I really had no idea what was waiting for me inside the Quest yesterday afternoon as I stood alone in my green plaid shirt, aviator glasses, twins hat, and brown boots reading Ernest Hemmingway’s “The Snows of Kilimunjaro” and surrounded by hordes of teenagers clothed in black T-shirts, girl pants, eye-liner, and asymmetrical bangs/neon dye jobs/suburban-approved gel-hawks. I was definitely the only “old-dude” there an hour and a half early for the AFI/Dillinger Escape Plan/(indie rock band I pretty much ignored to go to the Merch Booth to get my DEP $35 pack of awesomeness: DVD, LP, 2 Stickers, 3 buttons, a poster, a T-shirt with a badass Unicorn on it, and a promo sampler). I tried to focus on the machismo in the book in front of me, but the teenage-anti-conformity-conformity and insecurity was almost too irresistible to ignore. Hell, that was me 10 years ago. Purple hair, Marilyn Manson shirts, big-ass pants, insecure as hell, and convinced I was going to show the world how fucking individual I was. One thing that threw me more than anything was how many homophobic references I heard while standing there. Guys calling each other faggots, and girls saying “that’s so gay.” I found that odd, because I was under the impression that the singer of AFI was gay. Anyway, kids spewing homophobic shit like that, which, as I will regale you with later, screamed ironic to no end. Incidentally, I thought Goth-punk was a safe haven for young homosexuals that the mainstream suburban culture rejects like nerds and rockers. Eh.

As I said, I pretty much ignored the opener. I gave them a shot and they reminded me of the Killers and nothing they were doing really harnessed my attention. And I should say right now that I’m not going to bother looking up the names of any of the band members. I have a lot to say, and if you really want to know these people’s names, go buy the albums or look up the bands on Allmusic.com. After the first band finished strangely dressed “roadies” started setting up for Dillinger Escape Plan. I said to Ames, “God I wonder if that’s them (DEP). That’s so fucking awesome when a band sets up their own shit. It’s real. None of this ‘behind the curtain, wait for an encore’ bullshit.”

Turns out it was them.

I have NEVER in my life seen a show (if you could call it a show. It was more like an atom bomb exploding over the course of 40 minutes) like that which Dillenger Escape Plan pummeled into the unsuspecting crowd of 13-year-old Goth-punks in Jack Skelington T-shirts at the Quest’s main room. This was more than a hardcore show. Like a cadre of Hessian Mercenary lunatics, they sliced through the air with their guitars and microphones as through they were decapitating invisible Viking-enemies that raped their mothers. At one point, the singer knocked over one of the guitarist’s marshal stacks, and the guitarist immediately jumped on top of the fallen cabinet and stomped on it as though it were a corpse that refused to die. After he was done with it, the singer grabbed it by it’s handle and dragged it to the center of the stage, only to kick it over and drag it back like some bloodied wrestler trying to escape the ring – only macho-man Randy Savage has a couple “Oh YEAHs” left in ‘em. But there was no mercy for the Marshall cabinet. It became victim of the Dillinger Escape Plan.

Rarely did any one member, save the drummer, stay in place for more than 15 seconds. Guitar stage-right, between slashes, sporadically launched off of amplifiers, risers, band members, and PA speakers – all the while, somehow magically playing to perfection riffs that would make even the hippest mathematician scratch his head. Stage left, the bassist (full bearded, 6 & ½ feet tall, no socks and low tops, and thigh-length cut-offs) lurched and lunged this way and that, and the guitarist (also cutoffs, no socks, and maybe penny-loafers?) was generally anchored though he made periodic pilgrimages to stage right. Each song was punctuated but alternating yellow lights that you’d expect to see during a “self-destruct countdown” in any of the ALIENS movies, and furious strobes that almost sent me into seizures. Stage diving, throwing bottles of water into the dumbfounded crowd, smashing into each other, and, more impressively, avoiding each other, for a full 40 minutes after which the singer announced “We’re Dillinger Escape Plan, thank you for your patience.” Indeed. I think the crowd was a little too sensitive to be punched in the face so many times. The final song of the set found the singer and guitarist atop the 10 foot PA stacks on either side of the stage. Both launching into the maelstrom of remaining band members below.

