One of the hardest things for me to accept and reconcile in the vast expanse of wasted space, dilapidated memories and deserted brain cells in this dang ol' cranium of mine (that sounds like a science-themed country song, if such a thing were to exist) is the fact that most people JUST DON'T GIVE A FUCK about song lyrics. Now, to be sure, I sort of get it. Some people's relationship with music is an arm's length affair, at best. Some might have even had a few run-ins, called the cops and got a restraining order against poor ol' music. Music has definitely stolen dearly from me on many occasions. I can't count how many times I've put on "Airbag" only to lose the next 53 minutes of my life to "OK Computer," AGAIN... But shit, son, it's Friday Night. Let's forgive and forget and be friends with the words so thoughtfully and carefully put together, in which to create a memorable story, lived-in and full of Love and Hope and Faith and Fear. And, if it's a Bradley Wik (or Bruce Springsteen) joint, it'll be about the four pillars of Rock N' Roll: Cars, Girls, Drinking and Rock N' Roll... (Some) Artists (not me) struggle to tell tales from the heart, relating to us simpletons (well, not me since I'm part of them, but you fuckers) the vastness of human-ness that is our experiences on this short-go-round-on-the-spinning-blue-orb. The very stories that make us feel less alone and more a part of this fucked up world; as always, spinning in infinity, amen, hallelujah. If Paul Simon and Chevy Chase can't bring a smile to your face, then fuck you. You don't deserve this limited view of God's creations, however imperfect, yet beautiful. And, you definitely don't deserve this fucking list of awesome shit, as curated by the man himself: Me. The best bringer of the fucking shit since Jay-Z and Kanye decided to explode our meager minds by teaming up to become the real Masters of the Universe. Who dare fuck with them and their musical prowess?? Not I, said the lowly maestro who carves out a simple existence in the realm of the living, not attempting to understand the unknowable brilliance that reigns down upon him, should he live to be so lucky. I pity those who perished before enjoying "Niggas in Paris," though I'm sure that's the muthafucking song Peter plays to determine your worthiness of entry into the kingdom of Heaven. Hell plays a mix of the Eagles, Grouplove, the Head and the Heart, Rick Astley (although personally I'm against his inclusion on the "soundtrack from Hell," literally), James Taylor, Josh Groban, Jackson Browne, Fun., and finally, the devils themselves, Mumford and Sons. Wow, if that list ain't enough to restore your faith then I don't know what is. Paul Simon and Kanye OR James Taylor and Fun.? Fuck, their stupid fucking name fucks up my fucking punctuation. Fuck them. They're so fucking stupid. Seriously, FUCK FUN.! But most importantly of all, fuck THIS. Their reign as Indie Rock elites lasted about as long as a bout of untreated AIDS. So mostly, we're just happy it's dead and it can't infect anyone else and ruin their respective lives, and their loved ones, as well. So, with a Fun./AIDS joke sufficiently in hand, let's move on to the goddamn list...
1. Fifth Harmony - "Worth It"
Look, if you started the night off with two martinis, you'd want to fuckin' rock that shit right off that bat too; and this song definitely hooks that shit up. Gotta love a song that is just as much at home in my headphones, the club, the stripclub, the car, and pretty much any-fucking-where music plays. I would have still loved this song if it came out a hundred years ago and I had to play it on a fuckin' gramophone I had to wind myself. Still would get the party jumpin'. Might've pre-empted the Civil War, George W. style.
2. Kenna - "Freetime"
As a white kid growing up in Wisconsin, most of my childhood was spent listening to classic rock music. Synths and shit made no fucking sense to me. This was a hella-fun song for an 18 year old to drink and do white people dances to.
3. Nena - "99 Red Balloons (Luftballons)"
So, full disclosure, this song is the real reason for the rant about people not listening to lyrics. I asked a small focus group about this song, and not one knew it wasn't in English. Fuckin' seriously. That's how much people give a fuck. 100% knew the song and 100% didn't know it was in German. Which, of course, also proves that 100% of my focus group hasn't watched THIS.
4. Clipse - "When the Last Time"
So, what??!! This shit was quite ahead of it's time. Pharrell knows how to make two things: Music and Money, and has a fuckload of both. "Happy" might have been better as a PARODY, but no one can touch some of his earlier shit. Like this next one...
5. N.E.R.D - "Truth or Dare"
I wasn't sure what the fuck was happening to my 16 year old mind and body but I liked it. If I could travel back in time to hear this song for the first time, I would in a second. It's the equivalent of hearing "Visions of Johanna" for the first time. In other words, FUCKING LIFE-CHANGING. Hip-hop, Rock N' Roll, Pop, all sorts of shit colliding in the most beautiful way. I still don't understand this album and relish it among my most valuable things.
6. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - "Let the Cool Goddess Rust Away"
Talk about hipster nonsense. This shit was real, real fucking good. They tapped into something with this record and I still love it to this day. Hipster shit doesn't suck because it's fucking hipster shit, it sucks because it sucks. This lands on the opposite end of that spectrum, proving that what's good is good, despite its inclinations.
7. Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - "A King at Night"
I'm sensing an early 2000's theme to tonight. Seriously, I don't plan these things. You're literally drinking and listening to music with me, in real time. The line "She's a fine lookin' lady and she likes to go down on me. And I like to go down on her, too," is like, wait, what? This is a sad song that is funny and silly and Will has the balls to be all those things at once. Genius.
8. Britney Spears - "Email My Heart"
Drinking often leads to bad decisions but this isn't one. I've owned, loved and listened to "...Baby, One More Time" since 1999. I probably should be ashamed of this fact, but I'm not. In fact, I'm quite proud of my fandom of Britney. Young love always leaves the strongest impressions...
