Torture Diary

September 9, 2014

It is week 9 of the current school term. One week to go. The sun is shining, it’s a nice day out, and there is nothing especially wrong in my little corner of the world.  Just my usual litany of envy, first-world complaints, and generic disgruntlement.

With that in mind, I’ve decided that today I will torture my students, one by one, by making them learn beats and then playing along to the worst recorded examples of them. First up…

Period 1: Too-Much-Basketball Kid

Despite the fact that he spends too much time on the basketball court and doesn’t really practice all that much, I rather like this student.  A nice kid with good manners who usually pays his tuition fees on time is A-OK in my books.  He’s got a decent enough dose of musical ability to kinda be OK at anything he tries his hand at, so overall we have enjoyable lessons.  But I can’t let my emotions get in the way of my objective. I give him a two-fer, starting off with “Word Up”, by Cameo.

That’s 4:39 of pain.

Just to make sure he never forgets who is in charge, I make him play “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. I have never heard this song in its entirety nor seen the music clip, but sometimes we all have to make sacrifices to inflict a little pain.

Neither his feet nor his hands can keep up, but I make him keep trying and failing just for the sake of it.

Period 2: Cool Afro Kid

We usually work on snare drum technique or mallets or something else that will sound like nonsense to your ears, but since most of our equipment is currently being used at another school we were forced to work on congas today. Other than “Oye Como Va”, there wasn’t anything especially tortuous about this lesson.  I let my guard down. Am I getting soft?

Here’s a clip of of the late, great Tito Puente acting like a total goofball in his later years. Of course, he was making gazillions of dollars at this point of his career, so I’d probably be smiling like that too. Bless him.

We finished our lesson by checking out the insane solos on “Ti Mon Bo”. The bongo solo is my favourite (that’s the first one), but the conga solo (second), and Tito’s beautiful phrasing in the final solo are all something special.

I need to recalibrate and find my focus, but there’s no time before….

Period 3: Sucky-Know-It-All-In-Year-7 Kid

Like most know-it-alls, this kid know doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, which means that he’s playing random definitely not-in-time shit while a metronome blasts away to seemingly no avail. I spend today’s lesson banging out the correct rhythms on a cowbell while he keeps shaking his head and acting like he doesn’t know how to FUCKING. COUNT. TO. 4.

Pure torture. For me. This is all going downhill. I take some consolation in knowing that he’s not enjoying himself and is just starting to realize how much he really doesn’t know.  Convinced I see the beginnings of tears welling in his eyes before the bell goes, I give myself a bonus point.

RECESS: I go to the teacher’s lounge and just hate everyone for no good reason.  They are all very nice. I get a cup of tea. I scurry back to my room. Here’s “Teenager Of The Year” by Lo-Tel, also for no good reason.

Period 4: The Metal Kid

Alright, I know I’ve got to turn this ship around, but he comes out firing and catches me off guard with “The Beast and the Harlot” by Avenge Sevenfold.

At no point in my life have I ever felt my existence was hollow due to a lack of metal. Do you have any idea what’s it’s like trying to explain a shitty drum transcription of a shitty song to a kid who has shitty reading skills? It sucks, but only gets worse because I’m dumb enough to put on the video so not only do I have to hear this shite I now get visual proof that this goth-pop is made by wankers who should have stopped shopping at Hot topic a long, long time ago.  I double-down by listening to the lyrics and that’s when I really start to lose it.  Right before the bell goes I cue up this tasty 4-on-the-floor number, but he is out the door before he feels anything.

I’m getting discouraged but enjoy the song anyway.

Period 5: Why-Are-You-Asking-Me-Questions-I-Can’t-Possibly-Know-The-Answer-To Kid

I got my beating stick ready, just in case….

photo

But alas, it was not to be. We instead worked on drum line exercises, which although a noble cause left me feeling defeated, alone, & confused. What is happening to me?