Their mind-boggling complicated time signature stop-on-a-dime switches rendered the audience unable to mosh, let along bring their hands together after any calm in the storm. Like this music was so insanely complex and heavy that people couldn’t even figure out how to move to it – luckily the band has got it down to a visceral science both on an unparalleled physical and technical level. Their collective energy would power a small Slovakian city for a year.

I guess you could liken it to doing your taxes while playing Olympic water polo without getting your calculator wet AND kicking the other teams ass to boot.

90% of the people were there for AFI. Actually, this is a good point to talk about the line-up. The opener, a quartet of skinny NYC indie rockers that sounded like a Diet version of the Killers, came out with their black hair and new-wave rock n roll to an expectedly un-enthusiastic crowd, followed by the other-worldly intensity of the Dillinger Escape Plan, followed by the Clear-Channel Production of AFI. It didn’t quite make sense. It was almost like going to a drive-in: first is a bad sequel like “102 Dalmatians,” followed by David Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive” only it’s been overdubbed in Togalog arranged into iambic pentameter, and then the new “American Pie.” Imagine being a 13-year-old at this drive in, and you could probably get a sense for the vibe of the show. Starting out with a tired idea, but done with a different twist, followed by something utterly mind-boggling, and then rounding it off with some written-for the masses pop fluff. Don’t get me wrong. All the acts were solid in their own respects. And I think that the reason I’m not writing the name of the first band down is that I just don’t have anything nice to say about them.

The sold-out crowd was clearly there for AFI. The began chanting once the roadies had set up the 4 marshal full-stacks and three risers at the front of the stage. Everything was all-white. AFI’s new album “December Underground” and it’s predecessor, the slickly produced Butch Vig produced “Sing the Sorrow” are both chock-full of rousing stadium-rock anthems, filled with big hits and huge choruses. And to think that AFI has transitioned from a skate-punk hardcore band into a Goth-pop-punk dynamo that is able to sell out a show after 15 years is pretty impressive.

I’d have to say the stark contrast of fashion presentation between DEP and AFI was almost more jarring than the musical differences. DEP’s DIY attitude from setting up their equipment themselves permeated their odd fashion sense (i.e. cutoffs, T-shirts, sockless penny loafers) – no gimmicks. AFI on the other hand, was pure 80’s hair-metal Glam. The band emerged in all white, to a “we will rock you” flavored opener with full audience participation. I have never seen such tight pants in all my life. The singer (and herein lies the irony), apart from the tightest pants of all, was sporting turquoise eye-shadow that would shame Elizabeth Taylor, and white fishnet armlets, and did I mention REALLY TIGHT PANTS. Really, there were points when I wished the singer played guitar so I wouldn’t have to look at his bullfrog any more. But OH the IRONY. This singer reminded me a bit of Mick Jagger, only more effeminate. Apart from strutting, there was quite a bit of bent-wrist, moving bags-out-of-eyes like Cher, and androgynous twisting and turning. At one point he said with a soft sincerity,” God it’s hot. Is it making my hair all poofy?”

Now I know this behavior doesn’t qualify him as gay or straight. However, given stereotypes and pop-cultural models like the “normal” Jack from will and grace, and even-more over the top cliches unfairly painting gays as limp-wristed, lisping, effeminate weirdoes in drag, you’d think the kids in line calling each other “faggots” and writing off lame shit as “gay” wouldn’t be so into the hero worship of this 30 year old Goth prince. I hope I’m not coming off as a homophobe in any way. To be honest, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, had the little bastards in line not been spreading their ignorance around like creamy peanut butter on white toast. If you google “Is Davey Havok (singer) gay?” you’ll get oodles of forums telling you a little bit of everything. Funny thing is, you look at Bowie, Mick Jagger, Brian Molko, Freddie Mercury, and other rock stars, androgyny in the eyes of the vast public, tends to fall on the side of “straight” though evidence may indisputably point to the contrary.

The rest of the band was pretty as well, with the exception of the bassist who donned the signature rock n roll, “I’m going bald so I’ll shave my head” hairdo. Bear in mind, most of these dudes are in their 30s. Regardless, they were showmen and had the crowd singing along in full chorus to every song. And the singer, when he screamed, fucking rocked enough for you to forget about the eyeshadow.

