Gunfight

It's been called to my attention that some bands patently hate AP. Actually, I'm kidding--I've been well aware of that for years. Do I care? Well, kinda. I mean, I'm all for creating both dialogue and relationships with people in an effort to foster understanding, motivation and possibly the recipe for a really good ginger wasabi chicken wing coating. Then again, I'm not crawling through miles of broken glass and upturned roofing nails just to make someone "happy." (Well, except this person.)

A few years ago, there was this one guy who took umbrage to the bands we had featured in a hardcore special we once ran. Of course, said dude had a blog and like most pedantic types who feel they have to "protect" their scene (such "warriors" are usually found in the cultures of hardcore and black metal), he was going off on how AP sucks and how we dine on the flesh of puppies and kittens thrown to us by fat-cat corporate music robber barons or some such bullshit that's capital-b BORING. The only line in the scene-soldier's blog that set me off was "I talked to people in the bands you featured and they hate your mag." Assuming there was any truth or validity to Officer McMosh's comment, it pissed me off that the double-talking bands willingly chose to participate in the piece, yet nobody from their proud tribe lined their unwashed pierced-and-inked carcasses up against a wall and beat them to death with a chunk of garden hose packed with sand. After all, "they sold out the scene," right? S'wonderful how pliable some ideologies can be, isn't it?

Several years ago, I fought long and hard with everyone here to get a huge-ass feature on the positively grating, yet well-respected Lightning Bolt. After I went through a three-day knockdown dragout with everyone above me on the masthead, I was begrudgingly given the go-ahead to make it happen. After several emails and phone calls to the publicist who was hired to represent the band, I was told in so many words that the band weren't interested. So I ask why they bothered to send advance music over to our office in the first place. "It was my decision to send you the record," said the publicist, "so please do not blame this on the band, I accept responsibility for this and should have checked with them prior to sending out any records. They are doing almost no interviews, so AP is not alone in not getting an interview." I heard a rumor from a very reliable source that Andrew WK wanted to do a split-single with them a few years ago, but they were too cool for school with him, as well.

It seems that every self-respecting punk simply loooves Propagandhi, the highly principled outfit from some insect-laden stretch of Canada. So when Fat was ready to pimp Potemkin City Limits, I was ready to give them five pages in the mag. Nope: We got back some kinda Bible Spice "thanks-but-no-thanks" response about how they didn't want to be in a magazine that covers the stuff we feature. I kinda figured this would happen, but I'm not gonna throw myself off the roof of the AP Skyscraper; I know the drill. So imagine a couple months later, when I got an email from some drone at the band's G7 Welcoming Committee label: "So, last month marked a first for us at G7 when we entered the futuristic (yet strangely boring) and economically viable world of digital-only releases. That is, albums that we are releasing only as MP3 downloads. I'm writing to see whether you might be interested in reviewing any of our first batch of said digital releases." So the Proper-ones are too principled to be featured in AP, but the bands whose music they're putting out are? The label doesn't exist anymore; knowing that makes me a card-carrying member of my local Schadenfruede Society.

I've got several other stories like this, but this blog is way too long. So let me say this: I've got no sour grapes or gripes with anyone mentioned here, and I'll continue buying your records. I totally respect any artist's decision to hate on AP for whatever reason, so long as they don't act like a bunch of whistle-dicked hypocrites about it. I merely ask that you tell your enablers not to send over any copies of your "vastly superior art," or have minions make calls/emails to our office to assist in propping up your motormouthed hypocrisy. Let's agree to keep ignoring one another.

Thanks. Don't take any wooden nickels--or violence-flavored cupcakes.

Oh, almost forgot: The new (International) Noise Conspiracy disc isn't bad. Really.

Killer Born Man: Andy Falkous

Andy Falkous (stripe-shirted wiseguy above) is the guitarist/synth-abuser/singer for FUTURE OF THE LEFT, the best thing to come out of Wales since Tom Jones and Torchwood. Curses, FOTL's debut, is a glorious Molotov cocktail of lyrical non sequiturs and tangled guitar lines, stirred by a rhythm section (bassist Kelson Mathias and drummer Jack Egglestone) heavier than Godzilla's swinging scrotum. (I guess in the U.K., that would make them "the large lizard's bollocks"). In addition to knowing their way around guitar necks, Falkous (formerly of Mclusky) and Mathias (late of Jarcrew) are world-class heckler neutralizers, always at the ready to provoke the most benign audiences or bitchslap the most dullard loudmouth. (Plenty of those instances were captured for posterity on their tour-only live album, Last Night I Saved Her From Vampires. What, you didn't buy it when they were on tour with Against Me! and Ted Leo? Come on, people...