9. Firehouse - "Love of a Lifetime"
When I was younger man (read: a teenager), my buddy's dad had a music room we were strictly, and explicitly, forbidden to enter. It was probably mostly the result of my buddy who was the consummate klutz and broke nearly everything he touched. Or, it might have been the roughly $10,000 he invested in his stereo equipment and speakers that he didn't want young kids to fuck up. Nevertheless, we would sneak in there when he was gone and go through his thousands of CD's, fire up his vintage Klipsch's and revel in the majesty that is Winger and, of course, Firehouse. It's a very strange thing when a random album grabs my attention so hard and for so long, but that's exactly what happened with the self-titled Firehouse album. I still listen to it, front to back, on a regular basis, nearly 18 years later. If you haven't heard it, this song is the place to start.
10. Cinderella - "Coming Home"
Speaking of 80's hair metal... This might be the cheesiest of them all. Which, of course, I love as I am from Wisconsin, after all.
11. Feist - "Brandy Alexander"
This song is the reason I own Creme de Cacao. Also, the reason I get sad sometimes. And the remedy for sadness at other times. Songs that can do that to me are rare and I love them for it. More than they'll ever love me back...
12. Adam Sandler - "At a Medium Pace"
As I mentioned previously, drinking always unleashes the sentimentality bug. Who hasn't felt like "Shave off my pubes and punch me in the face" at times??
13. Beck - "Debra"
The "Just... What the fuck?!" song of the week. Not sure what the record is for consecutive listens of this song is, but I'm sure I'm getting close...
14. Elliott Smith - "Say Yes"
Can't end on 13, so here's the last one. That sentimentality bug is goddamn persistent and finally landed a bite. Fuck him or her. Does the sentimentality bug have a gender? Not sure, but not sure if it matters unless they're fucking on, as well as with, me. Fuck those little fuckers. Either/Or this is the end. Remember, you're only as old as you feel when you're drinking... 'Til next time, assholes!
Friday, August 26, 2016
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Who loves losers? Uh, who doesn't? Oh, a lot of people... Well, fuck me...
Everybody loves a loser…
You guys/gals ever notice how awesome Steve Winwood is? If you don’t, you should. Take some time and appreciate the man,
his hair, his videos, his keyboard prowess, but mostly, his insanely catchy and
wonderfully-constructed songs. Use
five minutes of your weekend to listen to THIS SHIT. He even gets all grammatical on our
asses by correctly saying “an Higher Love.” I could (and frequently do) listen to this on repeat in the
car when I’m feeling down. Some
days it’s “Valerie,” some days it’s “Back in the High Life” but Mr. Winwood is
frequently in the mix of the pick-me-up-playlist. As is THIS SONG.
Man, sorry what was I going to talk about, again? Oh yeah, something I know quite a bit
about: Losing. (aside: God, I hope people didn’t think I was going to use Steve
Winwood as my segue into losing and losers… No, I’m talking about me. Sorry, that intro was confusing as shit
but it’s Friday Night, which, if you’re keeping score at home, is for the
Drinkers and I’m definitely partaking in that social more (mor-“A”, or mor-“eh”
for our Canadian friends, which is also, incidentally, how they order another
beer). If I was a professional writer
I wouldn’t have been so MISLEADING but I’m not, so fuck it, and on with the
show!)
What I wanted to talk about today, which isn’t “today” in
the same sense to me as it is to you, since who knows when you will be reading
this (if anyone reads this shit at all to begin with), was the idea and societal
perceptions of LOSING. There’s a
distinct fear of LOSING, a perceived hatred/shame toward LOSERS and this insane
idea that LOSING is completely unacceptable and the absolute worst thing that
can happen to a person or group of persons (or people? Not sure, don’t care). People have become deathly afraid to be
WRONG, to LOSE or to FAIL. I’ve
watched people waste and/or ruin their lives because of an intense fear of
LOSING or FAILURE. I understand
that a lot of these feelings are the products of other, deeper issues; that
this is an effect, not the cause.
I get that. But I
don’t. Or I guess I should say, I
don’t understand that. My brain,
addled as it may be, or perhaps because of said addling, doesn’t work like
that. There are a lot of reasons that
it doesn’t work like that, which, if you really want to know, feel free to ask
me at a later date and I might tell you (booze always helps!). But, it’s heartbreaking to see people’s
lives controlled by the fear of LOSING or FAILURE. Just for the record (and because nobody fucking asked) my
biggest fears are:
- Driving
my car off a cliff and plummeting to an untimely and grotesque, fiery
death, AND
- Missing
out on Packers games (which is why I support, and fully endorse, Football on Your Phone.
Oh, and not doing something great, original, influential and
memorable with my life. But, I
will accomplish this with the release of my second album (and the double-secret
forthcoming Kindears album; wait, I just mentioned it, FUCK!), so I’m not too
worried about this one anymore…
One of the things I’ve noticed over the years, is that the
growing disdain people feel towards LOSING/FAILURE has slowly morphed into an
entire era where people are simply avoiding putting themselves into a situation
where LOSING/FAILURE is possible and/or likely. I do not believe this is an entirely new concept but it has
been subsequently reinforced by our modern culture, most specifically, with the
dreaded “Hipsters” (Wooo, scary sound effect, but not too scary because “I’m
too fuckin’ cool to care anyways” he said in his best hipster, aka Michael
Cera, voice). They’ve subsequently
decided that none of them want to be losers, and henceforth, in order to erase
losers, you must also erase winners and, thusly, everyone is equal and the
same. Yay! What a fun world we live in, where no
one is good and no one is bad, we’re all just stuck in the same boring ass,
fucking Hipster Purgatory.
