Finally, something moves you.

Apologies for being late. I promise I will be back up to speed by next Wednesday. Seriously. ("I don't FEEL tardy." --D.L. Roth, 1984) I would've gotten to this earlier, but I was too busy getting dinner, playing records and going to see Converge and Ceremony throw it down at the cool Cle haunt, the Grog Shop. I had a blast watching the amount of girder monkeys scurrying over the members' of Ceremony's heads as they were grinding it out. (See, there's an exposed girder that runs perpendicular to the stage so the more athletically fit stage invaders can extend their narcissism a little longer than the length of your typical stage-dive.)

After the set, I briefly spoke with Ryan from Ceremony who seemed positively sated with his band's performance. (The dudes work hard for their money, hell yeah!) But as I was chatting him up at the merch table, it seemed as though everyone wanting Ceremony swag just didn't want a shirt or a hoodie or a record. Of course, they did want to BUY something, but it seemed that more importantly, they wanted to give something to the band than some crumpled pit-sweat marinated dollars. Practically every person buying something greeted Ryan with a handshake, high-five or a vocal profession of how awesome his band were that evening. At points it seemed Ryan was getting a bit embarrassed by all the love, but always took time to show his appreciation. Whether it was some burly, neck-tatted fireplug, a green-haired girl (girls at hardcore shows are simply awesome, aren't they?) or some puny nerdy dude who's used to being slammed inside his school locker, everyone seemed righteously appreciative.

Then I got to wondering about the conversations I've experienced other people having on their way out of a gig. Like the white-trash tub of lard bitching about My Chemical Romance not playing an encore despite her paying $35 or whatever. When I asked her if the five-minute piano solo James DeWees was playing while the band rested was cooler than the band running back onstage like every other act in the history of rock-and-fuggin'-roll, she snapped. "That wasn't an encore. They owe me an encore for this ticket price!" She looked like a proud consumer; maybe MCR should've signed her up for Nutrisystem, as well. This past Sunday at the recent Les Claypool show, I heard a whining hippie who wanted to hear "at least one Primus tune, dude. Dubya tee eff?" Nevermind that Les and co.--along with members of Devotchka--pulled off a version c'est magnifique of Tom Waits' "Russian Dance" that the rest of the tour wasn't gonna see, since it was Devotchka's last night on the tour. I remembered a friend of mine telling me about the time he went to last year's AP tour and heard some guy pissing and moaning about the encore, when all the bands covered Blink-182's "Dammit." The dude's complaint? "Nobody was really into it." My buddy went up to the kid and told him he hoped his car flipped on the way home and an ambulance couldn't get to him for an hour.

What do people expect from their favorite bands in 2009? If the record is great and the shows are good, what more do you need? If the lead singer of the Dogcatchers isn't at the merch booth immediately after the set to sign the hoodie you made with your bedazzler, does his band suck? Why does anybody think they should get more than a great record and a decent show these days? Davey Havok doesn't have to leave a message on your sister's voicemail on his way to find a soy chai drink--she hasDecemberundergound. Leave him alone! I don't know if it's the manifestation of a sense of entitlement or part and parcel of how fans in this scene conduct themselves. Maybe the demands are greater simply because listeners have been marketed to death just to get them interested in things in the first place.

But now--without the aid of name-dropping--a little story from my back pages. The scene: A Western Pennsylvania skating rink-turned-venue in the late-'80s. A hardcore band drifting into metal acceptance has an opening slot for a popular metal act on the rise to bigger things. A punk-rock lifer approaches the punk band's merch booth:

PUNKER: How much are shirts?
MERCH DUDE: Ten bucks.
PUNKER: TEN BUCKS? Are you crazy? I saw you four years ago and your shirts were five! It cost me $10 to get in here! You guys are total fukkin' sell-outs! I used to be able to see you for a $4 cover, and your merch was cheap. I've supported you for years; I bought all of your records, drove up to 200 miles in any direction to see you and now... [trails off.] You know, screw you! In fact, you should GIVE me a shirt for all of the support I've given YOU in the past. You wanna come to my house and see all the fliers and set lists I've got from your gigs? You owe me this, you corporate, sell-out, capitalist-pig shysters...

And... SCENE!

Okay. Now, a couple minutes later, after proud punker leaves empty-handed and pissed off. The same show, same bands, same merch guy. Long-haired metal dude wearing a Slayer shirt walks up to the booth.

METALHEAD: How much are shirts?
MERCH DUDE: Ten bucks.
METALHEAD: Cool, what else do you got?

Less Rock, More Litigation

Thank goodness we still have Papa Roach to kick around! Our fave rap-rock gibrones have cosmetically reinvented themselves as the leaders of a heavy-metal PTA meeting where moms push around IV trees connected to silicone shunts stabbed into their breasts, while the dads finally show up after unloading the beer trucks at the bars their bands play in for top pennies.

