Well. The world has its new Van Halen Song called Tattoo.. which was spliced together from a Diver Down outtake and the yuk- yuk yuckiest part of a deep cut off of Eat Em and Smile. Complete with the best of wordy uber- cornball Hot For Teacher/Just a Gigolo aftermarket inspired lyrics from Conductor Roth, an Eddie solo with all of the cliche parts of an Eddie solo( kinda nice to hear them, but I already did about 7 million times thanks to mid- market rock radio)...and balloons. Plus we don't get to see how sparkly and outlandish Alex's drum set is in B&W. And Wolfie, you kind of look like Chaz Bono, but with more dancing talent and better man boobs.
Hey guys in the video booth or guys on the stage.. Howsa bout synching up your words to the video, or learning the words, even. The album, called A Different Kind of Truth, comes out Feb. 7.
Oh, well,I'll still go see them just in hopes of Eddie bringing out Frankenstein Kramer for one song.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Partially Deaf In Depth
For the last three months or so, I've struggled with a nasty concoction of recurring bronchitis, two asthma attacks, super resistant ear infections and cracked ribs from a machine gun body mantra of coughing fits.
I have improved for the most part. Except for my ears. As of right this minute, my hearing is at least 50 percent gone. For someone whose life nucleus is music and the appreciation or evisceration thereof, this puts a huge auditory damper on my day to day. Yeah, I can't hear shit. Which is good if what I'm listening to clearly contains some sort of half thought out sonic feces, but really horrid if its solid gold sound.
I have had a lifetime of hearing problems. You see, my Eustachian Tubes are deformed. For those of you saying, huh?, well, you've got them too, but yours most likely function properly, so that every time you swim, shower, congest, sneeze or produce something waxy, your eustacian tubes drain that foreign matter right down the back of your throat for proper expulsion ,like good internal plumbing should. Mine are closed tight, backed up like a toilet in the ladies room at a Britney Spears show. So, I have years old fluid, wax, scar tissue, first drafts of bad reviews, pixie dust, and well fed ear mites just chillin' back there. As a child with chronic ear infections, the standard procedure to alleviate these non stop symptoms was to to do a myringotomy, which is basically shove a tiny tube into the ear drums that assists with ventilation and drainage. LONG STORY SHORT, I had many of those damn myringotomies (,7x by age 12) have had my eardrums replaced twice, because the holes left would not close. The eardrums are new, but the drainage problem ain't going away. And my recent health issues have made it worse than ever.
Next week, with the assistance of some very temporary Medicaid, I'm getting another adult myringotomy done, more little tubes to help with drainage.Unfortunately, this was an inconclusive option given to me by kind Dr. Wilcox, whom after reviewing my prior medical history, told me that this may or may not work. It may be scar tissue and not old fluid, hard wax and other foreign entities that reside behind my fucked up eardrums, in which case, my only other option is equivalent to a total restoration of that favorite room you lay around in, gut it and start over. The problem with that is clear. A much longer recovery, without any chance of going to whatever job I may have. And with this Medicaid, drugs are not covered. Yes, believe what I say. I can get either operation, but I can't get the painkillers to go with it.
I have come to the conclusion, that I may have limited auditory function for the rest of my life. Dr. Wilcox was very matter of fact, backing up his inquiry into my condition with a disclaimer that there is no cure or operation to "replace eustacian tubes", and that I was a "very difficult case".
I have lived this long with a moderate 30% loss of hearing in my right ear and 20% in my left ear. It has come in handy at times in my life. I never really needed ear plugs at Judas Priest shows, never once had a case of tinnitus(ringing) and it was a built in bullshit meter and filter for many unwanted conversations.
This moderate loss has been a hindrance as a performer and singer as my monitors always had to be jacked up so loud that the guitarists didn't even need me included in their stage mixes. And the few times I used in ear monitors, I was lost in the cacophony of instruments.
But this may change everything. I really cannot hear right now. Everything sounds like a whisper or a dull thud. The treble and some midrange in my life is gone. I have recently been digitally converting some of my favorite albums from 128 kbps to 320kbps to see if it may make a difference, and it really has not.