Now, I think the best example of the fear of LOSING, and the
subsequent damage it can cause, is probably the Cleveland Browns. They’ve fallen into the Fear of Losing
Death Spiral, where:
Fear of Losing = Changes = Losing = More Changes = More
Losing = Fear of Losing
And on and on, repeating like the two fucking chords of a
half-hour Phish jam. Teams are
more likely to get stuck in this holding pattern than to get out. The inverse is also true with teams
like the Packers and the Patriots.
Just as in nature, it takes more time, and more importantly, energy to
stop and start anew than it does to keep moving in the same direction. That’s what makes what the Oakland (as
of now) Raiders have done even more admirable. They could have easily replaced Reggie McKenzie (Ted
Thompson disciple), burned down the operation and started over a couple times,
as the Browns have done, and continued to win 3-5 games each year for the
forseeable future. Instead, they
kept him around for the third (and now fourth and fifth) season. Browns fans, you might already be
confused as I’m guessing you didn’t know GM’s and coach’s contracts could go
beyond 2 years, but they can. Was
it rough on the Raiders, and moreso the fans, for a spell? Yes, of course. Did the Raiders fans cry out for
change? I’m certain many did. Did they let the howl of the wolves
deter them from their overall plan?
No. In fact, fuck no. Because teams can’t turn things around
without a great effort. But now
the Raiders have a legitimate chance of making the playoffs this season and the
Browns, well, they have RGIII…
I know many of you are thinking that, ultimately, these
decisions come from the top down, from ownership, and you’d be right… Sort of. Of course, these egocentric (and generally not football-minded
or football-smart) billionaires are generally impatient pricks. If they were good at waiting around,
being patient, always giving the benefit of the doubt, being kind and gentle,
forgiving and caring, they probably wouldn’t be successful billionaires. God knows, that hasn’t worked for me –
though I’m not really THAT patient, kind or any of the other shit,
anyways. These men are accustomed
to winning, and winning largely and frequently. Again, very much so unlike me. Losing, and responding to said losses, has made me who I am
today. My favorite story about
LOSING is a tale about how awesome my brother is. For years growing up, we played a lot of chess. We played almost every single day. Now, just so you know, I was 15 or 16
when we started and my brother was 7 or 8. I refused to just let him win. Was it mean to beat him every time? Maybe, but I didn’t think he would
learn the nuances of the game properly if I didn’t play him for real. So, after losing hundreds of games, he
finally won. He beat me. He was like 1-500 in his career but
I’ll never forget it. I couldn’t
have been prouder of him. It felt
like a monumental moment. I know
he felt it too. He went on to
start a chess club in High School and I’m sure he was the best player on the
team. And, I’m positively certain,
he would fucking destroy me if we played today. Did he like losing all those games? I can’t imagine he did, but now he’s a
better player than I ever could be.
Losses can often be the building blocks to winning. But these billionaire cocksuckers (yes,
I’m jealous. I want one of those
blue stripy shirts with the white collar so everyone knows I’m both rich and a
douchebag) are defined by winning; they don’t lose often and they don’t lose
well. But the other half of that
is the fact that they intensely hate being perceived as LOSERS. So, when the fans and the critics and
the media start labeling THEIR team as LOSERS, being the vain and egocentric
people they are, they DEMAND CHANGE.
Someone must be held accountable and FIRED. LOSING is UNACCEPTABLE! Except, obviously, if winning were easy, we’d all be doing
it; just like we’d all be billionaires if we could. This is the subtle fact that seems to elude them. So, because in our modern culture,
driven heavily by the Hipster movement, people can’t stand LOSING, the owners
have become much more impatient and more frequently force change upon their
LOSING team and, thusly, perpetuate the LOSING, which, of course, perpetuates
the Fear of Losing Death Spiral.
So, yes, Cleveland, you can probably, and rightfully so, blame Hipsters
and impatient Billionaires for your pain and suffering.
P.S. – If you start a class-action lawsuit, I want in. Anything to stop this Hipster
takeover. It’s worse than the
fucking hippies in the sixties.
They don’t stand for anything, they just hate everything; especially
winning and losing. Perhaps,
someday, we’ll all be boring and mediocre but until then, I’d rather the whole
world wasn’t just like Cleveland…
P.P.S. – I originally had this epiphany (or rant, as my
girlfriend likes to say) before the Cavaliers won the NBA Title. I spoke lots of ill toward the Browns,
because, well, they suck. But, for
the record, I wholly supported LeBron defeating the mighty Warriors, which I
feel are the quintessential Hipster team.
LeBron is a once in a lifetime athlete, built to specs most of us can’t
even read or even if we could, we wouldn’t fucking comprehend or know how to
put them together. He is most
definitely from another planet.
That’s probably why people love Steph Curry so much. They love Steph because he seems the
most like us “normal” humans. He’s
not sculpted by His own hands and chosen by God to wreak havoc on the
basketball world while we all bask in his undeniable glory. But that’s the greatest fucking thing
about sports. I relish watching
these genetic freaks and glorious humans achieve things beyond our wildest
imagination (ex. THIS MUTHAFUCKING SHIT!!!!!). Step back 3’s
be damned. That shit is real. Like, for fucking real. Seriously. Except that it isn’t real, except in LeBron James’ world. And, Hipsters be damned, that’s the
world I want to live in, eternally and with all the grace of God. God bless you, LeBron James. God bless you…
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Is he having a laugh? He's having a laugh... aka Drinking Playlist
Who likes drinking alone? Come share a drink and a laugh with me…
OK, I know what you’re thinking. How do I know?