Not to kick a band on their way to the middle, but dammit, we almost lost them. Apparently, the band have settled their lawsuit with former drummer Dave Bruckner, who was ejected for a number reasons I could care less about. For the purpose of this blog, let's talk about Bruckner's lawsuit. He demanded not only a sizable chunk of the band's revenue (which is always expected), but he also wanted the band to break up permanently. Seriously. It's downright murderous in a if-I-can't-play-with-you-nobody-will kind of way, isn't it? If the band broke up, how would frontman Jacobi Shaddix pay his stylist from Jiffy-Lube? Could bassist Tobin Esperance justify attending personality-cultivation seminars? A world without P-Ro might trigger great anguish during midwest trailer-park meth-lab conventions.

Can you imagine what legal ramifications Bruckner v. Papa Roach could have triggered had the drummer won? Just like all of the dimbulbs who filed class action suits after being duped by performers, there could have been some full-on legal precedents for securing fans' rights. So if you're an ambitious attorney in need of having your next exotic vacation underwritten for dubious directives, below are some possible cash cows.

BRING ME THE HORIZON v. BRITISH FANS
Allegedly, Bring Me The Horizon cancelled some dates on the Kerrang Tour earlier this year because of frontman Oli Sykes' throat problems. We heard stories from our moles in the crowds that girls in attendance didn't care; they just wanted to see dreamboat Oli onstage. The dudes felt the same way--kinda. They wanted the band to come out and make a noise they could maim each other to and didn't give sweet FA whether Sykes was growling along.
POSSIBLE PLAINTIFF REWARD: Free access to BMTH gigs for the next two years or however long said fans' interest lasts.
POST-TRIAL RAMIFICATIONS: Drop Dead clothing CEO Sykes makes up shortfall by signing merch deals with buzzworthy bands opening free tour.

FOREVER THE SICKEST KIDS v. A BUNCH OF BANDS ON THE SOUNDWAVE BILL
A whole bunch of bands who appeared at this recent Australian festival wanted to put the beatdown on various members of the Dallas loop-pop contingent. A representative from the implied plaintiffs told AP that the boys were big on ego and waaaay short on talent. The representative spoke on condition of anonymity because everybody involved loathed them so much, they didn't want to help perpetuate FTSK's "legend in their own hive-mind."
POSSIBLE PLAINTIFF REWARD: FTSK surrenders revenue from Soundwave gig to a fund overseen by annoyed bands' representatives. Money accrued would be used to fund a school based in non-computer-based music education.
POST-TRIAL RAMIFICATIONS: Band develops a sense of humility while working on second record in an attempt to desperately appease inevitably fickle fans.

BROKENCYDE v. THE UNITED STATES
These lead-paint chip eaters are trying to make bank selling their hideous autism-crunk to the children of parents going to this year's Cruefest. Defendants insult music fans, as well as aquatic shellfish with greater intelligence capacity than band's fans.
POSSIBLE PLAINTIFF REWARD: Band forced to dissolve, thereby making it safe for fans to show up early at shows to see worthy opening acts.
POST-TRIAL RAMIFICATIONS: A good fecking start. Remember the Obama rallying cry: Yes, we can.

Scene And Not Heard

Hi. I'm new to the group. My name is Jason. And I am addicted to Twitter.

By now, most of you are familiar with the micro-blogging site that acts as a forum for what you are doing/thinking/feeling right now. It's fast, efficient and a great way to catch up with your buds without having to contact them personally. In addition, the service allows other people to participate in your life from a distance without you having a portable neon sign reading STALKERS WELCOME hanging over your head. When strangers sign up to "follow" you on Twitter, it makes you feel more important than you actually are. One of the unsexiest things I do at AP is compile each issue's editorial budget. But Hassenpfeffer12 in Collapsed Colon, Montana, still thinks that's the most awesome thing on Earth. (Thanks, Hassy. But in this economy, ain't nuthin' sexy 'bout that.)

I've determined my attraction to Twitter comes from wanting to know about a recognized community where you have a personal affinity for the participants. For instance, I care more about Tim Karan's car problems than I do Joey Mihalczek's impending gig in the Circle K parking lot in Cankersore, Pennsylvania. But if I'm visiting the AP Moshpit--or any other message board-cum-information portal--I have to wade through every single inane comment everybody has to make, usually accompanied by some dumb band photo and a three-line sig-file daub of priceless poetry to come out of some Long Island goombah's tattered notebook. Clearly, 140 characters and all my peeps in line cannot be beaten. Not only do I avoid the bandwidth detritus I briefly touched on, I don't have to scroll through the drone static from chattering harpies who have this innate (and unwarranted) need to be heard, even though they have nothing to say.