Regarding your appearance on the Against Me!/Ted Leo trek, were the Lefties greeted as liberators or as annoyances?

Neither, but in general, it went pretty damn well. Gainesville and Philly were a little half-dicked and Cincinnati somewhat medium-whelmed, but the reactions have been far and beyond anything we could have expected. St.Petersburg, New York, Detroit (against all fucking odds) and D.C. were all particularly satisfying although not without the usual technical difficulties, guitars breaking and blood. Y'know, the usual.

You've articulated in interviews that you strongly feel your band could make inroads in America. Has this AM! trek strengthened that resolve or are Americans just a bunch of tin-eared rubes that couldn't tell an exciting band if said outfit were bending their grandfathers over their living-room couch?

Interesting image, thanks. The sheer quantity of Against Me and Ted Leo/Pharmacists fans of all ages, sizes and haircuts who came up to us unprompted and say they've enjoyed the show made the trip worthwhile. There was no point in us doing a headline tour when we would have been playing to the same people who went to see Mclusky. Get them young, get them enthusiastic and help them to expand their musical horizons a little.

Ultimately we just have to put ourselves out there, doing what we do and see what the hell happens. There are no certainties in this game, but I have no fear whatsoever.

While being furious players, you and Kelson are pretty fearless heckler slayers, as well. Was there a notable moment during this tour where you were impressed by your own between-song savagery? Were you and Kelson invited to any of our fine American parking lots to receive a complimentary beatdown?

Wise (wo)men know that pride comes before a fall, so I won't regale you with any examples of our biting wit. The key thing is to be yourself and to never go on stage with a script. No beatdowns as yet. People tend to listen; if they don't, we usually have the crowd on our side, that seething mass of flesh.

What are FOTL's next plans regarding America? Or are you running away after we elect a new president?

We'll be back if we're wanted, hopefully in a slightly better van. A headline tour, such as it is, will probably have to wait until we have a new record out; then we can bring the full, ridiculous show, unbridled sweat and all.

If you guys elect that sweating psychotic and his barmy mini-Margaret-Thatcher-with-honey-mustard-glaze sidekick, I fear the rest of the countries of the world may simply move planets in order to escape. Bush even made the British feel sorry for the French, which is quite an achievement. Ha. "Freedom fries," my fucking cock.

I know you're loathe to recommend any British bands. So let me put it this way: Which British bands should Americans throw lots of debris at if they come over?

Only cowards, idiots and friends playing pranks throw things at bands. Don't do it. Go home the second the urge takes hold and do something useful, like learning to cook. I'll recommend you some British comedy instead, whether for purchase or illegal download; your choice. The Thick Of It, Peep Show, Snuff Box and The League Of Gentlemen are particularly fine. For those with shorter attention spans, which isn't always a bad thing, Spaced or The IT Crowd. That's some pretty fucking funny shit right there.

You've got to allow me to thank Against Me!, Ted Leo and their crews as well. They've been the perfect hosts and touring partners. If you don't, I warn you, I'll start a ska band.

Waltz (For Edie Adams)

Last week, stage and television star Edie Adams died. Although she was a talented singer and Tony-winning actress, Adams was known as being a crucial foil for her husband, Ernie Kovacs, the comedic genius who was a major force in shaping both American comedy and television as a bona fide art form back in the '50s. Whether she was belting out a song or a "victim" of a Kovac-ian slapstick attack, Adams was a class act.

I was a hateful senior in high school ("Everyone in my school sucks as much as Journey. Why can't they listen to the Clash?"), when I chanced upon reruns of The Ernie Kovacs Show running on PBS. On one particular night, Kovacs dedicated a good part of the show to an impressionistic story taking place on a set rendered like a city. There was no dialogue in the "sketch," only musical accompaniment with Adams and other actors telling the story via dance. The classical music Kovacs used was downright confusing: It was as brash as a conquering hero, mysterious as a ghost story and melancholy as the loss of a loved one (sometimes all three emotions at once). My teenage brain was significantly blown and dammit, I had to have this piece of music as much as I needed a new copy of Pink Flag. This was my first exposure to Bela Bartok's Concerto For Orchestra, and it was all courtesy of a pair of TV visionaries. (Hey, I was too busy buying records to care about what was on TV back then.)