Here’s “You Don’t Know How It Feels” by Tom Petty.  I use this one for the really hopeless kids.  It’s slow, it’s repetitive, it grooves, and I don’t want to blow my brains out. Kind of missing my objective, but what can I do by this point?

LUNCH: I eat an apple and make another cup of tea.  Hiding in my room.

Period 6: Really-Nice-Young-Man-Who-I’ve-Perhaps-Overestimated-His-Musical-Abilities Kid

Doesn’t show up. He’s gone for the day. The final opportunity to make one last stand and redeem my day  has evaporated in the afternoon sun. I tried. I failed. It happens.

Here’s “Teenage FBI by Guided By Voices, because this is about as much of the teenage years as I can handle right now.

Holler back if it’s been a while. It gets lonely out here.

-M

 

So you have to get a press shot…

July 21, 2014

Well, we have good news and we have bad news:

If you are in a band, at some point you will have to have a press photo, whether you like it or not.  The good news is that it will all be over soon. [Maybe]. The bad news is that it still sucks and you’ll feel rather dirty & ashamed for a while. So…yeah. Take as long as you need to get comfortable with that.

Depending on your particular band, your style, your philosophy, your audience, and whatever other aesthetic guidelines you have placed on yourself (or have allowed to be placed on you), this may or may not be the start of a long & tumultuous personal debate that often spills over into using actual words to talk to other people about this very personal yet collective aspect of bandom. Essentially: how much am I willing to feel and act like a total knob in order to not look like one?

There are exceptions to this.  In fact, there are heaps of them. For starters, if you play a genre of music that is not afraid to take itself seriously, then congratulations: you can win this game without fretting over your vanity, your ethics, your principles, or any other inane aspect of your precious & fragile artistic ego. Metal bands? Ace! You win hands down.  You’re SUPPOSED to wear black and look straight into the camera with a scowl. Pop Princess? Winner-winner-chicken-dinner! Spending 2 1/2 hours in makeup and prancing around on a set making fish lips is exactly what you’ve been training your whole life for. Happy-go-lucky-acoustic-storyteller? Go on, wear those floral suspenders and have 3 puppies in your lap! Crack a smile! You’ve earned it!

In a band such as Royal Chant, getting a picture taken has, so far, ranked as one of the most impossible and unpleasant experiences we’ve yet had to face. Essentially, if we’re one of those “ego-less” bands (HA!), then how does one go about getting a photo taken, much less contemplating or talking about the idea?  It’s sort of supposed to be anathema to our very existence, but that still doesn’t change the fact that YOU STILL HAVE TO GET IT DONE.

So….we mostly just have shit photos. Seriously. And the best/worst part is: the shittiest ones seem to circulate the longest. If you don’t bother updating and sending out regular new photos with every press release, then the press/the media/some blogger is just going to google your band and find the first one that comes up, which, as luck would have it, happens to make you look like a bloody hayseed wearing ill-chosen, ill-fitting t-shirts.

Want to know what our conversation turns to when we’re in the van or hanging at the airport?

No? Well too bad, I’m going to tell you anyways.

On more than occasion we have wished that we were a heavy rock act or metal band, coz at least then any questions about fashion, countenance, and attitude would be immediately solved by the very nature of the genre, but noooooo….we have to try and become artistically “transparent”, which I guess means trying to look at the camera without looking at it, or maybe we’re supposed to look away without looking like we’re trying to pose for a Daniel Steele cover, or maybe WE DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL WE’RE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH OUR HANDS.  It fucking sucks.

I think deep down, we just want to look OK. Asking to look cool is way, way, way out of our league. What you really need is someone who can look at you, understand you, and then tell you to do exactly what is needed in order to best visually represent yourself and your music to the wider world.  So yeah, that means taking yourself seriously and acting consciously for at least a little while, but at least you have someone holding your hand through and essentially whispering, “It’s OK, this will all be over soon.” If you ever have that opportunity: take it.