This morning I converted Crosby Stills and Nash's debut album from 1969. One of my favorite songs from CSN is "You Don't Have to Cry". On a weird side note, I never knew until today that this was the very first song they sang together in Joni Mitchell's Laurel Canyon living room. Graham Nash was looking in on an a Stills Crosby sing- a- long , he heard a run through of this song(written by Stills and about Joni) and asked if he could join in with a high harmony. The rest is history. And I'll still have history, and most likely will have to rely on audio memory. I couldnt tell the difference between the 128 and 320 bit versions, and both of them ended up sounding like I was not sitting cross legged with my poncho on in that living room basquing in some hashish drenched acoustic bliss but rather hearing it underwater from the shallow end of Joni's pool.
Maybe this operation will act as some serious Drano for my ears.
Maybe I will have to get used to being more than partially deaf in depth.
I have improved for the most part. Except for my ears. As of right this minute, my hearing is at least 50 percent gone. For someone whose life nucleus is music and the appreciation or evisceration thereof, this puts a huge auditory damper on my day to day. Yeah, I can't hear shit. Which is good if what I'm listening to clearly contains some sort of half thought out sonic feces, but really horrid if its solid gold sound.
I have had a lifetime of hearing problems. You see, my Eustachian Tubes are deformed. For those of you saying, huh?, well, you've got them too, but yours most likely function properly, so that every time you swim, shower, congest, sneeze or produce something waxy, your eustacian tubes drain that foreign matter right down the back of your throat for proper expulsion ,like good internal plumbing should. Mine are closed tight, backed up like a toilet in the ladies room at a Britney Spears show. So, I have years old fluid, wax, scar tissue, first drafts of bad reviews, pixie dust, and well fed ear mites just chillin' back there. As a child with chronic ear infections, the standard procedure to alleviate these non stop symptoms was to to do a myringotomy, which is basically shove a tiny tube into the ear drums that assists with ventilation and drainage. LONG STORY SHORT, I had many of those damn myringotomies (,7x by age 12) have had my eardrums replaced twice, because the holes left would not close. The eardrums are new, but the drainage problem ain't going away. And my recent health issues have made it worse than ever.
Next week, with the assistance of some very temporary Medicaid, I'm getting another adult myringotomy done, more little tubes to help with drainage.Unfortunately, this was an inconclusive option given to me by kind Dr. Wilcox, whom after reviewing my prior medical history, told me that this may or may not work. It may be scar tissue and not old fluid, hard wax and other foreign entities that reside behind my fucked up eardrums, in which case, my only other option is equivalent to a total restoration of that favorite room you lay around in, gut it and start over. The problem with that is clear. A much longer recovery, without any chance of going to whatever job I may have. And with this Medicaid, drugs are not covered. Yes, believe what I say. I can get either operation, but I can't get the painkillers to go with it.
I have come to the conclusion, that I may have limited auditory function for the rest of my life. Dr. Wilcox was very matter of fact, backing up his inquiry into my condition with a disclaimer that there is no cure or operation to "replace eustacian tubes", and that I was a "very difficult case".
I have lived this long with a moderate 30% loss of hearing in my right ear and 20% in my left ear. It has come in handy at times in my life. I never really needed ear plugs at Judas Priest shows, never once had a case of tinnitus(ringing) and it was a built in bullshit meter and filter for many unwanted conversations.
This moderate loss has been a hindrance as a performer and singer as my monitors always had to be jacked up so loud that the guitarists didn't even need me included in their stage mixes. And the few times I used in ear monitors, I was lost in the cacophony of instruments.
But this may change everything. I really cannot hear right now. Everything sounds like a whisper or a dull thud. The treble and some midrange in my life is gone. I have recently been digitally converting some of my favorite albums from 128 kbps to 320kbps to see if it may make a difference, and it really has not.
This morning I converted Crosby Stills and Nash's debut album from 1969. One of my favorite songs from CSN is "You Don't Have to Cry". On a weird side note, I never knew until today that this was the very first song they sang together in Joni Mitchell's Laurel Canyon living room. Graham Nash was looking in on an a Stills Crosby sing- a- long , he heard a run through of this song(written by Stills and about Joni) and asked if he could join in with a high harmony. The rest is history. And I'll still have history, and most likely will have to rely on audio memory. I couldnt tell the difference between the 128 and 320 bit versions, and both of them ended up sounding like I was not sitting cross legged with my poncho on in that living room basquing in some hashish drenched acoustic bliss but rather hearing it underwater from the shallow end of Joni's pool.
Maybe this operation will act as some serious Drano for my ears.
Maybe I will have to get used to being more than partially deaf in depth.