Because I’m just that fucking awesome. You’re thinking:
“It’s Friday night and I’m at home, drinking alone, and though I cannot
be partying with Bradley Wik, I want to listen to the same music as he so as to
feel closer to his majestic ass. I
want to dance to the same rhythms and sing the same choruses, full tilt and
off-key and fucking hammered. I
want to occupy the same mental, and metaphysical, plane as this exulted
mutherfucker. I want to dance as
he dances, full of spirit and without inhibitions, mesmerized by the music, my
hips in sync with the bass, my body moving so effortlessly with the melodies,
wholly enveloped in the magical, mystical and pseudo-religious manner in which
music can possess us. I want to
feel as Bradley feels and see what Bradley sees and hear what Bradley
hears. I wish that someday I might
physically reconcile these sensations with the actuality of his presence,
though undeserving I may be. I
would be made whole by such a divine meeting as this. I would then be afforded the luxury to die, contented,
unlike so many of my brethren (and sisthren?). My time on earth will have come full circle and I should
pass ever so fulfilled, ready for what may lie beyond our feeble
comprehension. And when Peter
should ask “Are you ready?” I will
know I am complete and satiated with my earthly existence, with nothing left to
look back on and wonder about. I
will know the apex of joy and relish in the knowledge that I reached the
highest of highs. There is nothing
left on earth for me, should I be allowed to ingest, for one night, the same
musical epiphanies, at the same moment in time, as Bradley Wik…” Or, something like that, I’m sure…
So, without getting into my infamous verbosity on subjects
which seem to interest no one but me, I present you (three scotches in, mind
you; catch up fuckers) my playlist for tonight:
- Bruce
Hornsby and the Range – Every Little Kiss
Gotta start out light and
fun. I could listen to this whole
album every time I put it on, but, alas, I need to move on to:
- Cyndi
Lauper – She Bop
Keep the rhythm moving
forward. The bass line alone is
worth the price of admission
- Phil
Collins – Sussudio
Don’t even get me started on how
much I love this song… Thanks for
not getting me started. Watch the
damn music video which will help explain the inexplicable love I have for Phil
and this tune
- Steve
Winwood – Valerie
I hemmed and hawed between this
and “Talking Back to the Night” landing on the better chorus
- Yaz –
Only You
This song breaks my fucking heart
every time. And now, thanks to
Ricky Gervais, I can’t help but think about “The Office” special every time I
hear it. Of course, I’m referring
to the orginal and not that bastardization, “The (American) Office”
- Luke
Bryan – Country Girl (Shake It For Me)
Now, four drinks in, I can’t
resist the lunacy and sheer, manic fun of a Luke Bryan song; “Strip it Down”
excluded
- Florida
Georgia Line – This Is How We Roll (feat. Luke Bryan)
Seriously, what is better than FGL
AND Luke Bryan… I’m fucking
serious, what is?
- Modest
Mouse – Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset
As every drunk knows, eventually
the sentimentality bug will get you.
This is what that little fucker wanted today
- Angel
Haze – New York
Enough of that sentimental
shit. Fuck, this a sick beat with
one of my favorite MC’s lighting it up, rough…
- The B-52’s – Quiche Lorraine
I am getting pretty drunk, after
all
- Bob Marley – Redemption Song
Seriously, try and outrun the
sentimentality bug. It’s seemingly
everywhere after five drinks. This
song always reminds me of High School and speech class and, of course, smoking
lots of, err, “cigarettes”
- Fiona Apple – Hot Knife
Just… What the fuck?!… Every damn
time, unbelievable…
- Kanye West and Jay-Z – Niggas in Paris
This would be the most fun anyone
can have with music, except for:
- Dexy’s Midnight Runners – Come on Eileen
Saturday, June 18, 2016
The Sidewalk Cafe, ellipsis. Wait, did I just say "ellipsis" or did I type it? It's tired in here...
What in the world were we doing at three AM… aka hanging with the waitresses, the walls and the weirdos (too many ellipsis’? ellipsises? ellipsis…)
Some people were looking to disappear, most were already
gone. Being new, it wasn’t really
my place to make blanket assumptions, but I think it was fairly safe to say
that one of the main draws of this place was the masquerade of it all. For fucks sake, even I was wearing
sunglasses at two-thirty in the morning, trying to not pass out/fall asleep,
which would happen from time to time, hiding diligently, in plain sight, from
everyone left, but mostly, from myself.
It was eerily simplistic to fall into the mystique and adapt to the
scene being played out, week after week.
It was, in its own way, the sort of thing that all of these people (and
there was definitely a very specific type of person who enjoyed this) were
looking for, after years of being disenfranchised with the distinct lack of
effort and non-existent aura most places strive to project. This, it seemed, even in its own
contrived, but still genuine on some level, way filled a desire to go back in
time and experience something that we all knew (well, most of us knew) we were
doomed to search for, unsatiated, on and on, with an unrelenting and crippling
passion should we continue down our respective, and all-consuming, current
paths.
For those seven to eight hours (no fucking joke), it was our
world, much the same as an actor might get lost playing a character, amongst
strangers and friends and people desperately seeking solace from the storm,
whatever that may be to them, oblivious to reality. I know, because I am one of them, that there is a multitude
of people who simply cannot function in the type of world our begetters
built. Our brains are addled with
dreams and deficiencies, and the way we are meant to exist day to day doesn’t
quite compute. It simply, no
matter how you play with the numbers, won’t add up to a meaningful sum. So, I get it. I wanted it to exist, just as much as the rest of them. But, still, I couldn’t fucking stand
it. Something about it just didn’t
feel right. Something was missing,
but maybe that was part of the mystique.
Either way, I loved, and completely hated, the Sidewalk Café…
The Missteps of a Misspent Youth... aka trying to cover all the bad memories (yet another ellipsis)
“What the fuck are we supposed to do now that we’ve wasted our youth?”
None of us were so far gone that we didn’t know where this
was headed. For us, it was more of
a fucked-up survival mode. The
co-dependence had started to take its toll and I could tell it was almost
over. Half of me wished it would
continue, on and on, repeating and spinning in infinity until my earthly body
conceded and released what was left of my heavenly spirit, if anything, to
explore the consequences of my time here on our wonderful blue planet; I was
addicted to the chaos and hoped to live in it as long as I could. The other half of me was relieved that
the end was in sight, the self-destruction nearly complete. The tug-of-war that had been raging had
finally begun to move toward the latter.