Artists are often as guilty of undervaluing or underestimating other art forms just as much as the general public.  Lord knows I’ve been guilty of being visually ignorant, just as much as I’ve seen visual artists be completely clueless as to what is involved with writing or recording music.  It’s cool, it happens, but where musicians get into trouble is when we think that getting a decent press shot is just going to happen to happen by accident.  The word “just” should be banished from that conversation, because if you want a good press photo you actually have to dedicate yourself to that very purpose, which means you have to….[gulp]…care.  About what you look like. About how you will be perceived. Just. Bloody. Care.

Is it any wonder we’re stuck with normally shyte photos? At the very beginning of Royal Chant, we paid a photographer friend $60 and actually lucked out with some decent ones, but ever since then we’ve pretty consistently hit the toilet bowl when it comes to photos.  Bad lighting is often the culprit, but on a few occasions there’s been so much tension in the air that the photographer was afraid to say anything. Sometimes we get really really really close, but we either need just a little direction, (coz we’re not photogenic in any way), or else we quit right as we were getting into the groove.  We are our own worst enemy.

We did mange to wind up with a decent crop earlier this year when it was still just James & I all by our lonesome, thanks to the kind & patient hand of Kate Farquharson….

RC 1  RC 2  RC 3  RC 4

 

It wasn’t until we were faced with the prospect of taking new photos that I really began to appreciate the photos she took (or maybe I was just too smitten with the Designer Mutts photos she snapped in the same session)….

 

DM 1 DM 2 DM 3 DM 4 DM 5 DM 6

[As an aside: those Designer Mutts photos were easy as guts, because it's a joke, and joking around in costumes is easy. Maybe we should just wear them all the time and be done with it.]

In any case, last week we had to get a new photo done, because now we have Ryan in the band and people get confused when the band photo doesn’t match what they see on stage.  So once again….we were in the same situation as we always were.  Three guys, awkwardly standing in front of a camera, with things unraveling fast.  Now this is what we have to live with until we start all over again.

RC 2014

It’ll do.

In case you haven’t heard, our new album is out now, so if you’re feeling like a modern consumer you can head over to iTunes and pick up a copy.  Technically it is a double EP consisting of Small Town Bruises / A Day At The Wauchope Races, but in this digital age the concept of a double EP is hard to convey so they wound up being separate beings.

You can also head over to our bandcamp site and get it that way, like all the young kids these days. Pay what you like, or else you can put in an order for a hardcopy which we will then lovingly send your way courtesy of Australia Post.

It’s starting to get a bit of airplay around Australia, so if you’re ambitious & drunk you can always ring up any random radio station and yell your request into the phone.  Then, after they say “Wait….what?!?!?”, you can politely explain that you’d like to hear our latest.  A few reviews are coming in as well, one good, one shit, plus I sat down with Mess + Noise for a fun interview where I was clearly out of my depth but did my best to fake my way through it.  You know, all the usual jazz….

That’s all from here. Holler back and let us know what’s going on in your world.

xoxo

God Save The Queen

June 9, 2014

Happy Birthday old girl.

Royal Chant
Small Town Bruises/A Day At The Wauchope Races double EP
July 7, 2104
courtesy of Dirty Mab Records

tour dates and other banal minutiae on their way….prepare for lift-off

See you soon xoxo

sincerely,

Your Loyal Subjects

Fishing + Goverment

June 1, 2014
THE FOLLOWING RULES APPLY TO ALL PAYING CUSTOMERS OF ROCK N’ REEL INC
0430 – WAKEUP
O500 – DEPART SANDY OATS/THE “ANIMAL HOUSE”
0530 – LAUNCH BOAT
0530 – 0600 -NET BAIT
0600 – 1800 – FISHING
1800 – 1802 – CLEAN FISH
1802 -1900 –  CLEAN BOAT
1930 – RETURN TO SANDY OATS/”ANIMAL HOUSE”
1930 – ? LIE ABOUT DAY OF FISHING
 
