Not Necessarily The Opinion Of AP

Back when Pitchfork media founder Ryan Schreiber was still trying to figure out how to scam free discs from indie labels, the be-all, end-all in sarcastic/ironic snark was Chunklet. The maga-/fan-zine, started in 1993 by cuddly misanthrope wiseguy Henry Owings, prides itself as a music magazine with no reviews, choosing instead to lampoon the music it loves. Over the years, Chunklet has given the world a number of number of hilarious features, such as The Top 100 Assholes In Rock (to which yours truly made it to the Number 30 position), the Bands We'll Pay To Break Up and one issue from way, way back that mercilessly stuck the knife into the whole music publicity industry. When Owings and his coterie of hipster potentates (some inspired, some only great via association) got to working on something, you could expect a pretty good read.

Their most recent issue has a piece called Music Mag Mix 'N' Match where 40-plus mags were demeaned in one paragraph and you had to guess what the mag was (or cheat by looking at the answers printed upside-down on the last page.) When I saw this feature, I knew there was no way I was going to escape Owings' crowings. And of course, there it was in the number six position...

Once a decent rag, now literally the most irrelevant Hot Topic-style, mall culture, emo Victoria's secret catalogue imaginable. Presently, it is a meaningless neo-emo/hardcore fish wrapper, but it once had Insane Clown Posse on the cover three times in one year. Jason Pettigrew has let a benign mid-'90s alt-monthly turn into probably the worst music magazine ever published.

Notice how we went from "decent' to "benign" in, what, two sentences? After reading it, I thanked Henry for the "shout-out," and he charmingly responded, "But of course, Jason. Nothin' but love, you know that."

I think at one point in their lives, everybody has a fast buddy they talk smack on right to their faces. They say the most heinous stuff imaginable--kind of like those Friars Club Roasts that Comedy Central puts on--and it's totally cool because a) you're talking among friends, b) the essence of the repartee is to celebrate said friendship and c) given the talents of the folks involved, the stuff is funnier that dogshit. Naturally, if some interloper attacks from the outside, it's inevitable he's going to get a beatdown, psychic or otherwise.

But does that kind of camaraderie work on the web? For instance, if I were to write that Multiple-Time AP Cover Star X can only get sexually aroused dressed up as the Green Lantern while listening to tapes of terrorist suspects being waterboarded, would he appreciate it? If I report that Scene Fixture B threw up hot wings and microbrews on some hooker in a toilet in some Chicago dive bar, would anyone care? ( I mean, it probably would if said character was signed to Tooth & Nail.) How much public goofing can one friendship handle?

I signed up for Twitter and I'm floored as to how many people are watching my pathetic ass. Sure, I've only "tweeted" once (I forgot my fecking password), but I wonder if whatever Jason "the Twit" says on his account is emblematic of AP as a whole. If I post "Saw Tim Karan @ Senses Fail gig with some girl. Must ask if he switched mail-order-bride catalogs," is Tim going to be a target for militant femmes in Sugar Hooker swag AND will AP (not JP) be tarred with a chauvinist brush? If I were to enter, "Lead singer of Clear Channel-endorsed rock band would be really sexy, if he only had steak knives violently thrust into his eye sockets," would that be considered a terroristic threat in today's technologically savvy, yet increasingly paranoid worldview?

Recently, a band that was featured in our AP&R section was talking smack on us on a message board. I am not married to the drummer's sister; the members of the band aren't drinking buddies with Tim; and I'm pretty sure said band doesn't go over to Scott Heisel's for weekend man retreats. (On every other Saturday night, they sit around a huge fire pit while wearing nothing but loincloths, eating meats prepared over the fire while listening to the "inclusion rock" sounds of the Hold Steady.) So then, should I dismiss said diaper-drinker as a child with computer access? Or should I go batshit crazy on Twitter? "I Nailed The Lead Singer Of The Dogcatchers' Mom In A Bus Station, But AP Still Sucks!"

Hang on: How many characters is that, exactly?