Going into the show, there were songs that I wanted to hear such as “The Leaving Song pt 2” and the one about “Summer Rain,” which not only did they play right away, but the response from the crowd was absolutely electric. The Glam onstage and the rousing choruses made me think of hair metal bands of the 80’s. How these macho guys in lipstick and eyeshadow would sing huge choruses about “Girls Girls Girls” and urge their listeners to “Kum on Feel the Noize.” To be honest, I think it would be fun to be in a band where you had a room of 1,500 people as your backup singers, throwing their fists into the air. But where bands like Skid Row and Motley Crew sang about having fun, and sex and drugs and rock and roll – these new Goth-pop-punk bands sing about sorrow and emptiness and loneliness and all those other things that made bands like Bauhaus and the Cure so great in the 80s. I look at Good Charlotte as being the godfathers of what I like to refer to as Goth-Tarts. Where once there was Motley Crew, Quiet Riot, Ratt, and Firehouse, not there is Fall Out Boy, Alkaline Trio, Good Charlotte, and AFI. Blending the doom and gloom of Tim-Burton Goth with the dumb fun of pop-punk. AFI has taken it one step further by adding Glam of 80s hair metal in both style and big chords, and tuned up the Goth to the level of a watered-down hybrid of Joy Division and Slaughter so that kids can sing together as they cut themselves. Ok, that was below the belt. But it just seems so contradictory to me. Then again, the way so many small-town white-trash gay-hating thugs can get into a big hair ‘n’ make-up band like Motley Crew is a contradiction too, isn’t it? They’re so badass they can dress like women and still get 3,600 blow jobs from hot chicks a year. Maybe it’s the same kind of rationale with AFI.

I have to say it was fun being at a show with so much audience participation, but after about 5 anthems, you get kind of anthemed out. That, and I tend not to trust a 30 year old that is still singing emo. There are things in life to be happy about – like a sold out show of 1,500 screaming fans.

Anyway I appreciate what AFI is doing and was able to enjoy it to a point. In the end, any music with the spirit of 80’s hair metal, even if it is an evil spirit, is still FUN. Kind of like that earnest Skid Row anthem, “18 and Life to Go.” Unless you’re willing to travel to Botno North Dakota for Rockin’ the Hills, AFI is the closest you’re gonna get to the glory days of Hair Metal.

p.s.

Go see dillinger escape plan at any and all costs. I swear to God, it’s like a soundtrack to an HP Lovecraft novella – unlike anything you’ve ever heard or could ever describe

I just had to go on record: Pitchforkmedia.com (despite how informed it is) is pure cancer on the music world.

What a horrible place to pride itself on snotty, irony-laced tear downs of pretty much any music you can think of. Well, not ANY music, there are some depths to which the honorable critics of Pitchfork will not sink - namely, anything you can't get as an imported bootleg from the Chezc Republic. Even the complimentary reviews are framed in "negative happiness" - for example, "You'd expect their sophomore album to be trite, incontinent twaddle; riddled with forced sporadic flourishes of tried nineties garage rock. But..." Or be so unprofessional as to write a "sincere" review of a Tool album from the imagined perspective of Arnie, the BP midnight cashier and lifelong Tool fan. This is not just because i am a Tool fan. They love a lot of the bands that i love. It's kind of like seeing a child molester wearing your favorite band's t-shirt.

It's this kind of negativity that divides and cripples the music/art community. It's this kind of attitude and bullshit that inspired bands sharing a bill to not introduce themselves to each other over the course of 5 hours (unless, of course they A: realize they are better than the other bands for a fact. or B: Realize they can use the other bands to get better gigs). Art is about interpersonal communication. This is nothing against critics. This is against perpetual snobbery, insufferable cynicism, and in the end, fucking pretentiousness.

It's be a masturbatory dream of mine to release an album that pitchfork (or similarly self-reightous hipster art-poultice) simply gets wet over, only to start producing anti-pitchfork merchandise and take an active stance against the kind of asshole wanking organizations such as these promote.

That's why i like allmusic.com. It's about music, not about trends. Not about multi-syllabic rhetoric and pretense laden critics, flaccidly humping the malleable tastes of readers who hold the "dorks-in-high-school-turned-cocky-faux-bohemian-in-their-post-liberal-arts-college-years-sub-genre-hypen-junkies." Even magnet magazine, which dabbles in quite a few of Pitchfuckt's darlings, doesn't even rate bands, just gives an even-handed review and lets the reader decide what to think.

