably made up as I went.  I’ve played all across this great country and back multiples times.  I, in a fit of “Bound for Glory” obsession, even hopped a train once.  Although that ended about as boring as it could have.  It was a grain hauling train in Wisconsin and took me from my tiny little town of Horicon to an even tinier unnamed and unincorporated town and I had to call my buddy from a pay phone to come pick me up.  But still, I did it dammit, and it was awesome.  Except for all the times when being a folk singer sucked.  All the shows played to no one except maybe the soundman, who usually left to go smoke.  The constant urge to move or go someplace new, thinking it was always so much better than wherever  I currently was.  Being depressed all the time about having missed out on the sixties folk scene.  Being bitter that no one appreciated my new song about rambling or gambling or gypsies or sailing on the sea or whateverthefuck it was.  Having what was once called the “Worst iTunes Playlist for a Party, Ever.”  Naturally, all I had on my computer was Dylan, Neil Young, every Carter Family song ever recorded, Guthrie upon Guthrie, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James, Robert Johnson, well, you get the idea.  Folk singing wasn’t always bad but it wasn’t always great either.  And I did it for years.  I really gave it a go, really put my heart into it and never set my roots down.  The decision to stop singing folk and form a Rock N’ Roll band was very hard for me.  It wasn’t so much about changing musical styles, but about abandoning a lifestyle for me, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to abandon yet.  But it was also very easy from the standpoint that I had begun to resent folk music for what, at the time, I perceived as a colossal wasting of my years as a young adult.  I’ve come to realize, through intense, inward self-study and self-medicated talks with myself, that my times as a folk singer, like most things, fell somewhere in the middle.  I have started, only recently, to cherish these times for the life lessons and adventures and stories which I now plunder for my newer songs.  By the age of 25, I had seen and done more than a lot of people will in a lifetime.  And some of that was things that I wish I could un-see and undo.  Things that I would never want my child, should I ever have one, to experience.  But it was all part of it, and I know now that I wouldn’t change it if I could.  Hell, at least I’ve gotten a lifetimes worth of song material out of it.  It still seems, though, as if it wasn’t all real.  Like it was part of something that I read somewhere and told, as my own, so many times that it became a real part of me.  I feel like such a different person now.  And I guess, in a way, I am.  But life is mysterious like that and so is our memory.  It’s constantly changing and repainting old scenes with new shades of the same story.  Memories are not unlike dreams that can change over time and as we invent parts and embellish others to make them more interesting to those around us, based on the company we are in.  Our own reality is only real to us and no one else.  It’s also probably one of the reasons I tend to cut ties with people, so I may freely reinterpret the past anyway that I see fit, without the burden of other people’s memories getting in the way.  Who knows...  Anyways, whew…  That was wave number one that hit me when watching this movie.  I told you it was a lot of shit…

            Wave number two was the humor of it all.  For some reason, I was overcome with the comedy of errors that is the life of a folk singer.  It was really, really funny to me.  My girlfriend was getting very irritated with me saying it was funny, but I couldn’t stop laughing at Llewyn and his misguided ways; you know, the whole funny-because-its-true thing.  One of the scenes that has really stuck with me was when Justin Timberlake and the chick(who apparently is with the guy from M*mf*rd *nd S*ns, blech…  Almost ruined the film for me.  Also, by the way, I am not sure but I think I heard his cunty voice singing one of the songs during the movie.  I like the film a lot so I don’t really want to know if it is him as surely he can’t be a part of anything good, ever) are singing their crappy excuse of a folk pop song and everyone in the audience is singing along, either because they’re idiots or because they actually like the fucking song, who knows.  But I’ve totally been there so many times, just stewing and being super pissed off and hating everyone in the room for liking that shit and then just talking through my well-crafted, heartfelt tune.  Fuck all of them.  And driving all the way to Chicago just to play a song for a guy who didn’t like it all and wanted him to join Peter, Paul and Mary.  I totally would’v e done that!  No one ever liked my music!  And when Justin Timberlake throws him a bone and has him come and record with him, Llewyn asks him “Who wrote this?”  So funny!  I loved it.  I’ve done that before!  It’s like a Curb Your Enthusiasm/Larry David awkward moment.  And, I will also admit, shamefully however, that I have yelled at/heckled a performer onstage before.  I’m not proud of it, but it also wasn’t an old lady, so it wasn’t quite as bad.  It was some douche with a newsboy hat who was way too in love with Jason Mraz.  I guess I don’t actually feel that bad, he totally deserved it.  He sucked, and clearly, someone had to tell him.  It wasn't my fault he was playing such terrible music.  In fact, I would have been doing him a disservice had I not said something.  So there, I actually feel quite good about that one. Sort of.  Maybe I am a music snob…