I Hate Your 80s

While I was editing this year's 100 Bands You Need To Know issue, I noticed that the terms "Eighties-sounding" and "Eighties-influenced" came up more times than the reflux I felt the first time I heard Brokencyde. Why in the hell do we romanticize this decade, anyway? Closing the last episode of The Sopranos with a Journey song? Escape The Fate getting fashion tips from old issues of Circus magazine with Motley Crue pictorials? Dudes in cookie-cutter pop-punk bands jacking the price of analog synthesizers up on eBay for the sole purpose of trying to sound like Gary Numan but ending up like, I don't know, OXO? Neon-colored clothing? Blonde girls dying their ends black? You people really grip my shit.

Now that I've stuffed your parents' nostalgia into an InSinkerrator and hit the switch marked "liquefy," let me tell you: I loved the Eighties! I had hot girlfriends, a 32-inch waist and at least one asymetrical double-breasted suit that could've gotten me a gig in a Duran Duran tribute band. I still violently hated all the stuff Americans hold dear (hair-farmer metal, designer jeans, stadium rock, mood rings, Members Only jackets, slap bracelets, full-length denim coats). Sure, we were all concerned that President Reagan was going to press the nuclear defense switch on the former Soviet Union, but if you were rocking Black Flag, Fear, Circle Jerks, Flipper or TSOL back then, you didn't care if the planet was about to be immolated (especially if it meant that you didn't have to hear meatheads go on about how awesome a guitar player one of those hair-metal diaper-drinkers were or hear dimbulb girls talk about how cute Richard Marx was). (I hate THAT dude so much, I refuse to hyperlink his pasty mousse-abuse ass.)



You know what nostalgia I want to ride on? The less obvious. One of the greatest post-punk/alt-rock bands in the history of British rock, Magazine, reformed for a handful of shows over Valentine's Day weekend. Let's see someone try to match the twisted lyricism of frontman Howard Devoto, while making a similarly inspired racket. Speaking of real racket, how come no young whippersnapper with physical stamina and protective headphones has stepped up to throwdown like Einsturnzende Neubauten, the real industrial outfit who were trashing theaters long before Street Drum Corps' moms were getting busy with their future dads? People love the funk, but how come only an inspired crate-digger knows about Rip Rig And Panic, the wondrous punk/funk/free jazz/swing outfit that STILL sound 20 years ahead of everybody else?

Now unlike most people eligible for the 4 pm dinner specials at Bob Evans, there's no way I'm going to preach, "Sorry, kids. It was better before you were born." Because a) Each generation needs to make its own culture, b) that argument implies that the old-schoolers have given up looking for inspiring music in order to pursue their golf game and c) most of those old-timers weren't hip to a third of the stuff that was happening then in the first place. With the internet, several lifetimes of musical experiences are at people's fingertips. But you have to WANT to go there in the first place, and not just stay stuck looking for, I don't know, Dire Straits downloads (although"Badges, Posters, Stickers And T-Shirts" is still a pretty cool song eons after the fact.)

Inevitably, some nostalgia blunts today's so-called "cutting edge." (I still prefer Kill Em All to Death Magnetic). But everybody--musicians and fans--has an obligation to move things along. Which is why I love crazy bastards like the Locust more than I love the Sex Pistols. It was neck-in-neck for awhile, until I read that guitarist Steve Jones told a British rock mag that he loved Boston's "More Than A Feeling." Somehow, being labeled a "punk-rock faggot" back then seems so quaint. (Thanks for having my back, Steve.)Still, I can only imagine what's going to end up on VH1's inevitable I Love The 10's. Funny hair, neon clothes, Metro Station...

Wait: Isn't this where I came in?

Punk's Not De... INVITED

What's worse than watching the Grammy awards? Watching them when you're in the middle of a 24-hour flu attack. Granted, I was able to time my trips to the bathroom at crucial junctures (Coldplay, Neil Diamond, the superstar "rap pack" summit meeting), although maybe if I actually saw some of said perfomances, I would've expelled the renegade microbes out of my carcass a lot faster. Sure, my wife and I high-fived when Robert Plant and Alison Krauss copped an award, and I really enjoyed the all-star tribute to Bo Diddley starring Keith Urban, John Mayer, B.B. King and Buddy Guy. But to me, the mainstream is just as inane as it ever was. You want to make the Gramms interesting? Suspend Chris Brown on a huge cable by his ankles and have Samuel L. Jackson pass ax handles out to the audience. Line forms on the right, please be orderly...