I do not buy CDs with an endorsement from Pitchfork. It's like saying, "Here, talk really loudly about this CD that will take more effort than it is worth to like. And if people don't know about it, make them feel 2" inches tall."

Exit soap box.

This kind of negativity just has to fucking stop.

I was 15 when I saw Modest Mouse at the 400 bar with the Murder City Devils. I had been given a tape with MM’s “The Lonesome Crowded West” by my friend who had bought the tickets, but I had listened to it not more than twice. And as for the Murder City Devils, well, this was the first I ever heard of them. The show was mind blowing, actually, both shows were mind-blowing. The 6 devils, crammed onto the stage, the singer devouring the mic. Then Modest Mouse, a barely controlled 3 piece setting the place on fire with strange chords and lispy chanting. The shows were great, but I felt distanced from the music. That it took some getting used to, even over the course of the show. By the end of each set, I was in love with the bands. I left the bar that night thinking, “I should have listened to that tape more.”

It’s a strange phenomena; seeing a band live can make you love them in a way you never thought possible. When you were only at the show for your favorite band, dropping your hard-earned ducats right away on that smeedium t-shit you refuse to buy online. You realize as you watch the opener that you could have done without that case of Primo, and instead used the money on that opening band’s t-shirt as well. After the show, you buy your new favorite band’s entire discography and patiently wait with bated breath their return to your fair city, wishing you’d used the money you spent on your then-favorite band’s t-shirt on the opener you failed to fully appreciate. Only the opener band breaks up before that can happen and you curse your dumb ass for not really appreciating the show you saw as you were seeing it. With that said, I sure hope Mates of State make it back to the twin cities at least one more time. There are other bands, however, that will not be gracing us with their presence ever again.

Exhale.

After eleven years, darlings of Kill Rock Stars (via Olympia Washington), the three-piece all-girl indie-rock juggernaut Sleater-Kinney is calling it quits. They’ve got a handful of dates left this summer, including Lollapalooza in the Chire this august, after which they are declaring a cease-fire of their dual-guitar/dual vocal/single drum assault and probably drifting off into side projects that they will find more gratifying artistically.

I saw Sleater-Kinney twice last summer in the span of less than a week. I can say right now that they put on one of the best rock n roll shows I’ve ever seen. Forget what you’ve heard about genres. Forget riot-grrrrl and indie-rock; this is rock n roll at its most pure. And maybe the reason I’m writing this is that those of you who do actually read this blog might be so inspired to catch one of the last fleeting glimpses of one of the greatest rock bands to emerge out of the bog of american indie-rock of the last decade.

I got into Sleater-Kinney because I heard the name so damn much at strange times and in short blurbs and I wanted to understand why SK became a household name. Sophomore Year of college (2002?) I picked up “Call the Doctor” based on a glowing review from the All Music Guide and, it being their sophomore release as a step up from their mid-fi debut, that it seemed like a good place to start—especially with a song title like “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone.” “Call the Doctor” was a raw, amaturish slice of wailing Riot Grrl punk rock, filled with alternating hooks and dissonant guitar fuzz. Sleater-kinney was clearly rooted in pop structures, but executed it with such dynamic aggression and addictive melody, each album left me wanting more. One album led to another, and slowly, I moved through the refined indie rock of “Dig Me Out,” the introspection of “The Hot Rock” and sophistication of “All Hands on the Bad One,” the abrasive pop of “One Beat,“ and finally the fuzzy balls-out epic rock n roll fury of the Dave Fridman produced “The Woods.”

Catching them half-way through their career wasn’t so much of a disadvantage, so much as an incentive to want to catch up. Starting from the beginning of a discography allows a listener to follow the evolution of a band’s sound as it happened, albeit not in real time. Each new release carries the weight of all the albums that came before, as it sheds the skins that fit a little too snugly, dropping tails and growing thumbs as the walk deeper into the uncharted dry land continues. I finally saw Sleater-Kinney in support of what stands as their last (seventh) album. A concert in honor of what no one at the time knew would be their swansong, which strangely mirrored for me another swansong concert that occurred not more than 5 years prior in the exact some place.