Anyhow, it all seemed like someone was trying to make a movie that was poking fun of everyone, myself included, who wanted to be a bona fide folk singer in the sixties.  This is the exact movie that I would make if I wanted to mock of all those people who loved folk music maybe just a little too much(me included).  The Coen Brothers clearly had a good bead on all the Dylan fanboys(again, myself included) dreaming of Greenwich Village.  Also, on a side note, when did “Dink’s Song” have a real name?  And why was that song the centerpiece of the film?  Not surprisingly, I played that song a ton back in my folk singing/open mic days but it was weird to hear it in a movie.  Speaking of weird, and completely off topic, I was watching “Rock N’ Roll High School” today and I couldn’t help but think of what a strange career PJ Soles has had.  She has been up close and personal with Joey Ramone, Bill Murray and Michael Myers(the fictional psycho serial killer, not Wayne Campbell).  That’s a lady after my own heart.  Rock N’ Roll, Comedy, Horror, she does it all…  What more could you ask for?  But back to Llewyn.  The other thing that I thought particularly funny, was his inability to use condoms properly.  I agree that its fully possible for lightning to strike and for a freak accident to occur, but multiple times?   C’mon, I don’t believe that.  He’s just being careless and lazy.  Get it together buddy, condoms are not that hard to use.  OR, just pull out and shoot it on her stomach.  OR, even better, do both.  Not getting a girl pregnant isn’t rocket science, and I’m sure it wasn’t any different back in the sixties.   I can’t even imagine how horrible it would be to have to go through an abortion, then or now.  I felt bad for the girl and she had every right to be pissed off at Llewyn for making her have to go through that.  Though I suppose that was probably meant to be more of a character flaw, mainly due to his lack of future planning and just general nonchalance toward everything; which always seemed to get in his way.  Either way, I found a lot of humor in his failures and his anger and his resentment towards others, mainly those more successful than him, throughout the film.  It’s a very common theme in the entertainment world, and I’m sure in most fields of work.  I don’t think they quite explored this enough as it has been a very large part of my life as a musician, and in talking to my musician friends, theirs too.  We musicians are a very jealous bunch and we spend quite a bit of time and energy specifically devoted to hating others.  It’s a sort of pastime amongst the brethren.  But anyways, that was wave number two, the folly of it all…

Wave number three was the one I thought might strike first and therefore was the most predictable; the overwhelming urge to move back to New York and, once again, start singing folk.  I knew this would be impossible to avoid so I was quite prepared for it.  I knew that upon seeing the film I would once again wax poetic and romanticize that former part of my life.  Even after seeing, and laughing at, how ridiculous it all was/is, there will always be a part of me that cherished that time immensely and will always want to relive it, sort of.  I know, that in my heart of hearts, I am much happier now with all that is happening in my life, both personally and musically, but it was always much more exciting and chaotic to never know what was going to happen next, to pack up and move to a new city with only a backpack full of clothes and a guitar(my cherished Martin D-15 if you were wondering) and see where life takes you next.  I was in love with the chaos as much as anything else.  It was the whole Dean vs. Sal thing and I know better now.  But even so, I can’t stop myself from daydreaming occasionally about just leaving all my shit at my apartment, except my guitar and my blue Jansport backpack(which I lost some years ago and my wonderful, amazing girlfriend replaced this past Christmas.  Thanks Love!) full of clothes, and taking a bus, or train, to Nashville or New York or Chicago or wherever and just living by the seat of my pants and…  Fuck, someone’s car alarm has been going off for the past twenty fucking minutes and its driving me fucking insane!  I can’t handle it.  They ruined my little folk music fantasy and now I’m pissed.  God, I hope it isn’t my car.  That would suck.  It’s probably not…  Shit, now I got to put on pants and go back out into that fucking snow and check.  Fuck, this sucks…  Well, I guess that’s the end of my thoughts on “Inside Llewyn Davis.”  Hopefully, it was stimulating and titillating; especially for the ladies out there.  Wink, wink…  I should probably learn to type those symbols for the “winks” because I know there’s a way, but I kind of don’t care enough and it’s a little too I’m-a-thirteen-year-old-girl-who-just-got-my-first-iphone-and-I’m-a-textaholic-lol.  So I guess maybe I shouldn’t.  Why am I still talking?  Still titillated, ladies?

New Music Sucks Part II, So Who or Whom do we Blame for all of This?

Pt. II:  The Summer of 2012...  The Horror...

Fun. is a band that was unfairly, and unavoidably, thrust upon me.  No one should ever have anything this awful thrust upon them.  They’re like the 9/11 of music, terrible and tragic, and hopefully send us into a full on war against the industry and all terrible bands everywhere.  No shitty band, or harborer of said shitty band, will be safe.  Like Hitler’s invasion of Poland, Fun.’s releasing of “Some Nights” upon the world will only lead to their eventual demise.  Alright, sorry, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but they do suck, hard.  And it is also true that no one should have bad music thrust upon them.  This is my tale regarding Theory Three(Maybe it’s not that bad, and I just need to listen to it), I’ll get to Theory Two in a bit.