If you've been to Warped Tour more than twice or have posted incisive commentary on everything from the AP Moshpit to Punknews to Absolutepunk, this year's Grammys were a big freakin' deal. You had the double whammy of Blink-182 announcing their intentions to reform, record and tour. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Enema Of The State is over 10 years old and now you're listening to something far more sophisticated for your rarified tastes. But you don't need to drink frappachinos with Alex Gaskarth to realize that Blink were an enormous influence on the pop-punk legions that continue to land in AP's orbit. Maybe it was my stuffy head, but I don't remember tumultuous applause from the crowd when Mark Hoppus told the crowd he and his bro's were back together again. Meanwhile at the AP Skyscraper, every press release we got regarding the trio's appearance pretty much buried this fact in lieu of, oh, I don't know, Radiohead's first US TV appearance since they did SNL in 33 years or something. (Let the record show I'm not dissing the 'head. I did wonder where the other three-fifths of that band were during their performance with the First Presbyterian Bar & Grill Marching Band or whoever they were.) I probably don't need to tell you, dear reader, that Blink reuniting is a major friggin' deal in our subculture. But in a world that allows Duffy near a functioning microphone, the gesture seemed like a time-filler so the next hip-hop bore could saunter onstage.

Likewise, Green Day officially announced the title of the follow-up to American Idiot at the Grammys, and it seemed to be rather anti-climactic in the audience's eyes. I don't get it. We know the music industry responds well to dollar signs, so given the multi-platinum success of Idiot, you would think there would be a round of "yeaaaaaaah's" with the announcement of 21st Century Breakdown. More perfunctory applause, probably followed by discussion of what parties the folks in the choice seats were going to later that night.

I know I've touched on this topic before in this space, when I was dry-heaving over the American Music Awards ceremony. While lots of people like to bitch on message boards on how Moderately Successful Band A is a "sellout" or Unknown Band X Who Sing Through Their Adenoids Suck Because They Have No Facial Hair And Come From Someplace Other Than Gainesville, Florida, it needs to be said that the whole contemporary-punk scene is still very much in the underground to the much wider world of what your parents, little sisters and the elderly manager at your local Hallmark store thinks is "good." Grizzled punk dudes like to carp about what's "not punk." Seeing how Green Day and Blink were received by the Grammy audience, it seems like le punque moderne is still on the outskirts of what is "acceptable" to those walleyes. Sorry Cyndi Lauper: Money doesn't necessarily change everything.

Okay, sociology class is over. Please enjoy this artifact of a time from long ago in AP's history.

The Ceremonial Clutching Of The Straws

So many bands! So many compact discs created in the proud spirit of DIY! Not enough landfills.

Not even the threat of ecological disaster will stop bands from doing anything they can to get you and me to listen to their lead singers duet with their adenoids at least once. Most of you have it a bit tougher. Tear-Stained Hanky will play the Goo Gone Stage at Warped for eight days, and their excitable bassist will spend his entire morning walking around the fest grounds trying to get you to buy his band's DIY five-song CD. Of course, dude won't take no for an answer unless you pull out a knife or kick him repeatedly in the nards until he stops moving. Multiply that experience by five bands, and by 4 in the afternoon, you're ready to toss infants into garbage trucks, strollers and all.

Here at AP, we get plenty of discs from bands looking for a teaspoon's worth of affirmation. Riding along in the package with their "bold musical concepts" is a short biography of the band. It has all the usual stuff: who are the members, where are they from, what they've accomplished thus far--stuff that makes sense within the context of what they are trying to achieve. It's just that some bands are so desperate to get you to pay attention to their disc that very moment, they will add the most ridiculous stuff in their bio. Every Time I Die referred to this phenomenon as "shinfo," short for "shitty information." Except ETID's casual shinfo is more interesting to me than a Bob Dylan bio-pic. (Sorry Rolling Stone readers. I do swear by Blonde On Blonde, though.)

