Lie Detector

Hello, Denizens Of The Internet. Haven't chatted with you in a while, and I apologize for that. See, I've been slammed with things to write, read and edit. I've been so overwhelmed, I haven't had a chance to pre-order a copy of The Black Parade Is Dead (with v. cool mystery death mask), find a store that has a physical copy of Nine Inch Nails' The Slip or wish my sister a happy birthday. (Jill, if you're reading, I love you and everything you do for our family.) Hell, I'm such a spazz, I couldn't even decide on a frickin' cover for the next issue. (Really. All will be revealed next month.) So, I had nothing to say, nothing to tell you, nothing to impart.

Aren't you glad?

The combined efforts of Scott Heisel and production manager John Millin demanded me to update my blog. I swear I'm not being obstinate, vindictive or lazy. I didn't have anything to say. Yet by not having anything to report, I somehow found something to gripe about.

A long time ago (when compact discs were $16.99 and the term "MP3" might have meant Mike Patton Trio), I used to work for a record store chain in a shopping mall. Real corporate. It was working at this record store that completely forged my misanthropic worldview. I dealt with legions of halfwits, dullards, upper-class d-bags, dudes that smelled of pot and girls that smelled of bleach. (BTW, Tim Karan has a past similar to this, and we've bonded over it, repeatedly.) But the type of customer I hated the most was the Connected.

You know the Connected ones. He's the guy who "knows somebody who will get us front row seats." The person who is "close personal friends" with the guitarist in Band X who always hang out together when they're in town. To this day, these people really grip my shit.

In my Western Pennsylvanian white-trash hamlet back then, everybody claimed they were fast buddies with Paul Gilbert, the hyper-drive metal shredder who cut his teeth playing in an FM-Rock cover band called Real Steel, before being discovered by Shrapnel Records and ending up as the guitar gymnast in the band Mr. Big. Eight out of 10 purchases of Mr. Big cassettes always resulted in the need for the customer to say to me, "Yeah, Paul's a buddy a mine." This exchange would always end with me saying, "Well, he's not much of a friend if he didn't hook you up with one for free. My opinion of him just fell, dude. Hope you enjoy it anyway." I love Rachel Dratch, but girlfriend, I was rockin' the Debbie Downer triphard back then. (The ironic thing was that I actually hung out with Paul on occasion. His mom had a cool stationery store called Animal Crackers, and I was a frequent customer. In addition, I remember Paul and a dude named Dwayne Davis practicing metal versions of local kids entertainment show themes [Captain Pitt, anyone? Bueller?] in a condemned building in downtown Greensburg.) And it was always great to see the ticket-connected dudes at shows sitting in the second balcony while I was rocking fifth-row center.

What am I going on about? The internet has always been touted by optimists as a way to keep the world "connected" to one another. Unfortunately, it's also the playground for people who have nothing forward-thinking to bring to the party. "But dammit, I have a voice and you, Jason Pettigrew, you simpering puke, will not stop me from proclaiming about my close friendships with celebrities or the time when the bassist from Tear-Stained Hanky punched a girl in the face and I was the only one who saw it and he sucks but I have a friend who can get me into their show for free..."

I am not BFFs with any of these bands in the slightest, but I think you should check out what's happening inCanada, the U.K.and your own backyard. And if your backyard is barren or infested by connectors, go find another one so you can cultivate good things.

Just For Fun

Warped Tour came to Cleveland last Thursday and despite the quarter-shaped blister I got on my left foot and the unplanned expenditure of $60 for bad food, I had a pretty good time. The phrase "a good time" means so many different things to different people, so let me regale you with my Top 10 Favorite Things About Warped 2008. These things are in no particular order, and are all at the same level of importance.

EVERY TIME I DIE. If those guys did nothing but make moose noises onstage for 25 minutes and then ended with the menacing "No Son Of Mine," I'd still find them worthy of having their own collectors plate created by the Franklin Mint.

ANBERLIN. Scott Heisel and I are disagreeing wildly over the 'lin machine's new jams, but the couple thousand folks watching them at Warped wouldn't want to know. Incidentally, Anberlin were the band voted most worthy of an additional 10 minutes to their set, but due to some sound engineer's logistical screw-up, the band were robbed. And yes, "robbed" is the appropriate word.