I was quite looking forward to the long-awaited deep breath I could
finally take, my head being above water for the first time in years. I couldn’t count the days spent
longfully gazing at the shoreline but refusing to put oar to water in any
attempt to return to the place I once knew so well; but it was nearly
time. To be sure, I was never
worried, a feeling I’m certain was shared amongst us, about what would happen
after we crash-landed back to reality.
I knew, since the beginning, again, something I feel was mutual between
us all, except for Alyosha, that we, without the production of a formal
“goodbye,” would never speak to each other again. Instead, we would look back on this with a very unique and
singular combination of fondness and disdain saved specifically for
circumstances like this. Many
people have an “adult” enough disposition to look back on the missteps of a
misspent youth fondly and with an eye towards the lessons learned. But, because of the depth and severity
of the fucked-up-ness of this all, we would be afforded no life lessons, no
fond remembrances, nothing but the raw emotion we probably still haven’t grown
up enough to digest fully. There’s
certainly a part of me that will never recover from, or condone, the way I
behaved during those years; and I’ve the scars to remind me, should I ever
hope, and be willing, to forget. I
have a distinct memory, one of those moments I’ll never forget, though I doubt
I would recognize the girl I “loved” who made these comments, even if she was
standing next to me at a Portishead reunion tour (her favorite band to fuck
to), of asking her why she was covering her body with tattoos. She simply and succinctly stated “It’s
to cover all the bad memories.” I
hope, someday, to do the same.
Tragedy might be universal and unavoidable as a human, but great
tragedy, the kind of which is said to inspire great art, is hard to understand;
and even harder for those involved.
As Dostoevsky once wrote: “Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large
intelligence and a deep heart. The
really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth…”
Monday, March 7, 2016
Goals, or some shit like that... I'm almost thirty and still chasing music...
Life Goals of a severely disturbed, and severely genius man...
One of the things that has always driven me, one of the
things I hope and wish to accomplish before I sign off for the last time, is a
deep desire to give, even if to only one other human being, the inspirational
gift of music. No single thing has
altered the trajectory of my life in such a distinct and measurable way. My whole life, as I have mentioned
previously, took a significant, inconceivable and wonderfully magnificent turn
when I truly embraced music. And,
another way of fleshing out the idea of “truly embraced” is to say “devoted my
life,” to music. Like most people when
they are growing up and figuring out what life is and how they might fit into
the world around them, I listened to music mostly passively. That is to say, on the radio in the car or
while we were shooting hoops. Sports
were my life, my focus and my thoroughly intense passion back then. I was going to be the starting shortstop for
the Milwaukee Brewers or catch passes from Brett Favre at the tail end of his
career. I also loved basketball, but
even at a very young age I was well aware of my limitations in regards to
someday playing basketball professionally; which is to say, I knew I was short
and white (or rather pink, being half red and half white). At that time, those were the only things I
knew: football, baseball and basketball,
with a little hockey and tennis thrown in for good measure.
As I progressed into the terrifically awkward and
self-conscious teenage/middle school years, something started to change. The world was slowly unveiling itself unto
me, with all its splendor and glory suddenly coming sharply into focus. Girls, music, literature, poetry, art, movies,
travel and on and on were right there in front of me when, just the moment
before, they were not. It was all new
and unconscionably exciting. I was being
pulled in a thousand directions and my brain could barely contain itself. Things were coming at me from all angles and
my poor Aspergian brain was desperately trying to collect them all, process and
file these things neatly away. Only it
wasn’t neat, it was a fucking disaster.
I gobbled it all up as quickly as I could, for fear of missing out on
something amazing or awe-inspiring. My
brain is such an archivist and a completist that whenever I found something new,
I had to fully immerse myself into it and absorb everything I could as quickly
as possible. It couldn’t have been much
more than a couple weeks after first reading “Slaughterhouse-Five” that I
obtained copies, sometimes multiple, of every Kurt Vonnegut book. I remember I got them very cheaply by
ordering them off this weird internet thing called “Ebay” which used to offer
tremendous deals on used items people no longer had a use for. I can still feel the joy I had opening box
after box which contained anywhere from one or two to ten or twelve new books
for my consumption. And I consumed them
all, with vigor. Again and again, I
repeated this process. I can’t tell you
how many times I joined and quit BMG music so I could get 12 cd’s for the price
of 1 plus shipping. All of the sudden I
needed every Metallica album, every Guns N’ Roses album, every Bon Jovi album,
every “Weird Al” Yankovic cassette tape.
Of all the new mediums and modes of entertainment I had recently
discovered, music always held the greatest draw. There was something about it that just
captured me in a more visceral way than movies or books or television. It’s the sort of thing that happens when I
see a Salvador Dali painting. I am in
awe and dumbstruck by the brilliance, but inspired at the same time. Music had the ability to manipulate my
emotions like nothing ever had. Great
movies like “Raging Bull” or “Back to the Future” had the same impact, but it
was spread out over a couple hours. I
liked the immediacy of music. Somehow,
these artists could, in a matter of three minutes, change my entire day or
week. I couldn’t understand it. So for years, music was no more
comprehendible in its construction than “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky
or “The Leaf of the Artichoke Is an Owl” by Gorky. I had no idea how or why these things came to
exist in the world. I couldn’t fathom
how one would go about the business of creating such wonderful, beautiful,
magnificent, awe-inspiring things. There
was no way that I could ever be a part of that world in any other means than as
a consumer. That was my role and I
relished it. There was such a small
group of truly brilliant people and I, in no way, was included in that
ever-exclusive club. I longed to be a
genius but deep down knew I wasn’t. I
wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with these giants but couldn’t. Alas, it was my Roxbury.