So as a public service to all bands trying to get people to write about them, here's a short list of things that make me throw all the components of your press package into our recycling bin. Oh, and if some of you have hired publicists to work your project, you might want them to take notes as well, because I'm thinking most of these inanities have been perpetrated by them in order to make you think they know what they're doing. We'll use my favorite fictional band, the Dogcatchers, as an example.

MANUFACTURING AS TALKING POINT
Most recordings go through a process called mastering, which essentially means taking the audio recordings and transferring them onto physical acetates to produce copies, digital (CDs) or analog (vinyl), while keeping the quality of the recordings intact (removing unwanted distortion, minimizing surface noise, etc). A mastering engineer should have plenty of experience understanding various musical genres, as well as the technological expertise to render said genres in their most optimum form. Their work on your record is important; their resume on your bio, not so much. "The Dogcatchers' debut EP, Swooped Hair And Market Share, was mastered by Kasabo Milkshitz, who lent his considerable talents to records by Papa Roach, Cold and Foreigner's classic Head Games album." The band is a fifth-rate Motion City Soundtrack, but the crystal clarity of hearing the lead singer fall out of pitch is quite stunning.

THE STUDIO AS ANGLE
Recording studios have all kinds of clients, from hip-hop 'hood heroes "testin' dey mad skillz" to heartfelt singer-songwriters with "something to say" to dudes sworn to keep metal "real" to your inane metalcore band fronted by a pterodactyl in a Comeback Kid hoodie. So when the Dogcatchers entered Flaprag Studios, "a facility where classic albums by Lenny Kravitz, Barry Manilow and Hinder were recorded," all it means to me is that the band members' parents have hooked their kids up with sweet-ass trust funds so they could follow their dream as the New Emo Monkees. Fifteen years ago, I watched a bunch of fratboys throw $20 bills at a middle-aged "featured dancer" with stretchmarks and some stomach moles needing immediate medical examination. Who do you think got more value for their outlay; Rex and Chet from Gamma Phucka Ducka or the Dogcatchers' guitarist "channeling" the aura of Lenny on his track "Girls Pants Make Me Dance?"

THE PARTICIPATION OF SOME DUDE WHO'S, LIKE, "A VETERAN"
The Dogcatchers wanted someone who understood exactly where they were coming from when it came to record their stentorian pop masterpiece, "(Mom Will) Always Love Me." So they called in Limp Bizkit drummer John Otto to oversee the creation of the ballad. In fact, his credit on the back of the disc--right above the UPC code--reads "PRODUCED BY JOHN OTTO OF LIMP BIZKIT." Really? What, not even Fred Durst was available to chug a case of PBR, belch and fart repeatedly before passing out 80 minutes into the session?

THE PARTICIPATION OF A NOBODY (aka MILKING A BRUSH WITH GREATNESS)
"The Dogcatchers worked closely with Essai Ratskanga, who was a consultant on the last Fall Out Boy album." Translation: Ratskanga filled up the soda machine in the studio where FOB were recording at the exact time, so Pete Wentz had a cold crisp Diet Pepsi every hour. Which admittedly, is worth a mention on the "thank you" list, but not on your bio, you fecking simps.

A GLOWING ENDORSEMENT FROM A SOURCE NOBODY HAS EVER HEARD OF, NOR ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT
"The Dogcatchers' Swooped Hair And Market Share is the boldest chapter to be written in the continuing evolution of music and recorded sound." --Amanda B. Reckonwith, Lung Cyst Gazette, Montana

"Much cuter than Plain White Ts and Boys Like Girls, but not as emo as Kevin Seconds." --amberalertportraiture.org

I'm pretty sure I'm missing several hundred other acts of desperation, but you get the idea. "Go to hell, you d-bag," I hear the guy in the Dogcatchers hoodie say. "How's my band 'posta get noticed by asshats like you, anyway?" I defer to the words of former AP editor dude Aaron Burgess. "Go out and make some quality noise; if it's good enough, we will hear about you."