Saturday, January 07, 2012
Brilliant Bowie Birthday Piece from The Guardian
I came across this super article by Alexis Petridis from The Guardian, in celebration of Bowie's proper retirement birthday upon turning 65, this Sunday.
David Bowie in the 1970s, not a man destined to make old bones - or so we thought. Photograph: Michael Ochs Archives
It's a cliche when a rock star reaches 65 to mention the time when it didn't look like they'd make pensionable age, but with David Bowie,
who marks the milestone on Sunday, it's almost unavoidable. Look at a
picture of him in the mid-70s, when he was ravaged by cocaine, living
off a diet of red peppers and milk and so paranoid that he apparently
kept his own urine in a fridge lest persons unknown steal it: this is
not a man destined to make old bones.
It wasn't just the drugs: there was something about the intensity with which he worked during that decade - the scarcely-believable ten-year creative streak that begins with the 1970s The Man Who Sold The World and ends with the 1980's Scary Monsters And Super-Creeps – that suggests an early demise. Someone that burns that brightly probably isn't going to burn for long.
Under the circumstances, it's hard to begrudge him his ongoing semi-retirement: he last made an album in 2003, and for the best part of a decade has made only sporadic public appearances, the odd special guest spot here and there. It was precipitated by emergency surgery on a blocked artery, and lurid rumours about the state of his health have abounded ever since.
Ill or not, having achieved more in one phase of his career alone than anyone can hope to in a lifetime – so much that it's literally impossible to imagine what pop music would be like if he hadn't existed – he's entitled to take early redundancy from pop stardom.
You can mourn the loss of more music if you want, but in a sense, his absence feels strangely right. Before his retirement, he'd begun down the path taken by most august rock legends: having bullishly announced in 1990 that he'd never return to his most famous songs, he began playing the hits again – he performed Low in its entirety in 2002 – tacitly acknowledging that his best work was probably behind him. It's a pragmatism that has served everyone from Paul McCartney to Iggy Pop well, but the all-our-yesterdays approach somehow didn't suit Bowie.
The artist who drew a decisive, iconoclastic dividing line between the 60s and the 70s in the lyrics of All The Young Dudes ("my brother's at home with his Beatles and his Stones … what a drag"), Bowie's music was never about nostalgia, always the present, or, even better, the future. Furthermore, the playing the-big-hits gigs are about creating a warm, communal glow of recognition among the audience and Bowie's music was never about that either. There was almost always something distant, aloof, other about it, even when it sounded like it was speaking directly to the listeners. "You're not alone, give your hands, you're wonderful," he cried at the end of 1972's Rock 'N' Roll Suicide, the collective we're-all-in-this-together sentiment undercut by the fact that it was sung by Bowie in the guise of someone else: he's playing a role.
His music could certainly move you, but the main emotion it instilled was a kind of boggling awe, not least 1976's Station To Station, made at the height of the wee-in-the-fridge era and yet - incredibly given that Bowie claimed to not actually remember making it - arguably his best album. You listen to it, or Low, or Diamond Dogs in the absolute certainty that the person who made it was not like you or anyone else, no matter how much anyone else claimed to identify with him: not the gay kids who sat thunderstruck in front of Top Of The Pops as he casually slipped his arm around his hapless guitarist Mick Ronson ("people used to stop my sister on the street and say 'is that Mick of yours a poof?'", he later protested), not the fanatics who dressed up like him, not the legions of other artists who tried to imitate him and always fell short.
Bowie was an early adopter of the internet, but he didn't really fit with the notion of a star in the 21st century, an era when the manufacturing of pop music has been laid bare on the TV and where stars are perpetually available on Twitter and Tumblr. Rock music currently exists in a world of 360 degree connectivity that's supposed to bring the artist and the fan closer and reveal the real person behind the myth. But as the best of his umpteen biographers David Buckley pointed out, with Bowie, revealing the real person behind the myth is missing the point: "the myth has far greater resonance and is far more intriguing than stolid attempts to identify a 'true' essence … his appeal has lain in the generation of myths." Those myths look likely to remain intact forever, which seems perfectly fitting.