A great change was headed my way, but I was not to know it
until many years later. Early in my
musical awakening, I was a huge fan of Classic Rock, Metal and Hair Metal. Guns N’ Roses was, for a long time, the
epitome of everything I loved about music.
They rocked harder, looked cooler, got more chicks and wrote better
songs, I thought at the time, than anyone else on the planet. Then, I found Led Zeppelin, and they rocked
harder, looked cooler, got more chicks and wrote better songs than Guns N’
Roses! Then, I found Bob Dylan, and
he…wrote better lyrics…than anyone else on the planet. OK, that didn’t really work in that regard,
but Dylan played an enormous role in my musical development, which I’ll get to
in just a bit. I always thought to
myself, “if I could ever play music, I would definitely want to be the lead
singer of a Rock N’ Roll band.” But the
Led Zeppelins and the Guns N’ Roses-s and the Bon Jovis (my favorite Bon Jovi
memory is from when I was 12 or 13. My
best friend in the whole world, at that time, James, decided, with my help of
course, that it was a good idea to try and woo a girl he had a huge crush on by
singing to her over the phone. The song
he so skillfully, and appropriately, we thought at least, chose was “Livin’ on
a Prayer.” Needless to say, she was
mightily unimpressed by his ability to not really hit any of the right
notes. That final chorus was downright
brutal with his untrained voice.
Naturally, of course, I and the other boy who bore witness to this,
couldn’t control our laughter and endlessly mocked his enthusiasm, impressive
though it may have been. James certainly
didn’t fail that day due to lack of confidence…) all had singers that I knew,
even then, had way more talent than I could ever hope to attain. Because, you see, some people are born with
the great gift of talent, and the rest are born like me: with no artistic ability whatsoever. I’ll never forget arguing with my art teacher
who once gave me an “F” on a set of sketches I submitted for an assignment. She said they were so bad that she was sure
that I had pencil-whipped them that morning before class. I was so mad, and hurt, seeing as I had spent
hours upon hours on them that week, diligently working every night, when I
could’ve been shooting hoops with my friends. I desperately wanted to be good
at art. But, she was right, the sketches
were terrible. At least I got her to
change the “F” to a “B” by staying after school for an hour to draw in front of
her so she could see that no matter how hard I focused and tried, the results
were equally shitty.
Now, I realize that having a distinct lack of talent is no
longer much of a deterrent in music these days.
Just ask Grouplove, the owner of the worst piece of flaming garbage ever
referred to as a “song” (check out their song “Shark Attack,” so you can revel
in the comfort that comes with no longer wondering where the bottom is. The seemingly racist music video is a terribleness
all its own, which adds bonus shittiness-points to the song). But, back then, sucking ass and making people
want to murder their earballs was not appreciated the way it is today. We’ve come a long way, baby! But, this is the point in the story where Bob
Dylan comes back. He was the first
person I heard, which I simultaneously loved and respected AND thought “God, I
could sing as good as that guy.”
Listening to the, mostly, simplistic acoustic guitar lines and his
vocals, registered in my brain as something that I, as terrifically untalented
as I may have been, might actually be able to do! It was the first of many revelations in
regards to my musical future, which, at that point, was still not a thought
that passed through my 14 or 15 year old brain.
Shortly thereafter, I saved up my lawn-mowing money and bought my first
guitar out of the JCPenney’s catalog. It
was a black Harmony dreadnought acoustic guitar. It was the most magnificent thing in the
world. Only I had no fucking clue what
to do with it. I couldn’t afford
lessons, the internet back then was still just for weirdos who wanted to send “email”
and look at porn; and no one I knew had any idea how to use one of these
strange contraptions. Well, first things
fucking last. I very quickly learned two
things:
1) I needed to also purchase a tuner in order to
successfully use this thing
2) Sam Goody, in the Beaver Dam mall (R.I.P. thanks
to Wal-Mart) sold books that would show me how to play anything I wanted. The first book I bought, of course, was an
anthology of Bob Dylan songs.
Dylan’s influence weighed heavily over my early musical
career. From the simple chord
progressions and song structures to the poetic, prose-y type lyrics, I tried
desperately to be as much like him as possible.
On my first album, “Burn What You Can, Bury the Rest…,” the song “She
Will Never Return to Me” is the last vestige of that early songwriting style I
adhered to.
By now, if any of you are still reading, I’m sure you’re
wondering “What the fuck does any of this shit have to do with giving the
inspirational gift of music to someone?
This is just a long, boring wank about your life.” Well, you’re right. But, also, I’m getting there assholes; just
hang on a minute…
OK, so here’s the fucking tie-in. About a year after all that shit, I began to
wonder what I really wanted to do with this newfound “magic” music shit. Dylan was nice, but save for songs such as “Like
a Rolling Stone” and “One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)” he just didn’t “explode”
out of the speakers the way I wanted to.
Elvis had it in spades with “Hound Dog” and “Jailhouse Rock,” but more
or less cooled off beyond that. Billy
Joel’s “Glass Houses” slipped just the tip in.
Hell, even Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” (see what I did there… huh,
right?) had its moments. Then, I got my
grandma’s old, buffet-style (literally, on Christmas and Thanksgiving) record
player. It was a motherfucking bitch to
get up the stairs to my bedroom, but in the end, I don’t know where I would be
without it. Probably would’ve went to
college and actually did something with my life. You know, made money and shit, like an
adult. Flipside, would’ve been boring as
fuck. I lived a lifetime by the time I
was 25 and I loved every minute, even the terrible stuff. Totally worth it, kind of…
Anyhow, let me set the scene: young “Brad” is 16, sort of mussing around
with this “guitar” trying to figure out what he wants to do with this new “music”
thing he’s jumped balls-first into.