I was working in retail, a shitty paint store to be exact, and in the summer of 2012 we had a certain radio station, and I won’t specify which since I am in a band and need all the radio support I can get, on all day as our “background”music; and I say “background” because you can’t tune out all the awfulness that I was forced to listen to, ten hours a day, five days a week, for an entire summer.  2012 was the summer that Fun., the Lumineers, M*mf*rd *nd S*ns, the Head and the Heart, pretty much every band I despise, were the biggest things in Music, and I hated every minute of it.  And to rub salt on the wound, with a side of swift-kick-in-the-junk, they played them OVER and OVER and OVER again.  I think I heard twelve songs, and they cherry picked the very worst ones, repeated a THOUSAND fucking times a day.  If it was an iTunes playlist it would have been called “I hate Bradley Wik and I am going to endlessly torture him with a playlist specifically tailored to his disliking and to attack his every weakness and bring him to his knees until he prays for an easier way out, like say, I don’t know, death by drowning or being dragged through the desert like Clint Eastwood in "the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.” It has become my life’s goal to never hear “We are Young” or “Some Nights” ever again. I would rather spend the rest of my life listening to the Soundtrack for Xanadu, then hear one of these songs again.  I have never been so dedicated, in all my life, to a cause before this.  I pray that I never hear that shitty, annoying, out of pitch(even though it sounds like Autotune is desperately trying its best but is on the verge of exploding with each terrible note) voice,  or those lyrics(which I would like to say are the worst I have ever heard, but, alas, the Head and the Heart claim the title for worst lyrics ever written.   M*mf*rd might have some worse ones, but that would require me to actually listen to a M*mf*rd song in its entirety and pay attention at least a little bit, which I am wholly unwilling to do), or any part of all those terrible sounds that they’ve put together, which they inexplicably call, since it bears no actual semblance to, music.  So far, I’ve been successful.  But the Summer of 2012 will forever be embedded in my memory, like a really bad break up I’m still not fully over, or my broken middle knuckle, which I broke in a fight when I was thirteen and has never fully healed correctly and still hurts when I lift things a certain way, which I always seem to forget and do constantly.  I could go on about Fun., and have many times, but for right now, the memory is too much to bear, so I’ll move on…

(to another topic in this discussion, I’ll probably never be able to fully move past the horrors of the Summer of 2012. Many hours of therapy have only helped me to cope with the disaster, but my life will never be the same...  So, anyways, moving on, this is my rationalization of Theory two, and I am, indeed, a bitter old man jaded by my love for classic Rock N’ Roll.)

Now, the problem with all of this, which I mentioned earlier, is that for some reason, unbeknownst and unfathomable to me, people like this music.  And as I said before, I don’t fault them for it in the sense that it is fully their right to like something shitty, and it is shitty, though they will probably tell you that since they like it, they see it as good, and that’s true, but it’s only a truth in their own little messed-up, misguided world, not the one we all have to share with these idiots.  Many times I have had the “All art is subjective, and therefore, you cannot definitively and quantifiably say something is bad, or in fleshing out that theory, good either.  It is merely art and the only true judge a person need is him or herself,” and this is all bullshit. “Some Nights” or whatever the fuck any of the M*mf*rd *nd S*ns albums are called, are in no way equal to, say, “Thriller” or “Born to Run” or “Revolver” or “Blood on the Tracks.”  Now to be fair, not many albums are.  But, using those as a point of comparison, as a jumping off point if you will, we can see that “Some Nights”and whatever the fuck any of the M*mf*rd *nd S*ns albums are called, are so far away from anything resembling what we might call “Good Music” that they might as well be polar opposites, and could very well be used to represent the other extreme of our musical litmus test; “Born to Run” or “Blood on the Tracks” turn the paper blue and signal sitting on the throne of greatness,  while“Some Nights” or whatever the fuck any of the M*mf*rd *nd S*ns albums are called turn the paper red and signify sitting on a porta-john, with syphilis on the seat.

I’ve also heard the argument that people like the aforementioned bands because they might be the best option available.  That yeah, they aren’t great but they are much better than all the stuff on top-40 radio, which I can’t even begin to name since I am so far removed from that world, but I do know there is lots of Autotune and is supposed to make people dance but should make people Van Gogh their fucking ears off; and people need to listen to something.  This, again, is a bullshit answer.  Music is art, and therefore fluid and alive and it can never die once it is released to the world, it is timeless.  Given this,  there is no grading on a curve for new music.  Like in Baseball, you are constantly judged by all those who came before you, and always will be.  No one forces people to listen to music from only their generation; if they are too lazy or don’t care enough to go out to a record store and find something better, it is their own damn fault and no one elses.  And, therefore,  I have no pity for them, and I can make fun of and mock them all I damn please without even a twinge of that Catholic Guilt rising back up, like an Easter Jesus, trying to make me feel like shit about everything that I do.  And it most certainly does not mean that their music is any better just because they didn’t take the time to fully appreciate anything else.  Ignorance doesn’t make new music better, it only reinforces and displays their own ignorance for all to see.  But because of all these people listening to and buying the records and going to the shows of these terrible artists, the people deciding the future of music are making money off of those same terrible artists.  And since people who have money generally like to have more money, they are constantly trying to find whatever new band fits this current fad, and follow the same old business model which just made them money, in order to make the always lucrative “more money.”  And this is the issue I take with these people who like these terrible bands:  it inflicts more terrible bands, ones who are trying to copy the already shitty ones and failing, therefore systematically spiraling downward, dumbing itself down with each copy of a copy.  For instance, the Lumineers and the Head and the Heart are just crappier versions of M*mf*rd *nd S*ns(if that’s even possible), and I know there are countless bands “influenced” by the Lumineers and the Head and the Heart, but inexplicably worse(I’ve played shows with many, trust me), which I won’t glorify and name.  And so it goes, on and on downwards into oblivion…