I've no bones about Bowie finally "making old bones". I miss him(well...maybe I miss him as a 30 year old) but completely respect his will and desire to laze on the chaise, wrapped in a glitter Snuggie watching old Benny Hill reruns and eating kippers. I mean, he sold that back catalogue for a cool billion with a reason, right? I wonder if he's a closet gamer? Or has an ant farm/toy train/Dark Shadows memorabilia collection in his penthouse. Maybe he's the guy who bought all of Elton John's wacky glasses from the 70s. Perhaps an arcade size Dance Dance Revolution game is set up in one of his den's, and he just hits, pops and jiggers on the lit up dance floor in his Let's Dance era grey silk suit (that's been taken out a few inches), Maybe he knits colorful scarves or is making plans to launch his own line of Make Up. Ham radio?
It is quite unbelievable that his son (once Zowie, now Duncan Jones: Director of the films Source Code and Moon), gets more media play than dear old dad these days . Hell, even Iman doesn't know where he is. So many rooms, so little time to look.
Happy Birthday Bowie....here's to becoming the real life Thin White, Wrinkled, Constipated and Cranky Duke.
It wasn't just the drugs: there was something about the intensity with which he worked during that decade - the scarcely-believable ten-year creative streak that begins with the 1970s The Man Who Sold The World and ends with the 1980's Scary Monsters And Super-Creeps – that suggests an early demise. Someone that burns that brightly probably isn't going to burn for long.
Under the circumstances, it's hard to begrudge him his ongoing semi-retirement: he last made an album in 2003, and for the best part of a decade has made only sporadic public appearances, the odd special guest spot here and there. It was precipitated by emergency surgery on a blocked artery, and lurid rumours about the state of his health have abounded ever since.
Ill or not, having achieved more in one phase of his career alone than anyone can hope to in a lifetime – so much that it's literally impossible to imagine what pop music would be like if he hadn't existed – he's entitled to take early redundancy from pop stardom.
You can mourn the loss of more music if you want, but in a sense, his absence feels strangely right. Before his retirement, he'd begun down the path taken by most august rock legends: having bullishly announced in 1990 that he'd never return to his most famous songs, he began playing the hits again – he performed Low in its entirety in 2002 – tacitly acknowledging that his best work was probably behind him. It's a pragmatism that has served everyone from Paul McCartney to Iggy Pop well, but the all-our-yesterdays approach somehow didn't suit Bowie.
The artist who drew a decisive, iconoclastic dividing line between the 60s and the 70s in the lyrics of All The Young Dudes ("my brother's at home with his Beatles and his Stones … what a drag"), Bowie's music was never about nostalgia, always the present, or, even better, the future. Furthermore, the playing the-big-hits gigs are about creating a warm, communal glow of recognition among the audience and Bowie's music was never about that either. There was almost always something distant, aloof, other about it, even when it sounded like it was speaking directly to the listeners. "You're not alone, give your hands, you're wonderful," he cried at the end of 1972's Rock 'N' Roll Suicide, the collective we're-all-in-this-together sentiment undercut by the fact that it was sung by Bowie in the guise of someone else: he's playing a role.
His music could certainly move you, but the main emotion it instilled was a kind of boggling awe, not least 1976's Station To Station, made at the height of the wee-in-the-fridge era and yet - incredibly given that Bowie claimed to not actually remember making it - arguably his best album. You listen to it, or Low, or Diamond Dogs in the absolute certainty that the person who made it was not like you or anyone else, no matter how much anyone else claimed to identify with him: not the gay kids who sat thunderstruck in front of Top Of The Pops as he casually slipped his arm around his hapless guitarist Mick Ronson ("people used to stop my sister on the street and say 'is that Mick of yours a poof?'", he later protested), not the fanatics who dressed up like him, not the legions of other artists who tried to imitate him and always fell short.
Bowie was an early adopter of the internet, but he didn't really fit with the notion of a star in the 21st century, an era when the manufacturing of pop music has been laid bare on the TV and where stars are perpetually available on Twitter and Tumblr. Rock music currently exists in a world of 360 degree connectivity that's supposed to bring the artist and the fan closer and reveal the real person behind the myth. But as the best of his umpteen biographers David Buckley pointed out, with Bowie, revealing the real person behind the myth is missing the point: "the myth has far greater resonance and is far more intriguing than stolid attempts to identify a 'true' essence … his appeal has lain in the generation of myths." Those myths look likely to remain intact forever, which seems perfectly fitting.