ALL FISHERMEN WILL BAIT THEIR OWN HOOK, TAKE OFF THEIR OWN FISH AND UNTANGLE THEIR OWN LINE.
ALL FISHERMEN ARE ALLOWED TO DRINK CHEAP LITE BEER.  NO WINE IS ALLOWED, ESPECIALLY BOX WINE.  THE CAPTAIN HAS AN IMAGE TO UPHOLD.
DUE TO RECENTLY ENACTED OBAMA MANDATED EPA REGULATIONS FARTING IS ALLOWED ONLY UNDER THESE CONDITIONS:  PERSON WHO WISHES TO FART MUST BE DOWNWIND OF ALL OTHER ANGLERS.  THE WIND VELOCITY MUST EQUAL OR EXCEED 2 METERS PER SECOND SO AS TO DISSIPATE ANY TOXIC FUMES THAT MIGHT PRESENT A HEALTH HAZARD TO OTHER ANGLERS.
PEEING IS ALLOWED UNDER THESE EPA GUIDELINES:
PERSON MUST BE AT LEAST 25 METERS FROM ANY OTHER PERSON OR VESSEL AND ONLY ON AN OUTGOING TIDE.  TIDE MUST BE MOVING AT LEAST 2 METERS PER SECOND TO DISSIPATE TOXIC AND OR CORROSIVE CHEMICALS WHICH MIGHT CAUSE HARM TO HUMAN SKIN OR VESSEL SURFACES.
DUE TO PRESSURE FROM PETA, CONGRESS HAS MANDATED THAT ALL ANGLERS BE CERTIFIED TO USE A GOVERNMENT APPROVED DE-HOOKING TOOL.  10 HOUR COURSE COSTS $150.  PRESENT CERTIFICATE OF COMPLETION PRIOR TO LAUNCH.
 
+++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Hey Dad,

you forgot to mention all the new laws passed by John Boehner and his House Of Merry Men.

1) All gay fish will be separated at hook and forced into predetermined sex re-education camps.  BOTTOM LINE: No Gay Fish.

2) All veteran fish from previous catches will be ignored.

3) All fish suspected of using marijuana for pain relief will be locked up in federal prison.

4) No gay fish, just in case you missed it the first time.

5) All fish will be blessed by Dear Lord Little Baby Jesus before being ritually slaughtered.

6) All fish OVER the limit will be let go with a free parcel of fish food, while all fish UNDER the limit will be forced to work 72 hours at minimum wage before being killed.

7) All fish owned by Karl Rove and/or the Koch Brothers will be given an apology and sent on their way without question*

*assume all fish are owned by Karl Rove and/or the Koch Brothers.

8) Spanish Mackerel MUST produce state/federal issue ID before being let into boat.

9) Fishing line may NOT be made of hemp.

10) NO GAY FISH!!!!

There you go, that should cover it all xoxo :)

Surf’s up!

Mark

Jesus

March 14, 2014

This is not a course on nor discussion of theology, but merely a reaction to another senseless murder in the U S of A. You can head over to Huffington Post to read what they’ve got on the situation so far, but the gist of it is that teenagers were being teenagers and a young man is now dead.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but when I was 15, 16, 17….um….keep going….my mind was preoccupied with sex, music, books, sex, money, sex, music, sex music, and sex, which means that this 17-year old kid did what nearly any other 17-year old would have done when invited over by a 16 year-old girl. Follow the trouser snake. Go. Hunt. Play. Frolic. We might be emotional infants during those lustful years but our bodies are about as ripe as they will ever be and primed for their purpose. This is normal shit. A kid being clandestinely invited into a girl’s bedroom is pretty much as stock-standard as it gets. It’s what being young is all about.

I have neither the time nor the patience (nor the verbiage), to get into the topic of guns and their sick stranglehold on America, but what has left me more emotionally unsettled than any other aspect of this entire bloody situation is her act of denial.  Of course I’m offended by the general sense of betrayal, even though there is a small part of me that can understand that, to a 16-year old girl in Texas, it makes more sense to lie to one’s own father (who happens to be holding a gun), rather than admit to having sex (or even being interested in sexual contact) with this young man who just happens to be standing in her bedroom.