But all of this is not meant to place the blame squarely on the shoulders of the consumers, as much of the blame, well, most of the blame, should still still be hurled towards those with the money and the power:  the music industry.  A decade or so ago, maybe even before that, but that was the first I heard of this happening, music labels starting handing over power from “music” people to “business” people.  These men and women could care less about the “art” of it all and started chasing money, as there was loads and loads of it kicking around back then and they were bound and determined to get the biggest chunk they could, cash out and live the life of Riley, not at all worried about the wake of destruction(shitty music) they have left behind for all of us.  The problem that they, for some reason, couldn’t see, is that this would create a lack in the talent gathering and developing department.  Simply put, the best bands don’t always make the most money, at least not initially.  It takes time to cull a great catalogue of music and it didn’t always mesh perfectly with the new, internet-crazed, ADHD-diagnosed, using prescription pills for getting up and prescription pills for getting back down again society which needed its next “fix” as quickly as it will eventually discard it.  So, instead of packing up and preparing for the long haul, these “music execs” decided it was easier to cash in on fads and keep their jobs another week than to invest in real musicians in it for the long haul.  And thusly, and not surprisingly, it all fell apart, as do most get-it-while-its-hot business strategies(see:  housing market crash).  The dumbest part of all of this is that they are not only forcing us to miss out on tons and tons of great music, but they are also missing out on their cash cows of the future.  Nobody makes more money to this day than Bruce Springsteen or the Rolling Stones or U2 or Madonna or Bon Jovi, but almost none of those artists would have been allowed the time to become the mammoths they are in these modern, terrible times; Madonna excepted as she was just as brilliant at marketing herself as her music was, and, like the great chameleon, molding and shaping the way she was/is perceived by others, would’ve figured out something.  Which I suppose they all were great at marketing themselves to a degree, but not quite in the same way.  The other guys mainly did it the old fashioned way of making great Albums, not just a few singles and filler(with a few exceptions, of course, no one is perfect), and working hard on the road and building a very supportive, and lifelong fan base.  But there are currently no more bands to fill that void.  I remember watching the Hurricane Sandy benefit show and thinking that all of those bands and artists have been around forever and soon they will be gone, both figuratively and literally, and there will be no one left for the next star-studded event or benefit for whatever might come up(the world is a crazy place and getting crazier all the time, so I can only imagine, or rather, try not to imagine).  I could feel us slowly moving towards the edge and once we turn the corner we’ll all be staring at each other wondering where all the guardians went.  The Kings and Queens of Rock N’ Roll will soon be gone, no more Boss or U2 or Billy Joel or Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan or Neil Young, with no one to pass the baton to.  Which I suppose is exactly what this new generation of hipsters wants, no greatness, just mediocrity.  But I strongly feel, and always will, that we need our heroes.  We need someone to take us out of our own lives.  We need those giants to look up to and aspire to be like.  Anyone can make mediocre music, and that’s what makes the hipsters feel good about themselves, that they can do it too; and they do, in droves.  There’s thousands upon thousands of mediocre-to-shitty bands all over the place, and that’s fine, as long they have fun and, more importantly, we don’t glorify them.  They don’t deserve it and shouldn’t receive it.  The Rock N’ Roll Gods will punish us for bestowing it upon them.  Well, I guess from the looks of it, they already have…

New Music Sucks, Part I. Mumford & Sons Ruined My Will to Live. Well, Almost...

New Music Sucks, Part I:  Fuck Mumford & Sons...