I've no bones about Bowie finally "making old bones". I miss him(well...maybe I miss him as a 30 year old) but completely respect his will and desire to laze on the chaise, wrapped in a glitter Snuggie watching old Benny Hill reruns and eating kippers. I mean, he sold that back catalogue for a cool billion with a reason, right? I wonder if he's a closet gamer? Or has an ant farm/toy train/Dark Shadows memorabilia collection in his penthouse. Maybe he's the guy who bought all of Elton John's wacky glasses from the 70s. Perhaps an arcade size Dance Dance Revolution game is set up in one of his den's, and he just hits, pops and jiggers on the lit up dance floor in his Let's Dance era grey silk suit (that's been taken out a few inches), Maybe he knits colorful scarves or is making plans to launch his own line of Make Up. Ham radio?
It is quite unbelievable that his son (once Zowie, now Duncan Jones: Director of the films Source Code and Moon), gets more media play than dear old dad these days . Hell, even Iman doesn't know where he is. So many rooms, so little time to look.
Happy Birthday Bowie....here's to becoming the real life Thin White, Wrinkled, Constipated and Cranky Duke.
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
An Unbelievable Guitar Story starring Peter Frampton
From the New York Times :Peter Frampton Reunited With ‘Best Guitar’ After 31 Years
By James C. MCKinley Jr. Peter Frampton has been reunited with the Gibson electric guitar he played on “Frampton Comes Alive,” three decades after it was presumed destroyed in a plane crash.
Peter Frampton’s favorite guitar, presumed destroyed in 1980, was returned to him last month.The guitar was returned to Mr. Frampton in Nashville last month after a two-year negotiation involving the local musician who had the guitar, a customs agent who repairs guitars in his spare time, a diehard Frampton fan in the Netherlands and the head of the island’s tourist board.
Last month, the tourist board official, Ghatim Kabbara, bought the guitar with public funds and traveled to Nashville to hand it to Mr. Frampton in a tattered gig bag. Mr. Frampton said he knew as soon as he picked the instrument up that it was the same 1954 Gibson Les Paul with customized pickups that he had played for a decade. It was an emotional moment, he said.
“For 30 years, it didn’t exist – it went up in a puff of smoke as far as I was concerned,” Mr. Frampton said in a telephone interview.
Mr. Frampton said he was given the guitar by a man named Mark Mariana in 1970. Mr. Frampton had been playing with his band Humble Pie at the Fillmore West in San Francisco, and he borrowed the guitar from Mr. Mariana for a show because his own instrument kept feeding back when he soloed. He fell in love with it. Made of Honduran mahogany, it was light in his hands, and the neck was thin, the fretting action light, suiting his small hands.
“I used it for both sets and my feet didn’t touch the ground,” he recalled. saying he thought, “This is the best guitar I have ever played.”
After the show he tried to buy the instrument, but Mr. Mariana insisted on giving it to him. It became his favorite guitar. He played it on the Humble Pie albums “Rock On” and “Rocking the Fillmore,” and on all his solo records. He used it in sessions with George Harrison, Harry Nilsson and John Entwistle.
Perhaps most important, it was the guitar he played on the 1976 solo album “Frampton Comes Alive!” one of the best-selling live albums ever and the recording that established him as one of the great rock guitarists of the 1970s. “It’s all I ever used for 10 years,” he said. “That was it. That was part of me.”
Mr. Kabbara said the guitar surfaced two years ago when the local guitarist, who has not been identified, took the instrument to Donald Balentina, a Curaçao customs agent who collects and repairs old guitars in his spare time. The musician had been using it for decades, playing in hotels and bars on the island, but did not know the instrument’s history, Mr. Kabbara said.
Asked to repair the guitar, Mr. Balentina noticed the unusual third set of pickups and burn marks on the neck, Mr. Kabbara said. The customs agent began to suspect the guitar might be the one Mr. Frampton had played on the “Frampton Comes Alive!” album. He consulted with another Frampton fan in the Netherlands, who confirmed it had all the earmarks of the missing Gibson. Mr. Balentina also sent photos of the inner works of the guitar to Mr. Frampton. Mr. Frampton said he was stunned when he saw the photos; it looked like guitar, he said, but he could not be sure.
For two years Mr. Balentina tried to persuade the local guitarist to sell the instrument, and finally, in November, facing a financial problem, he finally agreed. But Mr. Balentina did not have money and, afraid another buyer might scoop up the guitar, he approached Mr. Kabbara at the tourist board.