THE BRONX. Full-on bad-ass punk rock capable of peeling both paint and skin. They didn't convene El Bronx, their mariachi project, but I was happy enough to hear the new track "Knifeman" at 105 decibels, so....

HORRORPOPS. No dancers or extra guitarists to get in their way; just a tight punkabilly unit that deserves to be massive. Hey Patricia: Did you ever get that week of luxury on the Gym Class Heroes bus Travis promised you?

THE EXHAUSTED GIRL LUGGING AROUND THE HEAVY SIGN READING "FAMILY FORCE FIVE AT THE HURLEY STAGE AT 4 PM" She was huffing and puffing but moving so fast, I couldn't even snap her with my camera phone. Solly, you better have gotten her a bitchin' spa treatment.

BEAT UNION. Weeks before Warped, I kept telling people their live thing is so much tougher than their John Feldmann-produced disc. I have the "toldja so" text messages to prove it.

THE KID PARAMEDICS PULLED OUT OF THE PIT DURING THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA'S SET. I don't know how he got there (and I hope he's okay now), but it was nice seeing a bit of danger in the name of "punk rock."

KEVIN LYMAN, SARAH BAER, KATE TRUSCOTT and LISA BROWNLEE. The Warped braintrust who are always ready with a helpful suggestion, cold beverage and a smile and/or laugh. Three of the four look great in tight clothes, as well.

NORMA JEAN'S CORY BRANDAN.Sample stage banter: "Our new album, The Anti Mother, will make you want to punch a dolphin in the blowhole. What's so great about dolphins, anyway, that they're so much better than tuna? How do they taste?"

PHOTOS OF GABE SAPORTA WITH HELLISHLY UGLY GIRL AT THE PUNK'S DIRTY SECRET MUSTACHO BASHO AFTER-WARPED PARTY. Self-explanatory.

You're Gonna Change (Or I'm Gonna Leave)

Last week, I went to the grocery store to load up on necessities (Fiji water, Alaskan salmon marinated in cracked pepper and chopped garlic, pink-lemonade-flavored Metamucil) and I heard someone yelling a phrase I usually hear at Warped Tour. Some girl with comic-book blue-black hair, obviously displeased with a pastel-sweatpanted blonde in the canned veggies aisle, uttered the horrible p-word. "You're such a friggin' poseur."It's nice to know my local market is protecting me from faux punks when all I really want is a f&$@#ng tomato that won't make me hurl.

This got me to realizing how so much youth/music culture is obsessed with identifying who is, ahem, "legit." Once in 1992, I stopped into Noir Leather in Royal Oak, Michigan, the place for culture-defining sartorial flair, waaay before Hot Topic ever drafted a business plan. Unfortunately, I was wearing shorts and a Looney Tunes t-shirt with all the famous Warner Bros. cartoon characters on it. I was set upon by some gangly halfwit in what looked like standard-issue black bondage suit, and 32 pieces of metal in his face. He looks me up and down and says, "Nice shirt. Do you know where I can get a Looney Runes shirt?" Granted, I looked like I was lining up for Third Eye Blind tickets and he figured I'd never know he was talking about the 1990 release by the pastorally sinister British act Current 93. This of course, gave me carte blanche to blather on incessantly about other things I heard C93 leader David Tibet was doing, as well as rattling off my favorite records and songs by Coil, Nurse With Wound, Death In June and other acts active in that scene. The dude slowly backed away from me as I was discussing the merits of Coil's Love Secret Domain vs. NWW's Homotopy To Marie. Here's hoping that guy found some strength in Proactiv.

On another trip to the grocery store a few years ago, I wore a Damned t-shirt which sported the artwork to their "Thanks For The Night" single. The 20-something dood with the white hat and butcher's lab coat stocking the meat section complimented me on the shirt, before adding, "I guess you bought that new."When I told him I saw the Damned at the Ontario Theatre in D.C. with Minor Threat opening, he dropped his braised beef tips. Then he asked if I ever heard of Melt Banana, and I told him how Burnt By The Sun's Dave Witte was playing drums with them on that tour. Four days later at the Melt Banana show in Cle, he tapped me on the shoulder and apologized for being condescending.