            Sitting here, enjoying a fine glass of Scotch(Glenmorangie, if you’re wondering, even though you probably weren’t.  It’s the nectar of the gods, brought down to earth for our sipping pleasure and is surely the finest beverage available to a mere mortal) and ruminating on why I hate new music so much, I have come to a few different conclusions:  One, music today IS actually much more terrible than it used to be(my most likely candidate, but all in due time, my dear, all in due time).  Two,  is what I call the “Bitter Old Man Syndrome.” In this scenario I have been completely jaded by my Classic Rock upbringing(Thanks Mom! Seriously though, that is not meant to be sarcastic.  I actually am thankful I had her Vinyl to flip through instead of obsessing over Blackstreet’s “No Diggity,” which I did do in equal measure to be honest.  And, man, nothing gets a party going like “No Diggity” and “California Love.”  I am all-encompassingly a child of the Nineties).  And Three,  maybe, just maybe, it’s actually pretty good and I would like it if I gave it half a chance, which to be honest, maybe I haven’t…  Well, maybe I have,  fuck, I don’t know.  I totally fell for the Arcade Fire’s first album “Funeral” as a savior of modern Rock N’ Roll(as proclaimed by Pitchforkmusic.com, now just pitchfork.com, which has gone the way of Popular Music and sucks my hairy, sweaty nutsack, but more on that later, if I still have the strength, which I probably won’t), the heir apparent to Bruce and all the Holiness that He stood for, the record that I, as a Rock N’ Roll purist, have been waiting for, for many years.  I used to walk around Madison, Wisconsin with my Walkman/Discman, extra CD’s in the pouch of my Green Bay Packers hoodie, listening to “Funeral” over and over again as I walked through James Madison Park(or Tenney Park since it had footbridges which seemed very poetic and beautiful to me at the time, though, Tenney Park was usually my Bob Dylan’s “Love and Theft” walking route).  Full disclosure, the other CD’s in my aforementioned Packers hoodie pouch were the Stars “Set Yourself on Fire” which I loved for the romance and nostalgia it brought to High School and teenage relationships(being eighteen at the time,  they were of the utmost importance to me as that was all I had in regards to women) and Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism” which had the song “We Looked Like Giants” which was was sort of an anthem at the time seeing as back in the tiny shit town I grew up in, the only places to make-out proper with a girl were parks and scarcely driven country roads, so, we spent a lot of time in the back of whatever shitty car we could buy with five hundred bucks, trying desperately for a lay, though in my case, mostly settling for some good tongue and a tit grab, such is life… 

            So, anyway, let’s start with Theory One:  Music today IS actually much more terrible than it used to be.  To forewarn you, this is not going to be a rant about Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus, we’ll save that for another day as there have always been crappy pop artists being exploited(and having their lives thusly destroyed), though handsomely rewarded as well, by music industry types for third quarter returns and bottom lines etc. etc. and on and on.  This is going to focus a bit more on the bands that are supposed to be “Good,” the new generation’s “Dylan’s” or whatever the fuck and so on and so forth…

Up until about 2007-2008 I really believed in the new generation of bands, they brought such hope and beautiful music to my little lonely world, which was now based out of a tiny, dirty 400-500 sq. ft. one bedroom apartment which I shared with my girlfriend at the time and a good friend of mine, who unbeknownst to me, was a bit of a Hippie(read:  didn’t use deodorant, didn’t clean a whole lot, liked to cook couscous at two in the morning, pass out drunk and leave the rest under his bed til the flies got so extreme in the apartment we left the windows open in the wintertime so they would leave of their own volition because you couldn’t possibly kill them all, you’d die trying, which I almost did on several occasions) which I wasn’t a huge fan of to say the least, in New York City.  My favorite bands at the time, not counting what I call the “Givens”like Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles,  etc., were the Hold Steady(about whom I nearly creamed myself every time I got to see them play live in the City or in Brooklyn), Iron & Wine(who also introduced me to Band of Horses when I saw them open for Iron & Wine at the House of Blues Chicago.  I promptly fell in love with Band of Horses first record “Everything All the Time,” only to fall back out of love by the second.  Oh, all those crazy, drunken one-record-stands, I loved you all) and Bonnie “Prince” Billy/Palace/Palace Brothers/Will Oldham.  A little side note here, I listen to music in a bit of an OCD type way:  when I hear a band I love, I immediately go out, buy all their records(I remember hounding the guys at B-Side records, the best record store in Madison, WI, for “Days in the Wake”for weeks and weeks until they finally got me a copy, probably just to shut me up) and listen to them non-stop for months and months on end until I know every lyric, every riff; or until I find another album to carry my fancy for the time being.  I’m also terribly easy to distract.  I moved around a lot back then, so I could only manage to carry with me, in my fourth-grade, personalized gym bag, with “Brad Wik”sewn on the side next to “Horicon Marshmen,” our team mascot(which is not nearly as cool as it might sound, or could be.  One might imagine some awe-inspiring mutant created from the swamp, I mean marsh, that would rip your spine out Mortal Kombat II style just for kicks on a Friday Night.  A being so wretched that  all those who might dare cross it would be filled with and learn the meaning of true terror...  But its really just a man standing next to some cattails),  a select few CD’s.  There must have been a two year span where all I listened to was:

1.              “Boys and Girls in America” – the Hold Steady, I couldn’t get enough of this.  Thin Lizzy type heavy riffs, a guy from the Midwest, stories of being bored and doing drugs, it sounded a lot like my childhood.  I loved it…

2.              “O” – Damien Rice, a beautiful record.  My favorite memory of Damien Rice is when he finally came to the States to tour.  I remember watching the opening band and me and my buddy were so enamored with this girl just sitting on a wooden chair on the side of the stage.  We made countless lewd comments, as boys are meant to do, about her throughout the Frames’(opening band) set wondering why she was sitting on the stage and not our cocks, etc., etc.  Then when Damien came out we realized it was Lisa Hannigan, which we knew from the liner notes and photos in the CD jacket; and also because she was singing with Damien Rice.  Lisa became the pinnacle of womanly beauty for me and my buddy for years after that.  Not because of her beautiful, sensual voice, it was mainly for her looks…