I had the good fortune, nay, the privilege, to experience one of the last great concert experiences in my young life back in the fall of my freshman year of college (Roughly, October of 2000). A girl in my dorm, let’s call her Scowly Erica, and I had at some point during one of my late-night ritalin binges, discussed a band called At the Drive In, and how they were playing First Ave in the near future. This of course, is the same girl who stopped talking to me after she saw me putting a Dido song onto a mixtape I was making in the hallway because my roommate had to practice his Britney Spears dancing for his upcoming rejection from the U of M dance program. I didn’t understand why liking Dido was grounds enough to never speak to someone again. Later, I came to realize that this was my first experience of hipster pretense. I think it is fair to say that it has left its mark. And now I understand that yes, Dido is grounds enough to stop talking to someone indefinitely.

About this time, I had just purchased “Relationship of Command” because that one part near the end where the guy is singing something about “billion miles away” when he got a letter or something, really made the screaming over the first part of the song worth wading through. At that point, I was a casual listener at best. I had trouble getting into the album. It was a far cry from the Nine Inch Nails and NOFX that I was listening to in those days, at least in the “N” section of my music library. Shit, I was still listening to Clear Channel stations and punk rock samplers from Hot Topic back then. Anyway, there was clearly something different going on with this At the Drive-In business; a visceral, unbridled hysteria that I couldn’t quite capture with my musical lasso. I didn’t want to go to the show without knowing anything the band had done, so I decided that “Sleepwalk Capsules” was going to be my anthem; that when they played that song, it would be for me, and I would scream along like a patriot at a tractor pull.

It was one of those bills that no one could really be ready for. Cursive opening for the Murder City Devils opening for At the Drive in. By today’s standards, the Rat Pack had arrived at First Ave. Rarely, if ever, is a bill so awesomely stacked. Each performance was more electric than its predecessor. Cursive screamed and strummed in the classic indie-rock effortlessness that separates the introspective from the posturing. The six piece Devils took to the stage like a gang of drag-strip hooligans, preaching a gospel of pure rock n roll that most have forgotten or misinterpreted. And At the Drive In, well to those of you who never had the chance, take the best parts of the Mars Volta and Sparta, and turn it to 11. It was a rock and roll show filled with break-dancing, sonic textural experimentation in action, and gut-punching rhythms. I stood there, mouth agape, not fully realizing how special that night was. That I was watching what would become one of my favorite bands of all time (actually, both ATDI and MCD are up there on my Musical Olympus). Following the tour, At the Drive In called it quits. As did the Murder City Devils.

Fueled by my new-found love for this amazing group of musicians, I started working backwards through their catalogue and having some trouble with getting into their early work. “Relationship of Command” is a lush tour-de-force in the truest sense, and one of the greatest loud-rock albums of all time. Right out of the gate the intense outpouring of energy is coupled with click-locked cohesive technical precision, with a lush, clean-but effective production courtesy of Rick Rubin. The early albums like “In Casino/Out” and “Acrobatic Tenement,” seem amateurish and raw in a way that, in light of the evolutionary glory of “Relationship of Command.” It’s kind of like asking, if given the opportunity, would you like to date a homo-erectus, when you could go straight to a homo-sapien? Sure, homo-erectus has got the whole furry-freak thing going on that made the 70’s porn community so damn sexy, strong hands, good outdoorsman, but really, those knuckle-calluses can get a bit bothersome when hand-holding. But then again, dating a homo-erectus can help you appreciate your homo-sapien. Given the choice, I think most would recognize the wonderful evolutionary progress of their Homo-sapien, and stick with the top of the food chain. I think the problem is that when we dig backwards, we’re expecting to find the same man/band that we’ve met at the high watermark.

But no, in our quest backwards in evolution, more often than not, we find monkeys. That’s where I find myself with At the Drive In. I love their relationship of Command and even it’s predecessor EP “Vaya.” But beyond that, reaching backwards is quite the task. Maybe, had I walked the evolutionary path with At the Drive-In, gone to see their shows at the Foxfire Lounge with crowds of 15 to 25 during their Acrobatic Tenement tour, these recordings may have a special place in my heart.