But I get it. All of my oldest friends I met because they marked themselves in ways that separated themselves from the rest of the FM-rock dullards we had to endure in our youth. I met Erik when he came into the National Record Mart I was working at wearing a Public Image Ltd. button. My buddy Joe was a full-on Mod with sweet bowling shoes, Jam shirts and Secret Affair pins on his lapel. (Naturally, to all the vomit-faced masses in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, he was frequently referred to as a "punk-rock faggot.") Now here's the thing: In those days in the late '70s/early '80s, there was a degree of solidarity. In those days, a melting pot of nerdy students, Addams Family types, guys with "RAMONES" painted on their leather jackets in White-Out and the only dude in town with a mohawk would all show up at gigs featuring Peter Gabriel, the Meat Puppets, the Bush Tetras and unknown hardcore bands with names like the Clitboys. We went to the gigs in solidarity because we were united in our hatred for the crap that was on the radio and playing the local arena. Meanwhile back in Cleveland, Mike Shea started AP because he wanted a portal of information for new-wave dance-pop and bone-breaking hardcore! These days, everybody seems so rigidly set in their little fashion-show subculture, whether it's the Suicide Girl wannabe in my grocery store, or the 40-something dude with the faded tats that now look like mold, who thinks there's no good music anymore. I wanna slap all of them with a manhole cover.

I really believe that real music fans don't need all the acoutrements of subcultures to love the music. I don't need a severe haircut, a full tattoo sleeve, 67 piercings, an addiction to Percoset or a nip/tuck job to profess my love for Dillinger Escape Plan, Sex Gang Children, My Chemical Romance, Russell Haswell and Rancid. Let me put it to you this way: The underground music world needs more "Marilyns." No, not doppelgangers of Miss Monroe, America's favorite dead actress: I'm talking about the seemingly normal types who stick out at shows simply because they're so painfully ordinary. Because in the long run, they're all punker than all "the tribes" combined.

Someone To Talk To

After a long day of chastising the other AP editors about their addiction to comma splices, I went home and watched The Future Is Unwritten, a video documentary about the incendiary frontman of the Clash, Joe Strummer. The DVD is pretty amazing, cutting in archival footage with private family video, live material and soundtracks of Strummer talking on the radio show he hosted for BBC World Service.

Now, subject matter aside, here's why I loved it: Director Julien Temple frames much of the narrative around outdoor scenes of people huddled around ranging, crackling fires. You don't know anything about the participants. You don't know if you're watching homeless people huddling for warmth, a refugee camp, a gypsy caravan, or old friends having a clambake on a beach. There's just people, fire, sparks and Strummer's voice back-announcing what he just played. Temple's cinematographers shoot to some of the people's faces and jump-cut them against people in villages listening to music performed live or on the shortwave radio.

And all I could think was, "You lucky bastards."

I thought of how many friendships (and torrid love affairs) I have cultivated in my life that began through music. I'm not talking about "friends" like having Rivers Cuomo's spiritual advisor on speed dial and could-you-get-me-plus-18-on-the-guest-list-when-Weezer-roll-into-Cle-next nonsense. I'm talking about hanging with, say, five of your longtime buds (not in the biz) and sharing music via stereo, CD and turntable (even cassettes if you got 'em. Which reminds me: I need to get that bootleg I have of the Smiths live in Pittsburgh digitized). Pulling out a dusty seven-inch from nine years ago that sounds like something Jack White is doing right now. Throwing in a classic track where three out of the five pals suddenly break into the same air-guitar pose. Mixing genres like a playlist made by a blind person. Playing something so new, someone will say something like, "Hey, that's great. I guess all new music doesn't suck." Just getting lost in the sound and actually listening to the stuff.

"You stupid old man," I hear you sniff. "I can swap mp3's with my bros in Nanty Glo, Pennsylvania; Medicine Hat, Saskatchewan; Grimsby, England and NYC, all by virtue of the internet. Stay home, dust-farter!" And I can only respond with "It sucks to be you." Because the world might be smaller thanks to technology, but it's never as snug a fit as a handful of people hanging out in the same room, nodding their heads, smiling and listening. I can tell how successful an evening was when I'm at least ankle-deep in records and CDs taken out of their respective jewel boxes and jackets. But unlike parties that require plenty of food and drink, this is a clean-up I don't mind doing.

On paper, music is all marks on lines of paper. On your computer, it's reduced to binary 1's and 0's. In my life, it's the glue between me and my friends. Forget discs versus vinyl: Community makes music sound better.

I'm Mad Again.