I never got to meet Edie Adams. I do know her son, Josh Mills, and he hooked me up with an autographed copy of her book, Sing A Pretty Song many years ago. I'd like to think that a little piece of her lives in my heart. It's the part that reminds me to be open-minded to anything because influence, passion and the extraordinary can crop up in the most unlikely places. Josh, my thoughts are with you and I hope the next time I make it out to L.A., you will tell me some fabulous stories about your remarkable mom.

Thanks, Edie.

Wild Blue Yonder

Apologies to the five of you who read my blog. I haven't updated too much this week since I had a pretty fabulous 48 hours. It all started when I suggested to Joe, one of my old-skool poonk-rock buddies that we take a four-hour road trip in search of old friends, cultural accouterments and, of course, rock 'n' roll. (The five loyal readers remember Joe as a mod from the blog entry "You're Gonna Change (Or I'm Gonna Leave)."Or not.)

First, there was the drive. Now any band who comes to visit the AP Skyscrapers usually gets to hear my rant about how I could never be in a band because I'm such a little bitch when it comes to being in a car for more than two hours. However, armed with a 60GB iPod, I transformed into DJ Little Bitch, pulling up tracks for road raging, answering Joe's queries about some obscure band or punk-rock/new wave classic or just dropping songs appropriate to the conversation. (Example: Discussion of ex-girlfriends = Ben Folds' "The Bitch Went Nuts.") We had a fecking blast.

Then came the friends: We hooked up with Rob and Carla, both AP alumni and some of the coolest folks to touch my life. We shot the breeze about good old days, bad old days and things that were currently coloring our lives. A few hours later, we had dinner at an Indian place (I ordered 5 outta 6 on the spicy scale and it was primo).

And then, THE SHOW:



Future Of The Left are the best thing to come out of England since Hobnobs.Guitarist/synth-puncher Andy Falkous and bassist Kelson Mathias heckled the living shit out of the audience and I couldn't get enough. They made a hell of a racket and although their set was only 30 minutes, it felt like 10. Ted Leo/Pharmacists were up next, and the people who kept looking at Future Of The Left with faces resembling dogs eating peanut butter finally stepped it up a few notches. Then AM! came out, played all my favorite songs from New Wave and Searching For A Former Claritythereby assuring my night was complete. Of course, I couldn't leave without getting the French version of New Wave (five bonus cuts, punker. Oh, AM!'s merch gal was a total sweetheart. I've decided that I hate her boyfriend without knowing who he is) and Future Of The Left's gig-only live disc, Last Night I Saved Her From Vampires. By the end of the night, I felt sated in the same way I used to travel stupid hours to see one band play for an hour or less, only to drive home watching the sun come up.

The next morning, we woke up, downed some coffee and juice, ate homemade scones (Carla, we love you) and headed out the door to go to a record store that had a basement full of vinyl, thousands of CDs (new and used), a ton of books ranging from rock bios to art/comics to politics and a ridiculously huge array of toys that's just as extensive as Kidrobot. I had to choose between a mortgage payment and hardcore shopping, so I walked out of there dropping a mere $30 on something for my lovely wife and more iPod food. Then, it was back in the car, four hours back to Cle.

Look: I know how bad it is economically. Gas is outrageous, money's scarce and when you read about scumbags in the news, it's even more depressing. Find some friends, gas money and a reliable car and just GO. Find a destination, be it way cool or positively absurd, or reconnect up with an old friend who moved. Step away from the computer and go. Whether you're finally old enough to drink or you've traded your punk-rock past for a life of 9 to 5 followed by a tired bible, you're not getting any younger and you're still too special to be jaded.

"Take the wheel of the world and drive." --Roland S. Howard.

Vision & Blues (slight return)

This is the time of year where the editors at the AP Skyscrapers are diligently making preparations for the end of year issue. One of the many things we editors agonize over is the concept of what constitutes "The Best." Best disc, best live show, best use of self-deprecation in a blog (It was this dude, hands down), best malicious use of a crappy band's CDR demo, etc.