HOWEVER, they just don’t. Sadly, I think lots of great music gets dismissed and embraced based on point of entry into the catalogue. Starting at the beginning is the best way to learn to love a band’s catalogue, and appreciate their latter works even more. I played “Good Things” for my long-time friend and bandmate Kid Joey Dennis, and he just couldn’t get past the early era SK signature yelping. A few months ago, he told me about how he really liked Sleater-Kinney’s new stuff, which made me very happy. However, it makes me wonder if he’ll ever be able to nod his head to “Good Things” as if to say “keep rocking” with every beat, or to shake his head “no” to “Stay Where You Are” as if to say “Don’t stop a-rockin.” It might just be too primitive in some lenses.

“The Woods” is light years ahead of “Call the Doctor” in musicianship, arrangement, production, and songcraft; and it’s these qualities that may eclipse the raw beauty of their early work to new found listeners. There’s no real thesis to this, I should warn you, now that you’re balls-deep in this rhetoric. I guess what I am forewarning is that I predict my experience with At the Drive In will be the case with folks catching the caboose of the Sleater-Kinney train. It’s hard to go from a box of fresh Ritz crackers, to a box of older Ritz crackers. Then again, some of us love crackers no matter what, the varying levels of freshness add variety. Then again, some people buy Ritz crackers because they like crackers, and others buy Ritz crackers because they think of them as little edible plates. Sleater-Kinney are all kinds of crackers. I guess that’s what I’m trying to get across. I guess this is a head’s up to cracker lovers who live in a house with binge eaters: Soon your Ritz will be nothing more than an a empty plastic tube in a faded red box.

Still there’s hope. For some people, the point of entry is a key to the entire catalogue, which I hope is the case for Sleater-Kinney’s newly acquired fans—who I predict will be anyone happening to catch an endangered Sleater-Kinney live show sometime during the remainder of the summer. I saw them at first ave from my perch on the 2-hour balcony where I could survey the stage and the 3 warriors of rock that kicked, shouted, and swung their axes like the noble leaders of ancient warrior tribes; seasoned by years of battles and conquests, wearing their confidence like the blood of their enemies. What was once riot-grrl punk rock has evolved into a rock n roll spectacle for the ages. No crazy lights or gimmicks. Just three women and their instruments. And the fact that they can bring a full housed club like First Ave to it’s knees (which it did, judging by the roars of applause falling between drop-jawing and spellbinding as they were worn on the faces of the crowd) should be testament enough to their prowess – but of course, you can only see that live. I just leaned over the balcony and smiled, realizing that what I was seeing was very special.

“These women rock.”

The next week I was in Vermont, and found that SK was visiting at the same time. This time I knew what to expect; and I met them with singing, dancing, screaming, staring and cheering from a whisky-soaked puddle 3 people deep from Corrin Tucker. There are very few bands that can be counted on to deliver an amazing show every time. Sleater-Kinney is one of those bands. Ween is another. Sigur Ros is another. All heavy hitters. All breath-taking to experience. At the Drive-In carried an essence of that. And I have the feeling Neil Diamond has it too.

Both At the Drive In and Sleater-Kinney had spent nearly a decade touring before the masses gave them the big nod, their sunlight barely peaking the horizon. Both of these bands have called it quits at what seems to be the highest peak in their musical evolution. Out at the highest watermark. Answering a question blurted emphatically from the mouth of a certain record store clerk at Championship Vinyl: “Is it better to burn out than to fade away?” Indeed, it is the former. As much as I’d like to see these two bands keep cranking out albums from their new evolutionary points, there is something of great value in leaving on such a high note. It completes the phrase “all that could have been…” with a strong “was.” We don’t like to think that something leaving us wanting more is truly an end. However, when we step back and take a look at it, we realize that the end we’ve been left with is a true piece of art: a creative body that extends outwards, beyond its medium, to leave fingerprints on the listener and a desire to hold the hand that left them. Only the hand is but a memory.

For those of us who have been along for the ride (be it from the very beginning, or having hopped on somewhere in the middle) it is like an ever-ringing note just before the massive crashes of the finale of some great symphonic movement, preserving us in an infinity of greatness that we’ve been heading towards all along. To those of us who just arrived as that last note is hit, the gems and jewels will be more challenging to unearth, and if we are able to dig our way back and walk the evolutionary path, we’ll still be haunted by that sense of “If only I could see them live one more time, I’d appreciate it so much more.” Luckily, there’s still time, but not much.