3.              “The Creek Drank the Cradle” and “Our Endless Numbered Days” – Iron & Wine, my obsession with Iron & Wine was not unlike a steamy romance:  there were years of unbridled love and passion, then I suddenly realized it had become everything I hated.  “Kiss Each Other Clean”is complete shit and I wish I could have my twelve dollars back and wipe that record from my conscience.  I’ll never forget what we had when it was beautiful, but I will never forget the damage that was done in the later years either…

4.              “Grace” – Jeff Buckley, I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful this record is or how much it means to me.  In my more drug-addled days, the bad ones, not the good ones, I kept hoping “Hallelujah” could save me.  And, in a way I suppose, it did…

5.              “The Low End Theory” – A Tribe Called Quest, I was late to the party with this one, but could not get enough when I finally made it there…

6.              “Set Yourself on Fire” – Stars, which was my main “depressed” listen throughout the 00’s.

7.              “Y’s” -  Joanna Newsom, I am still not sure why I became immensely obsessed with this record but I did and I love it to this day.  I’ve even pilfered some lyrics from this for my own music…

8.              “The College Dropout” – Kanye West, maybe it was because he was from the Midwest too, or maybe just because the songs are fucking awesome.  I’ve loved this record since the day I heard “Through the Wire.”  I particularly love the memory of going to LA with my other buddy from Wisconsin(the other member of the “Lisa Hannigan is the best thing that ever happened to Women, and therefore all Men who are lucky enough to have seen her” fan club) and just blaring this album, and reciting lyrics and just generally being obnoxious to the point that our LA friend’s shitty, coked-out, ridiculously good looking neighbors(he lived in West Hollywood) hated us…

So, you see, I owned and loved, many records from this Millennium and was all about the future of Music.  Seeing as I myself was a musician, this was also very self-serving, but nonetheless, I fully believed that music was “Getting better all the time.”  And though there was still the terrible Good Charlotte, Shitty Older, political Green Day, Puddle of Mudd, Nickleback, Creed(fuck, there was a lot of shit back then) of the early to mid 2000’s, the new millennium had brought us the height of Radiohead and Bjork and Wilco, dominating the radio and print.  Rolling Stone was actually reporting on good music for once, not just giving the new Britney Spears record three and a half stars.  These were exciting times.  I actually enjoyed life for a few years, instead of being a bitter, old twat and only speaking of things that I hate(like now, if you haven’t noticed).  Then, it happened…  In 2009, my world was turned upside down, I couldn’t even figure out what had happened at the outset, but I knew it wasn’t good.  The terrible thing which could never be undone, and which ruined everything for me(until it was ruined even further a few years later…More on that to come) happened… I am talking, of course, of the first time I heard Mumford and Sons…  For the record, I am not sure I have ever heard an entire Mumford song start to finish, but that certainly doesn’t negate it’s inherent shittiness; I have never watched an entire game of soccer but I am 100% sure that its terrible, and is poisoning our youth with lies of mediocrity, kicking a ball hither and yon for 90 minutes with NOTHING INTERESTING EVER happening, but, alas, we’ll probably get around to soccer another day, we’re not quite there yet.

To put it simply, and relatively mildly, in my opinion at least, I FUCKING HATE MUMFORD AND SONS.  But seeing as I rarely put anything simply, or mildly, let’s go into it further.  First off, I would like to clarify that listening to, and liking, Mumford and Sons does not make you a bad person.  After extensive soul searching, and in a great effort to better myself and generally become less angry and cynical, I have forced myself to finally ascribe to this realization.  I used to spend hours and hours hating people who liked shitty music/movies/books/art etc. and it was a grand waste of my very limited amount of time, emotion and energy on Earth.  Plus, it generally just made me a douche.  So, there you go, I have accomplished at least something with my life, however small and meaningless, seeing as it was something I never should have done to begin with, but there it is.  I DO, however, believe that the act of liking something as shitty as Mumford and Sons is ruining music today, at least what little is left of music, with the record companies killing most of the industry already.  But more on that in a bit, first, let’s focus on Mumford.  I have an all-encompassing, indescribable(even to myself) emotional repulsion to this band(I’m sick of even just typing their name, so I’m going to stop).  They have somehow come to villainize everything that makes me sick, everything I hate about new music and just everything in general that displeases me about the world in relation to music and hipsters and the whole lot of it.  Now, there is no way to accurately quantify an emotion, which is the main reason why the whole thing remains shrouded in mystery even to myself.  But I knew, from the first note of whatever terrible excuse for a song it was that I first heard, that I could not stand this band, that they shouldn’t exist in this world and do so only to torment me with all their terrible music and faces and banjos.  I suppose, that if I really wanted to, I could choose to live in an alternate reality(as we all do in our own way anyhow) in which, since I almost never read music news or pay attention to pretty much anything happening in the world around me anymore, Sports excepted, M*mf*rd *nd S*ns doesn’t exist.  I rarely, if ever, go to bars that might play one of their wretched songs, associate with no one, since everyone I know has undoubtably heard me rant and rave of my hatred towards them,  who would dare mention them(fearing I would launch into it once again) and could generally live a very M*mf*rd *nd S*ns -free life.  But I don’t.  I instead, and probably unwisely, force myself to deal with it, and by deal with it, I mean just be angry about it all the time. 