After lugging this fucking record player up to his room, he’s bound and
determined to use it. He flips slowly
through his mother’s old records, which haven’t been touched in years,
carefully examining each one, and pulling out his favorites, based on nothing
but a gut reaction to the album covers and his limited knowledge of these
artists. After making a few selections,
he returns to his room, delighted in his newfound modicum of music
consumption. It’s so pure and simple, he
thinks. They sent the Voyager Gold
Record into space believing records to be so simple and wonderful that even
aliens could figure out how to sink a needle into the groove and blast “Dark
Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground” into the outer realms of space; still
somehow annoying their begetters, or whatever they hell they call their parents. He threads up a records and listens, more
intently than he has ever listened before.
The clicks, the pops, the hisses and warbles somehow making it all seem
more human, more imperfect. The drums
sound more vibrant, the bass more distinct.
The spacing of all the instruments is more like one would imagine them coming
from a stage; the guitars over there, the drums booming from the center, the
bass anchoring it all down. One record,
then another, booms from the speakers, with “Brad” listening like he’s never
heard music before. Then, it goes
silent, the end of record loop. “What
next?” he thinks and examines the stack he’s brought into his room. And then he sees it. It has never particularly struck him, though
he’s heard a few of the songs. “Seems
more like adult rock than anything I might like.” Nevertheless, the cover is quite
striking. Dark, contrasting, black and
white images set against nothing but a blindingly white background. It folds out to reveal the entire photo,
which he’s never seen before: a
scraggly, skinny white kid with a beat-up Tele and a large, black man with a
saxophone. There’s a smile on their
faces that exudes confidence and fun, but hints that there’s more struggle than
one might initially ascertain. The print
is bold and clean. Each song title
sounds like it could be a movie from the 50’s or 60’s, starring Marlon Brando
and Grace Kelly. Well, it’s only eight
songs, let’s see what it’s got…
He pulls it out, but, being still new to vinyl, lays it
B-side up on the turntable. He turns it
on and carefully lowers the needle onto what turns out to be “Born to Run.” What happens next is still hazy and dream-like. No sooner had the warm
sounds touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent
upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure
had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its
origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its
disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me
the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this
essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent,
mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that
it was connected with the sound of the drums and guitars, but that it
infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature.
Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?
OK, for the nerds out there (or the well-read, I’m not
discriminating, I’m joining you), you’ll recognize that passage as Proust’s tea-soaked
madeleine incident but the sentiment remains, assholes. I told you I’d fucking bring this back around
and here it is: if, by some intrusion of
fate, heavenly or otherwise, I could somehow impart, no, bestow that very
experience unto some young child, henceforth, enlarging their world and their
experience and their love of beauty, both of this world and within oneself,
then I could die, knowing I fully served my purpose on this earth, as a mortal
man in God’s image. That might seem a
bit self-aggrandizing but the sentiment holds true. Music is truly a gift and should be regarded
as such. It has become the bastard child
of art in recent times, degraded and reduced to background noise constructed in
such a way as to make us “feel” a particular emotion on cue. People will gladly pay thousands of dollars
for a painting they will look at, perhaps, once a month. But a song they listen to everyday, albeit probably
just to fill space while driving/running/shopping/folding laundry/etc., is
worth nary a penny. People would just
rather stream a song than buy it. I could
not possibly quantify the dollar amount of entertainment, enjoyment and
personal fulfillment “Born to Run” has given me. I owe it my life, there’s no doubt about
that. I have purchased it countless
times, in one format or another, but no mere dollar amount could balance that
debt. “Born to Run” has shaped my life
in such a way that it’s impossible to separate the two. It’s my R2D2 in the escape pod moment, the
seemingly galaxy-altering detail told in the seemingly smallest way possible. Proust
understood the gravity of the moment where life suddenly became something new,
whether he understood the implications or not.
I knew, but I knew not what
was happening, only that it was
happening. It was terrifying and
wonderful and my life would never be the same.
I hope I can ruin someone’s life in such a way one day. Ruin it in the most beautiful way…
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Quantifying the Unquantifiable or some other shit like that. Yada, yada, yada, something about musical influences...
Quantifying the Unquantifiable… Or, in less twatty terms, ranking my early influences according to a different set of criteria.
I promise, that at some point, these posts will be less like
playoff wins by Kansas City sports teams:
incredible to experience but so few and far between. I intend to make this more like a
Volvo, perhaps not quite as flashy each go round, but if you live long enough
you can watch the odometer swing back to zeroes… Well, maybe that didn’t quite
fit but you get the gist. Then
again, given that my Packers (yes, I am an owner so I can call them “my”
Packers without having to cut this short to head to my head-shrinking
appointment to talk about my stalking and possessive behavior) play the
Washington Injuns (insert equally offensive, racist name here) tomorrow, I may
be in an entirely different mindstate for the next month or so and, therefore,
unable to write through the pain of admitting Kirk Cousins somehow defeated
Aaron Rodgers in a playoff game. It’s
bad enough that, in some sick twist of fate, Kirk is actually favored to
win. I know a certain #12 does not
like that, Mr. Cousins. Mr.