So it goes.

Medio-core: Bands with albums and songs rating between 2 to 3 stars on a scale of 5. They are not remarkable in any way; neither terribly bad nor terribly good, they are forgettable at best. They are retroactive in that a song can bring up a nice memory of a point in your life when you were willing to settle, so you won’t turn it off. You know all the words because they are not so much meaningful, but have been occurring in the recycling of medio-core for years.
Key Track: I’ve already forgotten…maybe something by Everclear?

Albacore: Music that would sound good if you muted “Sin City” during any of the scenes where Jessica Alba is dancing in the bar. Kind of like that whole Wizard of Oz/Dark Side of the moon thing, this genre is often complimented by listener comments such as "It's on man, it's definately on!" This music also goes very well with mayonnaise and pickle relish.
Key Track: “The Only Time” by Nine Inch Nails, or anything that you wouldn’t play at a family dinner.

Motorcore: Songs and bands that make you want to sell your SUV and buy and expensive Harley Chopper or Muscle Car to drive across America, wreaking havoc on trucker stops and roadhouses. This music is about feeling of machismo more than skill or intelligence of song, lyrically focusing on such themes as “the road,” “fuel,” “freedom,” or general “badassedness.”
Key Track: Metallica “Fuel,” Motorhead "Ace of Spades."
Subgenre: Hoodcore – similar music, but mostly pansy-fied for self-loathing, beer-swilling meat-heads. Includes hair metal and wailing guitar solos. Best played loudly out of shitty car speakers whilst working under the hood of your car wishing the girl you date-raped at the frat called you back.
Key illustration: Old School, Frank the Tank’s car. Journey, Steppenwolf, George Thurogood (sp?)

Glenncore: Glen as in, Glen Danzig. This sprawling genre includes any project touched or influenced by the 5’3” beefcake of doom. Outside of the Misfits, Sam Hain, and Danzig, the signature sound of Glenncore generally includes basic punk or bluesy metal riffs and prominent Elvis-like warbling and/or bellowing about such topics as Astro Zombies, HR Giger Artwork, the Occult, and …what else …oh yeah SATAN!
Key Tracks: Misfits “We Are 138,” "Last Caress," or "Return of the Fly" or Danzig “Mother ’91 (live)” or "Twist of Cain"

Phlegmcore: This is a working title for a genre I’m still defining. It is genre-blurring rock/metal/hardcore/punk music that includes the Melvins, Tomahawk, the Revolting Cocks, Eyehategod, Nashville Pussy, Big Black, and the Jesus Lizard. THe sound provides an arena for the singer to audiably hock a lugie into or near the microphone without sounding out of place, thus earning its moniker. Both in musical and lyrical content these bands are brash, taboo, grating, atonal, irreverent, and slimy – they are purposefully alienating and abrasive and don’t really give a fuck about what you think of them. They are offensive to both the intellect and the ears.
Key Tracks: Tomahawk “Rape This Day,” the Jesus Lizard “The Art of Self Denfense,” Mondo Generator "Meth I Hear You Callin," Nashville Pussy "Fried Chicken and Coffee."

I wrote this about a year ago. It's not great. I haven't yet got over my obsession with hipsters, but i hope it makes for a fun read.

The New Days of Shoegaze: Quick, Before You Become a Scenester

I’ve never really been a hipster. Not that I never wanted to be, but I certainly felt a desire of wanting to be one of the cool kids in that gut-punching grade-school nostalgia sense. “How wonderful,” I would muse, “to be able to talk about something so obscure so passionately that people couldn’t help be captivated (or trapped).” And this article is a testament to that fleeting and near-death feeling.

My friends certainly had their musical niches that warranted hiptser cred – from Stupid Jerry’s obsession with obscure mod and Ethiopian soul and funk from the 60’s to Class Act’s wide and proto-current knowledge of hip-hop, European musical trends, and all-around indie rock. My problem was that I liked mainstream a little too much; that I could place my TV on the Radio CD’s next to my Tool CD’s and not be able to tell you much about either.

But about 5 years ago, My Bloody Valentine’s, “Loveless” fell into my lap and I found my own little plot of hipster soil: Shoegazing. I don’t claim this as original hipster street cred – lots of folks were tuning into the washes of distortion and delay and chorus and myriad other effected guitars and sensual vocals that made drugs sexxy and sex druggy in the early nineties. Most folks point to The Jesus and Mary Chain and their album “Psychocandy” as the planters of the seeds and MBV as the fruit that fell from the tree. Then grunge came along and made it all wormy.