[I gotta be honest though, if you have a 16-year old daughter and find a young man in her bedroom, is it really that far from your mind that she's probably getting it on.  Oh, right....he's an intruder. That makes much more sense.]

I’m no biblical scholar, but even I have picked Ye Olde Gideon’s Bible from time to time, and made my way through enough of it to recall:

-Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken: “Before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly-

The act of betrayal is a brutal, bitter thing to behold, and while most of our transgressions pass without consequence (except our late night drinking remorse and other acts of haphazardry), it is betrayal nonetheless.  Perhaps what is most egregious is the face-to-face, do-or-die nature of the confrontation.  Most of the time we are allowed to skulk away in silence. Sometimes, not so much. In this latest situation, there are only losers, and that is a sad, sad thing.

Jesus, help me find my proper place…

Three for me

March 4, 2014

Lately I find myself applauding and searching for competence. What sounds like resignation and a lowering of standards is in fact the exact opposite–I am in awe of someone who is getting it right without any fuss, every time, without fail, because it is so bloody rare. This might seem like an ode to journeymen the world over (and maybe it is that as well), but the older I get the more often I declare “Talent ain’t worth shit”.  The world is flooded with talented people (I find it hard to not put the word in quotation marks) , but it is work that makes the artist.  I might concede that one carries the germ of artistry during the long years of artisan apprenticeship [aka: getting the shit knocked out of you and growing a thick skin], but behind the awe & beauty of a masterpiece lies years and years of work, thought, revision, deliberation, and conscious effort to achieve or approach an artistic ideal.

I didn’t know Philip Seymour Hoffman, but his death affected me about as much as an artist can, which is to say it was a mild shock to the system but a damn sight more frustrating than that.  “Sad”, “Untimely”, “Tragic”–that goes without saying, as vapid as those words can seem at times, but now that a bit of the shock has settled and the initial outpouring of grief has passed I wanted to make my own small sad circle of flowers and remember him for the craftsman and artist he was.  The world lost a great actor, and I don’t use either term lightly.  I don’t know shit about acting, but I think I know enough to realize that he was an actor whom his peers thought highly of.  That means something in my book. I don’t go to the doctor and tell him what I think, and I don’t think art in any form should be exempt from the same standards. Know your instrument, know your craft, work harder, fail better, do it again.

With that in mind I wanted to share three of his performances that remain my favourites and are the images I will most likely see whenever someone mentions his name.

This one always hits me hard. Like, personally hard. I won’t tell you which character I relate to most in that sad relationship, but damn if my heart don’t break when Scotty collapses in the car and beats himself up.  Unrequited love is brutal.

I’ve been shocked that in all of the press surrounding his death I’ve yet to see a single mention of Love Liza, which is even more surprising given the circumstances of his death. The movie is one long awkward unraveling in suburbia, filled with the banal minutiae of human existence that continue even as the world collapses around you. Tragedy strikes, but the phone bill is still due.

The last is not a clip, but a personal anecdote, which I will try and keep as brief as possible.  In my former life [read: before I arrived in Australia], I always seemed to be surrounded by people involved with film & theatre. When Hoffman and John C. Reilly performed Sam Shepard’s True West in 2000, they alternated roles every night, resulting in a long run of sold-out shows along with both critical & popular acclaim. The awe and respect amongst the theatre world was unlike anything that I had ever heard before or since, and as I sat and listened to their excited chatter (saying nothing except to ask a question, coz what the #$@! do I now about acting?) it made me glad to know that even though I couldn’t truly appreciate the breadth & depth of their achievement they were at least being recognized by those that could.

That’s what I’ll remember, and what inspires me in my own endeavors as I play supporting roles on the big stages and my leading roles on the fringe. Thank you, Phillip Seymour Hoffman.  For everything.