What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe it's the weather, sleep deprivation or those chattering harpies still fuming over Emily Zemler's From First To Last review (I wanna know how many of you FFTL sympathizers actually bought that disc. Not enough to fill a Mini Cooper, I bet). But lately, everything simply pisses me off.

In the last 10 days, I wanted to kill (with my bare hands, mind you) some guy from England who snatched a Pop Group CD away from me during the last three seconds of an eBay auction. I prayed for death by crosstown bus to the guy who beat me to the used copy of the Lounge Lizards' Big Heart Live In Tokyo disc (the Japanese pressing with three bonus cuts not on the domestic version, an item I've been seeking for &*^%$@g DECADES) that Downtown Music Gallery was selling.

I saw Tom Waits in Columbus a few nights ago. He was great (as usual), but when he was doing a mirthful, micro-monologue about obscure laws in Oklahoma, some asshat in the balcony yelled, "Why don't you play some music?" I wanted to stick my thumbs inside the heckler's trachea to see if I could get the human toilet to breathe chords.

A few weeks ago, that horrible television show...America Has Polyps? The show that's just as bad asBig Brother, where you can feel the IQ points leaving your body the longer you keep it on? Anyway, the celebrity judges were jockin' some pointy blade-face in a beret yarling a cover of Mark Cohn's "Walking In Memphis," not realizing said song was a cover and not the original mark of a "storytelling genius" or whatever babbling "the Hoff" was mewling about. (Your German fan club called: They want you to cover "Set 'Em Up, Joe.") I found myself getting... even...madder.

We got a smug email from some tart under legal drinking age who was incredulous the Misfits and Dead Kennedys didn't make it into our Blood Runs Deep special. The line that set me off (bolding added by me): "I expect you to write a piece for the aforementioned bands to compensate their absence from this magazine." Hey, Sarah: Arrogance is a big reason why many people (ones with mortgages, car payments and families to feed) feel your generation needs to be teleported back to pre-Christian Egypt in order to learn the character-building benefits of slave labor. Now go visit Five We Fought Over and go do something nice for someone for a change, mmkay?

Looking back on the events of the past few weeks of my life, I realize getting angry doesn't serve anyone. Hatred of anything tends to get in the way of everything else that's effin' glorious. Yeah, I know I'm slightly classier than Eric Cartman when I'm mincing over who's done me wrong, but it's probably more entertaining to read than 500 words on how much I love my Shetland Sheepdog. People like to piss-and-moan about stuff, simply because they can, but most of the time, it does nothing to elevate a conversation.

Think about it: How often do you use the word "sucks" when you really mean to say something merely "exists?" It takes a great measure of participation to actively determine if something is worthy of industrial-strength derision, or if it is merely ineffectual to generate any kind of emotion in you. And when you get caught up in the hate trade, you lose time finding the great things in life. While you were posting your hatred of We The Kings on some message board, you could've hung out at a local record store, hung out with a friend and played them some music you actually like; maybe you could've spent the time reading a book.

Let's wrap this up: The new issue of AP has an oral history of one of the most righteous bands in punk, H2O. I can't think of anybody in recent memory who has embodied a sense of punk-rock community more than singer Toby Morse. When writer Ryan J. Downey was seeking out testimonials from people who saw the band's rise, he got some responses from some great people, many who have been on the cover of AP. He also got an email from somebody that read as follows: "Nothing personal towards [sic] you, and I certainly love the boys in H2O with all my heart, but I have no desire to have anything to do with AP, as I think it's a steaming pile of shit."

Now you'd think I'd be fuming, right? Well, I laughed when I got that forward, but then I felt really sad. Hey, I'm totally down with said PAF-punk hating on AP, no prob. It's just that I know if I were given a forum to represent for my friends (especially someone as deserving as H2O), regardless if it was Paste or the McCain-in-08.baa website, I'd step up. Here's the twist: Avenged Sevenfold ringleader M. Shadows (who has so many problems with AP, he sabotaged our planned Taste Of Chaos 2008 cover) was more than glad to testify on behalf of one of his favorite bands. Sure, I still think he's a precious ponce and I know he's too busy working out or counting his money to care about anything I have to say, ever. His love for Morse & Co. is greater than his hatred of AP. In my book, that's sterling.

Moral: Don't waste time "hating" when you could be using it to find some joy. Or be a bitter footnote all of your life.