If you're offended by that last comment, it means you're guilty. So let's break it down to extremes. On the one hand, you've got idiots who are bored, high or any combination of both, who demand to be heard. Like a dude complaining about Mindless Self Indulgence on a message board because MSI somehow inhibit his girl's ability to please him in bed. (Dude, it's because your girlie doesn't have a strong enough imagination to pretend she's Steve Righ's action gal and you're about as capable in bed as three garden slugs.) That's just tedious. On the hideous side, how about all of the comments from the shallow end of the gene pool, who, when learning about Hawthorne Heights' guitarist Casey Calvert's untimely death, just had to get in, "That band sucks, sorry 'bout the dude, tho'." They couldn't just show respect for a good person. Nope, they gotta prove how cool they are by demeaning Calvert's brothers in rock. Way to go, vermin. I bet you'd look real cool if you were, oh, burned alive. But I guess it's hard to move a mouse over to your favorite message board while coping with extremely charred muscle tissue.

So I decided I'm not gonna be part of the problem. If you wanna say my favorite band sucks, fine. I'm gonna look away, because life is too good to make me want to sacrifice prison to embed a splitting maul in the skull holding that gelatinous porridge you call "a brain." But me and my buds on Twitter are gonna have a field day dragging your carcass through a psychic cow pasture. No one's gotta see it or know about it. Suits us both fine, doesn't it?

A Revisionist History Of Suck

A few weeks ago, I reconnected with an old high-school friend who stopped by the AP Skyscraper on his way to Chicago. He was impressed by the basic decor, the amount of crap cresting over the back of my couch ("It's just like your bedroom back then: A fukkin' mess!") and the huge wall of mags you see when you enter the place. He complimented me (and AP) for 24 years of riding the tides of popular culture for so long. He also got some zingers in, asking me when was the last time I saw my shoes, who's been launching golf balls off the top of my head and where I found soda in bottles so I could wear such thick glasses. (This sounds like last weeks' blog entry, doesn't it? Think of it as, what Daryl Palumbo's idol might consider "conceptual continuity.")

What my buddy wasn't down with was AP's focus of the past few years. "All these crimes against music in the name of 'punk,'" he bristled. "Are the kids that dumb? This is all stupid pop music." Fortunately, the auxiliary speakers on my computer still worked, and I was able to cut him off at the pass with a selection of contemporary hardcore on the Bridge 9 and Deathwish Inc. labels, twisted crazy stuff Paste magazine wouldn't touch, as well as some inspired pop songs (Two Tongues and that recent (International) Noise Conspiracy disc). He started to squirm at "No, Seriously" by From Jupiter, but confessed it "wasn't that bad." He's a big fan of textural guitar rock, so while Mr. Explosions In The Sky was trying to play the superiority card, I had to school his bitch ass about MONO. "Okay, you win. But how do you keep track of this stuff? Music was never as bad as it is now."

REALLY? While he doesn't need a glimpse of Tim Karan's iTunes library for a refresher course in the history of Suck (show me someone who likes the new Chris Cornell album and I'll show you someone who needs to enter a support group), he does need to have his brain cells rattled. Every generation will inevitably swan dive into a deep puddle of mung because they think it's valid. How many awful "college rock" acts sprouted up in the '80s simply because REM and U2 were the first ones to take it to the bank? Everybody from sociologists to music fans to rock critics cites Nirvana's Nevermind as a touchstone for cultural change, but there were still millions of dopes who ate up uninspired stuff in its wake. (And let's not forget the blatant cabaret acts, as well.) I also reminded my bro about the time I almost got my ass beaten by a gang of drunken hardcore music snobs from Britain 15 years ago for proclaiming my appreciation of the Boomtown Rats. My bud and I laughed at the memory of remembering how morally superior we felt in high school (compared to the dimbulbs rockin' the Eagles and Journey), only to realize how lame we would've been if we lived in the U.K., simply because the Rats had chart hits there--the very thing we railed against here.

So relax, Generation Warped. Your scene does not suck, despite what rock critics, most people over 30 and the dullard incontinent pygmies who post on message boards have to say. (Expect a blog entry on that little group in the near future.) Be advised: Seven years from now, I promise you will cringe at some of the stuff currently nestling in your hard drive. (You and I both know you'll have wiped that stuff off 17 times over or replaced your 'puter five times by then, anyway.) Or maybe you'll actually hang onto some of it. Who knows? Perhaps five years from now, you and I will sit down over some salted caramel hot chocolates and discuss who has more merit: Cute Is What We Aim For or.... Jane Child.