But this got me wondering about all those musician polls that proclaim who is the best guitarist/drummer/bassist/singer/synthesizer operator/Aeolian nose-flautist/zither strummer, whatever. I find these polls annoying because it usually means that somebody can merely play faster than someone else. Hey, dexterity and speed are great attributes. But I'm also reminded of when Truman Capote read Jack Kerouac's On The Road and made the pithy comment, "That's not writing; that's typing."

So instead of me telling you what makes a great musician or you telling me what you think, I decided to ask people on both sides of the fence: Professional musicians. Hey, they were so into music, they dedicated their lives to playing: They should know what they're talking about, right? Most of the people who responded to my query are well-known to AP readers and are well-versed in both rock history and the ability to, ahem, "shred." Everybody had different opinions about approaches, but they all shared the same over arching sentiment.

So, what makes any musician or singer good, great or "the best?"
"For me, it's originality. Certain musicians, be they guitarists, songwriters, bass players or what-have-you bring an approach to their instrument that's so unique that it changes the way we look at the instrument--something that's unmistakably 'them.' Two of my guitar heroes are Chuck Berry and Johnny Ramone. Neither are playing anything that your average teenage shredder haunting Guitar Center couldn't handle with ease, but no one played like that before them and no one's played the same since. Peter Hook of Joy Division/New Order is another example. He played the electric bass as a lead instrument rather than the background instrument it was "meant" to be. Virtuosity without soul or originality never meant a thing to me. It's just jerking off. It's what a machine would do if you built it to play guitar. Some people who draw or paint are illustrators, and damn good at it, but that doesn't make them artists."

"I can tell you that I have played with guys who people think are amazing musicians and they do nothing for me. I wonder why people think they are so good and then I realize it's because the people in their band are really good, so they assume cause the guy keeps up, he's good, too. So technically he may be okay, but the difference between someone who can play an instrument and someone who is truly a great musician and artist is that you can tell that music is in them. When they play it is not only effortless but you can tell that they live for music and that they are enjoying every bit of it. Everything that they play, no matter how simple or dense, is full of passion. I can tell immediately if they are great by just hearing them play one note or hit one drum."

"Make music without a purpose other than to make music; my mentor used to call it 'solving musical problems.' As you kinda said, people listen with an agenda or with the need to compare what they're hearing with something they are familiar with. This must make the experience of listening to music very very unsatisfying. One should never pander to or play down to an audience. Those that are not great, never have been and never will be great because they play music to maintain a lifestyle and boost their pathetic ego, rather than free them from it."

"Greatness, I'm afraid, is an arbitrary recipe. A guy that works at a car dealership in Knoxville thinks that the guitarist of Creed is the second coming. But a graphic arts student in Portland who's a fan of Conor Oberst thinks that dude is a jive turkey, and cannot for the life of him/her see through their veil of aesthetic prejudice, right or wrong. However, under this heading of subjective reality, I place attributes such as charisma, looks, attitude, the musician's 'sound, ' stuff like that. What is talent? Perhaps I'd describe it as one's ability to render thought, via an instrument, into communication. What is communication, in this case? I dunno, perhaps you could call it a wavelength. The ephemeral, unquantifiable result of one's playing reaching over to and inspiring the soul of a listener/viewer. Is it learned or innate? Not sure. Can it be enhanced to a higher level, by time or otherwise? Probably: We're talking about the way one feels listening to the Edge play guitar, the undeniable soul and pathos of Jeff Buckley's voice. The Keith Moon drum fill re-intro in 'Won't Get Fooled Again.' Pour out mixture and spread evenly into shallow baking pan. Top with 2 oz. of shredded physical skill. Bake for 25 minutes at 325. So lastly, we're talking about the nuts and bolts of talent, the actual level of dexterity one has on their axe. People debate this incessantly, but that's because it's mostly ingredient #1 that they are talking about."