Video(s): Royal Chant + Twin Beasts + Cull + aheadphonehome + East Brunswick All Girls Choir + Waza

February 24, 2014

Originally posted on SoundlySounds:

‘Straya’s got some great bands, who make some great music videos. Check ‘em out, or I’ll do nothing, because this is the Internet, and no-one’s listening to my rants. But I’d recommend checking them out, because your life will be better from it.

Royal Chant-Shake, Shake

Deadset, Royal Chant are the shit. They’ve got the pop tendencies of Bluejuice, with the underground credibility of Guided By Voices, and the ability to harrow into my brain like early Metallica. If you’re any sort of fan of Australian slacker/guitar music, like Dollar Bar, The Stevens, or The Cannanes, then get behind Royal Chant.

And if you’re still in some freakish mindset that declines my way-ward descriptions, then look at the video. Sorry, masterpiece. The thing is like a kindergartener took acid at finger-painting, and then went to the beach. It’s fucking crazy to look at, and even crazier to listen to.

Twin…

View original 554 more words

Happy Valentine’s Day, 2014

February 20, 2014

[Of course I forgot to post this in time...]

There’s been a lot I have wanted to write about recently, which of course means that I’m going to write about myself instead. That’s the way it goes sometimes. Laziness is not becoming nor conducive to being a writer, great or small.

Anyways, it has just struck Valentine’s here in Australia and that seems like the perfect time to release something new from the Royal Chant catalog, just to prove to the world that it’s not all about hearts & cupids & sappy poetry.  It’s about garage bands &  tour vans & sappy poetry.

So here is “Shake, Shake”, our new single, complete with our own DIY film clip.

Of course it’s free.  We know everyone is broke these days, so it’s all good.  We’re all just trucking along and thankful for the moments of happiness that we experience, which are actually far more abundant than we’ve led ourselves to believe.  That doesn’t mean that we should be pushovers, and yeah, the world is still seriously screwed up in a lot of ways, but we can sing & shake and forget, and what seems like nonsense is really just an inability to explain.

Image

Housewarming

January 2, 2014
  • Dear Jess & Mitch,

    Hello hello! I Hope you are both deep in the powder and having lots of fun on the slopes. Thanks again for letting us stay here! Your place is awesome.

    I thought I should warn you, before you get home, of the following changes to your lovely abode.

    I felt morally obliged to liberate the duck fat you use for cooking. It is now free range duck fat. Also, somehow all your beers and ciders were gone before we got here. Don’t ask me how I know you had some in the fridge, nicely lined up and in alphabetical order, just trust me, they’re gone and it wasn’t me.

    Despite being here for less than 12 hours and there being -1 ft of swell, a few of your surfboards have met with some sort of….fate. I’ve done a pretty decent patch job on most of them though, so I’m confident you’ll hardly notice anything amiss. Maybe don’t count the exact number when you get home though. I had a spot of trouble with recovery and I may or may not have been involved with a nautical tactic known as “scuttling the ship.” I do think I showed exemplary bravery in the course of action, doubly so since I was drunk. I mean really, really drunk.

    I hope you don’t mind, but we also brought Elliot up with us. Lozjust couldn’t bear to leave him behind. He leaped right out of the car and tried to make friends with the local protected wildlife immediately. With his teeth.

    Mitch, your kitchen is an absolute delight, a true cook’s dream! The omelettes I made this morning were a breeze. Actually, what I mean to say is that there was a breeze coming through the window and it sent the flames a little haywire. You do have fire & contents insurance, right?

    Other than that all is well here. We’ll leave the place spic & span, good as new. We’re also changing our phone numbers and will give them to you in a few years when the statute of limitations runs out.

    Thanks again!

    Mark & Lozza

    ps–I’ve moved one thing in your meticulously organized cupboard. One. Thing.