But back then I was listening to Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots, completely unaware of even the shoegaze crossover bands like Catherine Wheel and, at times, Smashing Pumpkins. Still, as of 2001, Shoegazing was mine. Not too many other 20 year olds within my personal 3 degrees of separation were very familiar with the genre, or its characteristics – and if they were, they certainly didn’t obsess over it. It seems it was college rock for true children of the 80’s – meaning the one’s born in the seventies. Also meaning it was clearly fair game for the tail-enders of generation X (such as myself) and virtually alien territory for Generation Tech, who, ironically, are REALLY into grunge right now.
So I started researching and collecting, gathering more bands, and expanding them into other genres. I would make multi-volume mixes for friends that would sprawl but tie together seamlessly. If you had a question about an introduction to the genre, I was your man.

The four primary groups were Shoegazing, Dream Pop, Sadcore, and Space Rock. Rather than explain them here, I suggest looking into allmusic.com – just for starters. Long story short, we’re talking atmosphere, texture, echoes, and more texture to send the listener into a dream-like, sonically dense, chaotically subdued euphoria echoes and whispers. But that’s not what this is about. It’s just too late for you, dear reader.

I’m sure you’re already wondering where this is headed. Perhaps I am as well.

So a week ago I am sitting in Class Act’s apartment not really listening to the Current, and they have some musician (Mark Gardener) in the studio talking about “Vapour Trail,” (a dreamy anthem by MBV’s nemeses, Ride, which to this day still gives me chills) and how he’s noticed that more and more “kids” have been singing along at his solo shows. Then Mark Wheat threw out the term, “Newgazing.”

NEWGAZING. It was bound to happen, I suppose. Nothing that purely good and true will ever simply rest. Rock N Roll is too limited a plane to avoid revivials. The genre’s influence is sprawling, but it’s been more or less a footnote to a handful of 90’s and early 00’s bands. Billy Corrigan would site MBV, or we’ll hear traces of watery distortion and think of Lush or the Cure.

Soon, my little niche will be a cafeteria for hungry scenesters. Folks who read the Virgin Megastore newsletter and buy the seven CD’s they suggest as a shoegazing starter kit. What I am here to offer you is a somewhat “fringe kit” – something that you can use respond to someone claiming that “Isn’t Anything,” is really MBV’s best album and that they have a copy of Slowdive’s “Pygmalion.” Take from it what you will, I’d just hate all the research, time and money I’ve wasted will serve a purpose greater than making a few mix CD’s.

Shoegaze:

Catherine Wheel: Chrome
Lush: Split
Slowdive: Just For a Day (Souvlaki is better, but if you stand behind this, you might solidify your awesomeness)
Swervedriver: Mescal Head
Curve: Doppleganger
My Bloody Valentine – any and all (except the first one, it’s garbage if you’re looking for the seeds of shoegaze).

Suggestion for the Aspiring Hiptser: In conversation, if someone is a MBV fan, claim that Ride is superior and vice versa. Also swear that the Jesus and Mary Chain are complete shit, deserving no credit whatsoever for the genius of My Bloody Valentine – that should lend itself to some interesting conversation.

Sadcore:

Low: Things We Lost in the Fire
Codeine: The White Birch
Smog: Red Apple Falls
Sigur Ros: ( )
Hayden: The Closer I Get

Dream Pop:

Yo La Tengo: Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out
Cocteau Twins: Treasure
Ida: Ten Small Paces
Mazzy Star: She Hangs Brightly*
Mojave 3: Ask Me Tomorrow*

Note:* The MBV/Ride dynamic should apply here as well.

Newgazing/Stretches/Hybrids/Fallout

Camera Obscura (california): To Change the Shape of an Envelope
Team Sleep: Team Sleep
Stars: Set Yourself on Fire
Hum: You’d Prefer and Astronaut
Coralie Clement: Bye Bye Beaute
Asobi Seksu: Citrus
Boris: Pink

I’m sure that there are several darts to be thrown here, so throw ‘em – that’s what makes us music nerds so adorable.