           One of the things that has always interested me is our ability, as humans, to immediately identify things that we dislike.  It happens all the time, and on a wide variety of topics.  We meet people, whom we’ve never seen before, and immediately don’t like them, based on nothing real, at least not yet.  We see food that instantly turns our stomach.  We identify books and movies we won’t like without ingesting any of the content.  But how?  And why?  It seems the consensus of people much, much smarter than I, not that that is a terribly difficult accomplishment, but nonetheless, is that our brains are far more capable than we give them credit for and are able to instantly process thousands of bits of data, weigh them within the context of our past experiences and likes/dislikes etc., and come up with an answer before we have even begun to actively “think” about whatever it might be we are forming an opinion of.  It’s happened to me many times, and I’m sure its happened to you as well.  You meet someone, instantly disliked or even hated them, only to find out that…  You were right.  They are indeed a terrible person, who is abusive, a drunk, a cheater, a liar or even just generally a douche, like me.  It happens when you try new foods, like oysters, which I knew I would hate, until I tried them, and then I really fucking despised oysters.  Now, some people like to think that I am predisposing myself to react unfavorably, but I know in my heart of hearts, that I am being true to myself and that, yes, oysters are just terribly disgusting.  This is all somehow trying to explain what has happened in regards to that band which I have learned to loathe.  Maybe, it was because I immediately heard the strum of a banjo, which drives me absolutely fucking insane(banjos are not inherently evil, they can be used for good.  Go see a good bluegrass band or Steve Martin or Steve Martin playing bluegrass, which is actually quite good.  But if you’re just too lazy to learn how to properly play the banjo then FUCK YOU, don’t play it).  Maybe it was the whiny, terrible, trying to be affected and therefore sound sadder than it really is, bullshit voice which sang whatever crappy song I first heard.  Maybe it was the poorly written, lazy, awful lyrics that I was hearing.  Maybe it was the dumbass stomping I was hearing.  Chances are it was all of it.  And I knew, even before I knew that I knew, that M*mf*rd *nd S*ns was the worst thing to happen to music…  And that we could never, as a society, both musically and socially, sink lower than this…  That is until I heard… Fun….  (To note, the first period is from their stupid fucking name, the other three being an ellipsis, and seeing as I didn’t go to school for writing I am not completely sure if I am supposed to factor their period in and just add the proper punctuation at the end or count it as part of the ellipsis, but either way, fuck them for their ridiculous fucking name.)


          Part II to follow soon...

December 15th, the Day We Reminded the Cowboys They Still Suck...

December 15^th, 2013:  A Day that Will Live in Awesomeness…

            There are two things, in my mind, that will forever mark this day and this game:  what the players did, which was incredible beyond belief, and what the fans, both around me and around the country, did.  In case you are not a die-hard Cheesehead and are not currently sure to what grand, miraculous, wonderful, awe-inspiring event I am referring to, I’ll tell you.  On December 15^th, 2013 the Green Bay Packers went to Dallas, Texas to play a professional football game against those crazy Cowboys.  The game had big playoff implications for both teams.  It’s December football and baby, its go time.  The Packers had to win, without Aaron Rodgers again(though I, in no way, question his toughness.  Now, I have heard rumblings from Packers fans that he needs to “man up” and come back but I would like to offer them this:  How about we break their collarbones, wait one month and then send an incredibly large, incredibly fast 300 pound man to jump on top of them to “test” their broken collarbone.  He’s very tough, folks, believe me; and he’ll be back as soon as he’s allowed.  Remember, its not his decision not to be out there, it’s the doctors.  Also, just on a more personal level, not only is Aaron Rodgers unequivocally more talented and good-looking than I, but he is also much larger and could definitely beat me up in a fight.  And, if I tried to run, I’m certain he is much quicker than I as well), to keep their playoff hopes alive and the Cowboys could take control of the NFC East with a victory.  The events that transpired are forever etched in my memory.  The resolve, the passion, the strength was outstanding and truly an inspiration.  Now that you know, let’s get into it…