Rodgers is most certainly a lot more pissed off about this than I am, and I
already ripped a sink out of the wall or started a one man riot and flipped a
car (a smart car, but still, it counts) or whatever other Hollywood-type
display you prefer for outwardly showing anger. Enough rambling, onto the good stuff! (editors note: The Packers won, of course, so
hopefully everyone who was dumb enough to bet on Kirk Cousins, yes Kirk
Cousins, in a playoff game against Aaron Rodgers is on permanent time-out)
Last evening, I was enjoying the warm glow that subtly and
gently washes over one who has enjoyed a fine glass of bourbon or two, when, as
is often the case, I started to think back on my younger days and how I came to
be where/who/what I am today. The
obvious place to start, the place where one of those runway people who direct
the planes with the big glowsticks would point to, is music. I was sifting through my mind-grapes,
and I began to look at the term “Musical Influences” in a different way. Now, normally I would pass over the
thought of the question and just give my normal Springsteen, Petty, William
Joel, Dylan, etc. but on this night, and perhaps due to the warmness of the
glow I was enjoying, I started digging much deeper than that. Yes, those musical giants are, without
a doubt, the ones who shaped much of the way that I perceive, ingest and “outgest”(neither my brain, perhaps as
a result of last nights “glow,”
nor Merriam-Webster can provide an antonym for “ingest” which seems
really fucking weird to me. As a
result, I’m sticking with “outgest”) music. But, when thinking in terms of a more measureable impact,
I’m drawn to an entirely separate group of bands and albums that 16 and 17 year
old Brad Wik(as he was known back then) used to forge the steel frame of what
would eventually become to be known, and lovingly referred to, as My Life.
There were no specific criteria to compose the forthcoming
list, but I was trying to apply an overarching cause and effect-type theory to
achieve the, sort of scientific but not really scientific at all,
results. For example, 16 year old
Brad Wik loved Stevie Ray Vaughan a lot, and I mean a lot, but the very first band
I ever played in played no SRV, was not a blues band by any means and
therefore, SRV had little to no tangible effect on my life thereafter. However, our band did play “Corduroy”
by Pearl Jam, thus making Pearl Jam much more “influential” in regards to this
exercise. SRV was one of my main
motivations for picking up the guitar, but had I not participated in my
high-school era band, I likely wouldn’t have pursued the insane notion of music
as a career (which, in retrospect, was probably a terrible decision, but
somehow even 28 year old Bradley still believes fully he can become successful
as a musician; however flawed his thinking may be). That being said, my high-school era band (“Third Production”
I believe it was called) carries the most weight for this, and subsequently, I
believe, for my life. I guess that
makes Jake my equivalent of the escape pod with R2D2 and C3PO inside that
begets Star Wars. I owe him a very
large “thank you” which I will never fully be able to express with words alone…
Without further ado, here are the results (in no particular
order, though I’ve numbered them for some ridiculous reason):
- Modest Mouse – The Lonesome Crowded West
After all the years I spent
listening to Springsteen, Dylan, Neil Young, William Joel and Meatloaf (why
not?), I would have never fathomed that a record like this would change my
life. “Trailer Trash” straight up
blew my mind. I had never heard
anything like that before and was wholly unprepared for what that song would do
to me. It became a staple in band
rehearsals after libations had flowed…
- Radiohead – OK Computer
I can’t imagine anyone growing up in the same general
era as me wouldn’t have this on a top five list. Then again, there are a lot of things that I can’t
imagine. Like how many times Jake
would play this on his acoustic guitar and we would drunkenly sing/yell-a-long
to this, full of the spirit of youth; and Fleischmann’s…
- Neil Young & Crazy Horse – Weld
(Live)
At first glance, this might seem
like the outlier on this list. I
know, it wasn’t supposed to inlcude the “pillar” type artists but I’ll never
forget playing “Fuckin Up” at our first ever, and acoustic, by the way, show
and badly “fuckin up” one of the changes, to which, Jake replied “Well, I guess
that’s why they call it that.”
- Pearl Jam – (any of their Live Bootlegs
but mostly the 11/6/2000 Seattle show and the 10/22/2000 Las Vegas show)
I can’t underestimate the
importance of Pearl Jam to 16 and 17 year old Brad Wik. I almost left off Neil Young because
the two songs we covered were also songs Pearl Jam covered: “Fuckin Up” and “Rockin’ in the Free
World.” After finding out that
Vedder, like most of us, was also a huge fan of The Who and Neil Young, my
classic rock and alternative rock worlds aligned; and I was subsequently
blinded by the eclipse, never to recover…
- R.E.M. – Automatic for the People
Not only does this album contain
my favorite R.E.M. song, “Nightswimming,” but is, in my opinion, their
strongest front to back offering.
Coming off of Out of Time, they somehow took their game to another
level. Also, amazingly, I’ve since
had the pleasure of working with the one and only Mr. Ed Brooks (who mixed this
incredible album). He mastered
both “Burn What You Can, Bury the Rest…” and my new album, yet to be released. He is such an amazing person with some
fantastic stories. Sidenote: I am, once again, listening to
“Nightswimming” and crying gently.
There are only maybe a dozen songs that can do that to me: “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley, “Fade
Into You” by Mazzy Star, “Bold as Love” by Jimi, “The Trapeze Swinger” by Iron
& Wine, “Gold Miner” by the Fraidies, “At a Medium Pace” by Adam Sandler
come to mind, though that last one is for different reasons…
- Wilco – Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
There are so many things in this
record that shaped my vision of what could be possible in music. This record was noisy and chaotic,
sweet and simple, rockin’ and reckless, tight and dry(taking this one off,
someone else make an inappropriate joke for once); it was so many different things
that I never imagined could coexist.
The vision Jake and I worked towards was heavily filtered through this
album.
- Oasis – (What’s the Story) Morning
Glory?
Every motherfucking song from
“Hello” to “Champagne Supernova” is certifiably a goddamn hit. Everything about this album is so
fucking cool. The Gallagher’s had
swagger for days, and a uni-brow bigger than mine, no easy feat. Of course, we also covered “Wonderwall”
coming up (who hasn’t? The easiest
way to get chicks to notice our band was to play a song they actually liked and
knew. Unsurprisingly, no chick
ever complimented me for knowing all the words to “Visions of Johanna”or
“Desolation Row”) and every band I’ve played in since has covered at least one
song by Oasis, and it’s usually from this album.
So, there you go, fuckers…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)