Misremembering

December 31, 2013

So in my dull wit I made a joke a few weeks ago on some other social media site(s) about having the misfortune of hearing “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” twice in one year.  It was a fairly innocuous comment, but buried in a sliver of personal truth, because I really, really, really hate that song. Really.

There’s nothing especially egregious about it, I mean it’s not like its horribly constructed or celebrates the glory of pedophilia or urges kids to assault baby seals after illegally parking in handicapped spaces, it’s just that it is/was a piece of mainstream alterna-pop pablum that was my personal whipping boy for everything wrong with middle-class, white bread America.  In my mind, it was for people that watched the sitcom Friends. I hate Friends. Shit, maybe I hate non-italicized friends too. 

Rather than delve into my personal past, which is kind of insignificant and pretty predictable (AKA: I hated everything but Bob Dylan and Lou Reed from the years 1994-1999), I wanted to comment on the fact that people have shyte memories.  Let’s face it, many of us are natural-born complainers, and that includes wailing away on the travesty of radio programming.  It doesn’t matter what’s on, we wish it were something else.  There are some exceptions to this, of course, like people who legitimately like everything they hear, in which case we can also become natural-born murderers, but among my peers I have noticed that many who grew up among the “alternative revolution” have been having a hard time of things lately. They are now surrounded by loads of new EDM, hip-hop, gnu-folk, and countless other bands and genres that have started taking up serious air-time in addition to the typical mainstream pop that has been the traditional nemesis. In essence: they’re feeling very scared and lonely, and SOMEBODY NEEDS TO PAY, DAMMIT!

Of course, in conjunction with being natural-born complainers, we also have amazing gifts for epic nostalgia, with some seriously thick rose-coloured glasses, which results in severe cases of misremembering. When caught in a 45-minute snooze fest of James Blake, Mumford & Sons, obscure blog rock, DJ Unpronounceable, and the latest withering sounds from yet another bedroom producer straight from the Czech underground, it’s easy to say, “This sucks! Back in the 90s….blah blah blah Nirvana blah blah Smashing Pumpkins blah blah Alice In Chains blah blah blah bitch moan curse weep [off]“. And then we sit in silence for the rest of the awkward car ride home.

But here’s the thing: Nirvana wasn’t on the dial 24/7.  As soon as it came out, it was surrounded by a swarm of grunge-lite acts that seemed to get just as much, if not more, air-time as the few heroes & saviors who we remember fondly and without malice.  For every Nirvana, there were 10 Deep Blue Somethings.  Remember American Hi-Fi? No? Good for you, because I hated them from first listen so passionately it has wrapped itself around the double helix of my DNA and will probably haunt me to my grave.

And this says nothing of those many, many bad songs we secretly liked, or the “great” bands we secretly loathed.  Alice In Chains? Yeah, not a fan. Same goes for Soundgarden. Call me crazy, call me any name in the book, I do not care in the least.  We all have our lines, as insane and illogical as they might be. 

So of course last night, as I’m watching the tennis here on the couch here in Australia (shut up, it only happens for 4 weeks of the year), lazily strumming my guitar and jotting a few lines down, I get the following text from one of my students (a lovely young man with heaps of enthusiasm for the instrument)

Image

Of course I had to laugh.  Yes, I will teach him the song, and maybe, just maybe, because we will be listening to it countless times over for 30+ minutes I will learn to hate it a little less.

But it’s not looking likely.

Since I have to suffer, I thought you might as well too.  Below are 4 music videos.  I loathe 2 of them, I adore 1 of them, while the other is a secret like that makes me hate myself for liking it.  I will let you figure out which is which. 

Anyone else notice they all have the same blonde/dishwater pretty boy for a lead singer, cheekbones from here until Siberia?

That’s enough bitching & moaning from me for one day. Have a very happy New Year! Holler back if it’s been a while? I do love hearing from you, wherever you are in the world. More music to come in 2014, but for now, stay safe and hang on to the ones you love.

-M

 


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