Mr. Kabbara, an amateur guitarist who admires Mr. Frampton, agreed to put up the board’s funds to purchase the guitar, on one condition. He and Mr. Balentina would take the guitar to Mr. Frampton as a gesture of goodwill. “I thought the right thing to do was to give him back his guitar,” he said. “This guitar was him. The whole 1970s was this guitar.”
Mr. Frampton, who is 61, said he hopes to play the guitar again when he appears at the Beacon Theater in New York in February. For now, he has left the instrument at the Gibson Custom Shop in Nashville to have some minor repairs made. The neck is still straight, he said, but he must replace old pickups with new ones, made to the same specifications as the original coils. But he said he will leave the burn marks and scrapes alone.
“I want it to have its battle scars,” he said.
.
This guitar can be heard on arguably two of the best live albums of all time : Humble Pie's Rocking the Fillmore AND Frampton Comes Alive. Just an unbelievable story. skb
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Hello 2012 / Goodbye 2011 / Anticipation
From 2011, I'd like to say goodbye to :
Anger without progress
Burning Bridges without building them.
Phantoms of Fear
Fluoxetine
Mediocre Radiohead albums. Blip is Dead.
Super hyped elaborate, expansive metal albums with unlistenable cookie monster vocals. Sing ,you pussies.
Any brand new band with a woodland or farm animal in their name. Getting my hunting license soon.
Any critic or snooty young music pundit who continues to say rock is dead. Can I punch you in the glasses?
Any hip hop track containing extreme self- fellating or a guest vocalist(this includes all of them)
The Tea Party-most of you are fucking insane, and need to leave your god fearing, militia led small towns and white bread enclaves and have a look around.
Ever hearing Knights in White Satin or Old Time Rock and Roll or More Than a Feeling again.
Any dimwitted, half human teen or housewife or gay man who gives any Kardashian another fucking dime. Put down the tabloids and read a book you traipsing, vapid numbskulls.
Any Twitter feed chock full of retweets,replies, thank yous, self promotion and not one living breathing original thought. Don't Tweet yourself, go fuck yourself.
Teen Moms. and most everyone south of Virginia and east of Philadelphia.Which is where teen moms are made.
The electoral college, the senate, the house of representatives, and all insurance and drug companies. Lets bring the War home and fight it out here.
Classic Rock acts that continue to cheat their fans by touring without the original SINGER.
The people that continue to buy tickets to see Classic Rock acts that tour without their original SINGER
Ticketbastard. Spotify. SOPA.
Stages that fall on people and kill them.
Pretentious, hipper than thou, literati- luring lyricists. Have some fun, bookworm.
Any movie with a rapper turned actor. Playing a drug lord, soldier, cop, side kick, or pimp.
Anything touched (even just brushed against) by Tyler or Katy Perry. Joe Perry is fine, unlesss the new Aerosmith album sucks ballz.
Any has been or never was that is regurgitated to do a national commercial or magazine cover via a reality show.
The next and any other subsequent tour by Bob Dylan, Steve Miller, Dave Matthews, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Big Head Todd, Reel Big Fish, Staind, Rusted Root, Boyz II Men, LA Guns or the reunited Spin Doctors.
Those last 15 pounds.
Doubt.
Isolation.
Divorce.
For 2012, I'd like to say Hello to:
My guitar and my Pen.
Any and all music reviews that may come the way of Circle of Fits.
More frequent posts and a new writer or two at Circle of Fits (submit your samples!)
New albums from Soundgarden, Queens of the Stone Age, The Mark Lanegan Band, Black Sabbath, Baroness, Heartless Bastards, Rush?, ZZTop?, Van Halen?, Tool, Kyuss Lives, Smashing Pumpkins?, U2, Nico Vega, Three Inches of Blood, Built to Spill, Deftones, Mars Volta?, Neil Young? and of course Willow Smith. Alice in Chains? Meh.
Hello SXSW. I promise to never miss you again. Lets hug it out, but first I'll put my Shiner Bock down.
Hello Bonnaroo? Hello Outside Lands? Hello Glastonbury? Hello Coachella I or II? Hello Comicon? Hello hotel room, goodbye campsite?
Hello press and photo pass to any Radiohead tour date in my tri-state area?
Hello Philly and NYC music scene again. I hardly knew ya.
Hello dark theaters in the summer and so on showing The Dark Knight, Spiderman, The Hobbit, Prometheus, Django Unchained, World War Z, John Carter, Brave, Savages, The Dictator, Haywire, The Chronicle and The Great Gatsby.