"For a vocalist to be truly great, he/she must first deeply feel what they are singing. What voice that ethos takes, what perspective the singer has, and of course, the melodies they write further dictates their greatness. I feel that vocal skill is important, but not imperative. Certainly I point to Freddy, Perry, Moz and the Wolf Child as some of rock's greats. Cedric and Maynard take the place of modern-day greats. At the same time Curtis, Crash and MacKaye, I would argue, do stand aside these more technically talented few. What ties these singers together is their basic ethos. Their 'heart,' if you will. This is unfortunately an intangible and unquantifiable characteristic, though it's almost always paired with well-written, well-thought, honest, touching lyrics. Simply reading MOZ lyrics for the first time could inform the passion of his voice, though not necessarily outrageous vocal skill. The converse, however, can also be true. Lyrics are extremely important and good lyrics are virtually imperative but I am not about to argue the poignance of Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now' and can't say they're always everything. I think Bowie lands himself well in the middle of the vocal skill category but is lyrically, vocally and historically an obvious great.
"I will be the first to point to the nails-down-the-chalkboard of the modern-day Myspace music scene and revel at the record deals given to many top-selling talentless vocalists these days. But I'd be more understanding if, while they were challenging us with their lack of skill, they also paired it with an honest point of view or even a hint of drive that was inspired by something beyond a need for more 'friends' and hollow celebrity. On the other hand, hit every note powerfully with insincerity and ill-intent and it's still worthless."

I promised everyone who commented that their identities would be kept hidden because a) it's a small world and the net makes it so much smaller, b) I didn't want any of their professional liaisons to think I was exploiting their celebrity and c) I wanted to avoid any that-guy-has-room-to-talk flame wars to ignite. Feel free to comment on what was said, who you thought was doing the talking or where your feelings lie on the validity of "World's Greatest Whatever."

Mega City 1

In the late-'70s comic series Judge Dredd, the titular judge/jury/executioner antihero is the enforcer of all of the laws in Mega City 1, a new country whose boundaries start from the tip of Florida (yet going no further south than Atlanta, Georgia), through the Eastern seaboard and all the way to Quebec (I think). If I remember the story correctly, most of the North American continent goes to hell after some kinda government-bungled nuke heats things up significantly. The character of Dredd is a self-righteous bastard with a mean temper and a thing for maintaining order. Sound like anybody you know? Teacher? Professor? Owner of the cubicle farm you work at? Regional district manager? Presidential nominee? (Sorry, kapy53: I couldn't resist.)

I think if I had the power, I'd make a really fine benevolent dictator. Seriously. Why, off the top of my head, I could think of a couple policies I'd fast-track at once:

INCREASED ENFORCEMENT OF GROCERY-STORE EXPRESS LANES

Eight items means eight objects. I've wasted more time dealing with d-nozzles who think 17 cups of yogurt is one item. And don't get me started on vermin who need to write a check for a pack of smokes. Get a debit card, you product of adult incest, or end up cleaning the sewers of my nation with a toothbrush and an endless supply of breath strips you'll be forced to use twice, if you catch my drift.

A BAN ON UGLY PANTS. I remember a time when the most hideous piece of women's clothing was the full-length denim coat, the ultimate couture for white-trash stoner witches everywhere. But these things are positively gross, unflattering and moronic. I thought this trend died along with Limp Bizkit's career, but I just saw a bunch of them on some pinheads this weekend. (Of course, I am headquartered in Cleveland: Trends die hard here.) Under my law, ugly-pant owners will be ordered to adopt a dog from a shelter and set up an agility course for said pet, using the severed pant legs as closed chutes. Failure to comply will make the foodchain a bit more Soylent Green-colored.

A BAN ON MUSIC. That's right. If the bomb drops tomorrow, and somehow I collected more guns, money and legions of tree-trunk necked thugs than anyone else, there'd be no new music. Current musicians will be grandfathered, but will be forced to register their musical equipment. Sorry, friends: The proliferation of bands currently taking inspiration from bands less than 10 years old is making everything sound like Xerox copies of Xerox copies. And you know how that looks after a while, right? If the creation of new music was strictly forbidden, people of all ages and walks of life would be forced to explore and discover everything we've captured thus far, from the Library Of Congress archives to the quarter-bin at your local church rummage sale. The only problem with my draconian edict is then only "outlaws" will make music; the aural chum they'll come up with will suck even more wildly than what's happening today; and they'll be glamorized when they should be affixed to a wall with a nail gun straight through their Cowper's glands.

And that, friends, is a smidgen of Pettigrew's Brave New World. So who's with me? I'll need to fill some cabinet positions, so please state your qualifications and agendas below.

I Wanna Be A Flintstone

John "Johnny Rotten" Lydon's recent commercial for a British butter company has been ricocheting around the blogosphere. The former frontman for the Sex Pistols got a big ol' chunk of change for this whimsical, slightly absurd little piece at a time when the company who signed him on to do this shortened their payroll. (Come on, people: How do you expect them to pay the punk-rock icon's Appropriate Fee and working stiffs' wages at the same time?) I'm not even going to lambaste Lydon for making a buck. When Johnny was your age, he was at the forefront of a cultural revolution carving his name into rock history. He was also getting hassled by police frequently, violently attacked by passersby and watching the things he loved (family, friends) die. As a member of Public Image Ltd., he's been part of some of the greatest alt-rock albums ever made. (Next time you corner Matt Skiba, ask him to tell you his favorite band in life.)