            After wading through the throngs of “recruiters” upon leaving church, which I actually like because it makes me feel like the talented, college-bound athletes must feel coming out of High School, we(and by “we” and I mean my girlfriend and I.  So yes, if you’re keeping score at home, we did get back together; and by the end of this you will see one of the many, many reasons why I was a huge fucking idiot for letting her go in the first place) headed over to what has become our favorite Packers bar in Portland:  Corbett’s Fish House.  They, unlike every other god-damned place, not only say that they have the best fish and chips in town, they actually fucking do.  Get the perch and you’ll see what I’m talking about.  This place is owned by actual Wisconsinites and it shows.  Everyone outside of Wisconsin has always made fun of the way I mix drinks.  It seems they’re always a tad on the strong side.  Well, the people at Corbett’s know how to mix a drink; read:  if you’re planning on driving home, maybe don’t make it a double for a dollar extra.  So, after devouring my perch and drinking my first screwdriver, man, was I ready for some football.  Not only do I have a lifetime hatred of the Cowboys, thanks in large part to the very same man who happens to be announcing the game, Troy Aikman, but also I’ve been telling everyone since the start of the season that the Packers would win the Super Bowl(which I do every year, but still) and if they lost on Sunday their season would be all but over.  Now, I’m not going to recount the game, as there are many places where you can read about it if you so choose.  Also, because the first half can be summed up by simply saying the Packers played like a big ball of wet sloppy shit; and the Cowboys took advantage of that with a 26-3 lead going into halftime.  No, the thing I want to talk about, and the reason this game is one for the ages, is the reactions at halftime, by both the players and the fans.  This game is reason I watch football.  I love the memories.  I love the emotion.  I love the battle.  I love, as Mike McCarthy clearly stated to his players, the word of the day:  adversity.  This game was better than any game I watched in 2011 when the Packers cruised to a 15-1 record.  This game had a life and spirit I could have never forseen, and might not see again.  It was simply breathtaking and nerve-racking and terrifying and beautiful.  And, I loved every minute of it.  Well, after the first half anyways…

            The first thing that struck me at halftime was the hopefulness and steadfastness of my girlfriend.  As soon as the first half ended, she said “Okay, we got this.”Now, I couldn’t actually see my face when she said this to me, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same look I would’ve given her if she had just asked me to shoot heroin with some hepatitis and aids-infested homeless man under a bridge somewhere(there’s fucking thousands in Portland it seems, both homeless and bridges) whilst having a four-way with Mr. Hepatitis/Aids and a recently deceased, but still warm, mangled up old lady who died from syphilis; as if anyone dies from that anymore.  Yep, that was probably the look on my face.  But then, immediately, I felt a twinge of that old Catholic guilt.  Never doubt the team.  It’s my job as a fan to always support the team, no matter what.  Almost as if in a Biblical sense, you must always believe with all your heart and at that moment I did not; my girlfriend did.  My faith began to waver.  And I was not alone.  Almost everyone else at Corbett’s that day paid their checks and left.  They had given up on the game and the team.  Their resolve and faith was cracking and they couldn’t take it anymore.  Maybe they just couldn’t handle getting smashed, by the Cowboys of all fucking teams.  Or maybe they just wanted to see a great football game and felt this one was boring, and thusly missed out on one of the most amazing comebacks in Packers history.  Whatever the reason,  it was down to two guys up front(from Wisconsin), the owners(from Wisconsin) and my girlfriend and me(from Wisconsin).  She was the only faithful left not born into the Covenant of the Cheesehead.  She was also the first to display the hope and faith we all desperately needed.  She said “I believe they can do it.”  I will never forget my response because I felt a little ashamed when I said it.  I said “I believe they can, but I don’t think they will.”  My heart and my brain were not on the same page.  My heart said let’s go get’em, we can do this.  My brain said this is turning into Thanksgiving pt. II.  And for that moment I was almost too scared to let my hope shine through.  It was easier to accept defeat then hold out hope for the win and possibly, or probably at that point, be disappointed.  This was most likely the reason that the bar was almost empty after halftime, and I’m sure it wasn’t the only Packers bar like that.  But I could see she was right.  I knew she was.  She almost always is, but don’t tell her that, it’ll go to her head.  She turned and asked me “You don’t want to leave, do you?”  “No,” I replied “absolutely not.” The game turned out to be as exciting and amazing as it possibly could have been.  But most people were already gone.  They had missed it.

The players went on to do something so great I don’t think they could fully comprehend it at that moment in time.  From Eddie Lacy's first run of the second half through Matt Flynn's five consecutive touchdown drives to the defense's epic turnaround from the first half, it was unbelievable.  I can’t even begin to imagine what the players were feeling.  I do know that when we finally got up to leave Corbett’s I could hardly stand up.  My body had been pumped so full of adrenaline and excitement and nervousness during that second half that I was crashing hard once it was finally over.  I had just watched the very best of the human spirit and human confrontation.  Men who knew no quit, only fight.  A season was on the line and they played like it.  I can’t explain it fully and I’m quite sure neither could they.  It was incomprehensible and wonderful.  But most had left before they could witness the miracle.  I found their lack of faith disturbing.  I was almost one of them.  But I couldn’t leave, it just wasn’t in me or my girlfriend to give up on our Packers.  The owners thanked us for staying before we left.  “Are you kidding?”  I said.  “Thank you, this was incredible.”  But most of all, I’ll always remember that right before that fateful second half started, once I had taken a moment and had a clearer head, I told my girlfriend “If they do win, it will be the most remarkable thing I have ever seen.”  And finally, for once, I was right about something; it was…