Hello pile of books that hold up my ipod and whatever beverage on my nightstand.
Hello acupuncture, cardiovascular activity, chiropractic facility, support groups, pilates, yoga, tai kwan do, meditation, nature, body of water, sunscreen, bench press. I'm coming for you. Rock critics need to be strong, calm ,focused. They're always running from angry publicists and brawling rabid clusters of fanboys and girls.
Hello Hello. I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello.
Anger without progress
Burning Bridges without building them.
Phantoms of Fear
Fluoxetine
Mediocre Radiohead albums. Blip is Dead.
Super hyped elaborate, expansive metal albums with unlistenable cookie monster vocals. Sing ,you pussies.
Any brand new band with a woodland or farm animal in their name. Getting my hunting license soon.
Any critic or snooty young music pundit who continues to say rock is dead. Can I punch you in the glasses?
Any hip hop track containing extreme self- fellating or a guest vocalist(this includes all of them)
The Tea Party-most of you are fucking insane, and need to leave your god fearing, militia led small towns and white bread enclaves and have a look around.
Ever hearing Knights in White Satin or Old Time Rock and Roll or More Than a Feeling again.
Any dimwitted, half human teen or housewife or gay man who gives any Kardashian another fucking dime. Put down the tabloids and read a book you traipsing, vapid numbskulls.
Any Twitter feed chock full of retweets,replies, thank yous, self promotion and not one living breathing original thought. Don't Tweet yourself, go fuck yourself.
Teen Moms. and most everyone south of Virginia and east of Philadelphia.Which is where teen moms are made.
The electoral college, the senate, the house of representatives, and all insurance and drug companies. Lets bring the War home and fight it out here.
Classic Rock acts that continue to cheat their fans by touring without the original SINGER.
The people that continue to buy tickets to see Classic Rock acts that tour without their original SINGER
Ticketbastard. Spotify. SOPA.
Stages that fall on people and kill them.
Pretentious, hipper than thou, literati- luring lyricists. Have some fun, bookworm.
Any movie with a rapper turned actor. Playing a drug lord, soldier, cop, side kick, or pimp.
Anything touched (even just brushed against) by Tyler or Katy Perry. Joe Perry is fine, unlesss the new Aerosmith album sucks ballz.
Any has been or never was that is regurgitated to do a national commercial or magazine cover via a reality show.
The next and any other subsequent tour by Bob Dylan, Steve Miller, Dave Matthews, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Big Head Todd, Reel Big Fish, Staind, Rusted Root, Boyz II Men, LA Guns or the reunited Spin Doctors.
Those last 15 pounds.
Doubt.
Isolation.
Divorce.
For 2012, I'd like to say Hello to:
My guitar and my Pen.
Any and all music reviews that may come the way of Circle of Fits.
More frequent posts and a new writer or two at Circle of Fits (submit your samples!)
New albums from Soundgarden, Queens of the Stone Age, The Mark Lanegan Band, Black Sabbath, Baroness, Heartless Bastards, Rush?, ZZTop?, Van Halen?, Tool, Kyuss Lives, Smashing Pumpkins?, U2, Nico Vega, Three Inches of Blood, Built to Spill, Deftones, Mars Volta?, Neil Young? and of course Willow Smith. Alice in Chains? Meh.
Hello SXSW. I promise to never miss you again. Lets hug it out, but first I'll put my Shiner Bock down.
Hello Bonnaroo? Hello Outside Lands? Hello Glastonbury? Hello Coachella I or II? Hello Comicon? Hello hotel room, goodbye campsite?
Hello press and photo pass to any Radiohead tour date in my tri-state area?
Hello Philly and NYC music scene again. I hardly knew ya.
Hello dark theaters in the summer and so on showing The Dark Knight, Spiderman, The Hobbit, Prometheus, Django Unchained, World War Z, John Carter, Brave, Savages, The Dictator, Haywire, The Chronicle and The Great Gatsby.
Hello pile of books that hold up my ipod and whatever beverage on my nightstand.
Hello acupuncture, cardiovascular activity, chiropractic facility, support groups, pilates, yoga, tai kwan do, meditation, nature, body of water, sunscreen, bench press. I'm coming for you. Rock critics need to be strong, calm ,focused. They're always running from angry publicists and brawling rabid clusters of fanboys and girls.
Hello Hello. I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello.
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