But unlike all the bands whose music you pulled off the net for free, Lydon doesn't need money. Years ago, a British court gave him ownership of Glitterbest and Matrixbest, the companies put together by former Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren to exploit the living hell out of the band. In addition, Lydon's wife is a German newspaper heiress. Oh, and did I mention he's licensed to sell real estate in Malibu, California? So why in the hell is he pimping for butter when at his age, he should be leaning the other way and carrying the banner for Lipitor? You wanna live longer to spend that cash, right? Less butter, more cheddar, f'r sure...

Cultural relevance is an addictive drug. Does any British national 40 years or older think that butter tastes better because J-Ro's pimping it? ("Cor! 'e spat in my mouf at the Roxy in '76. Gotta go the shop, now!") No. Most people who see Lydon now frame him as a celebrity cartoon with nothing to offer but camp. Our John is never going to write another song as great as "Bodies" or "Swan Lake," but he might ride a Pistols reunion tour into the sunset if it means getting the attention of dullards who claim that band changed their life, even if they do have a complete collection of Journey discs (Oh wait: I already blogged about those hydrocephalic types at XM). Lydon isn't racist, but we know he got some news mileage out of that whole "black attitude" run-in with Bloc Party's Kele Okereke at a music festival in Barcelona, Spain. These days, the thought of Lydon in a guest-judge slot on American Idol doesn't seem far-fetched, but it doesn't seem like prime TiVo bait, either.

Earlier this week, I blogged about Peter Hammill, the leader of Van der Graaf Generator and solo artist whose music Lydon has championed in the past. I heard a story that an NPR affiliate was doing a piece on Hammill and contacted John Boy's manager to see if they could secure an interview with J-Ro discussing Hammill's work. Management turned the producer down cold, saying "Requests like these are so tiresome..."

Said management dude certainly knows what "tiresome" is--he's been making bank off of it for years, now...

Vision & Blues

I've spent the last two days fighting off a sinus headache that would make a hippo want to bite down on a nuclear warhead. I could never figure how anybody can function with some kind of cranial malady. Once I tried filing budgets with a migraine, and I accidentally paid somebody $6 a word. (No worries, though: I think it was for Tim Karan's Anthony Green valentine.) Man, the list of things I've agreed to in order to get some alone-time to cope with headache pain is staggering: "Sugar Ray would make a great cover, right?" "Listen to our demo. We're called the Flipside." "I think we should hire Scott Heisel. Pettigrew?"

I can only speak for myself, but the best thing about headache pain is the drug cocktail I ingest to stop it. Naw, I'm not talking Absolut and St. Joseph aspirin (mmmm, orange!). I'm talkin' the usual combo of over-the-counter action and prescription allergy meds, washed down with overpriced bottled water. You know why? The dreams are really, really cool.

According to my darkened brain, last night I was in some club in Chicago. My old-school AP buddies were buying rounds of drinks and making sure my glass was always full. I watched a bouncer put a clueless blogger critic through a door without opening it. But most importantly, there was this band playing old-school punk/new wave blasts. I didn't catch their name, but I knew who was in it: Dustin Donaldson (drums, I Am Spoonbender), Justin Pearson (bass, the Locust), Rocky Crane (guitar, Year Future, Some Girls) and Russell Haswell (laptop racket-maker). They were all wearing suits and playing some of the most tightly wound energy blasts I've ever heard in my life. Then, just before a Tracy Adams doppelganger grabbed my neck, my sheltie Bowie jumped on my chest (yes, in the bar), and I found myself awake, back in Cleveland and struggling to find my bathrobe so I could take the barky bastard outside.

As much as I miss free booze and hanging with my dear friends, I'm really saddened the above band doesn't exist. But my sadness has given way to blog fodder. So in the spirit of Tim Karan's fantasy football leagues and my cold medicine-induced alternate reality, I am now asking you to send over your dream-band lineups. The only rules are that all your players have to be alive and you gotta name three songs you'd want to hear your hand-picked team play. Get goin'.