SIDEHIKE.NET

My friend Brad drove up from Houston on Friday and while the rest of you suckers were watching the debate, the two of us went to see the Black Keys. They played at the Granada Theater, and it was freaking PACKED. Not quite Robert Randolph at Trees packed, but still possibly beyond fire code. The people on the floor were squeezed in tight. Brad and I stood at the back of the balcony under the ginormous fans, and we were happy. (And could see.)

The opening act, Jessica Mayfield, was a horrible match for this show. Maybe if I were in a different mood I would have enjoyed it, but she was like an Emo Emmy Lou Harris and Gramm Parsons minus Gramm Parsons and plus a gram of heroin. It was twangy slow ethereal music and it made me want to just lie down in the back and take a nap until Dan and Pat hit the stage or until I died, whichever came first.

Thank goodness they eventually did hit the stage. The Keys were EXCELLENT. It was probably their 2nd best show since ACL a couple years ago when my friend Sophie (thankfully) made us camp out in front of the stage. They sounded fantastic (good sound man, for sure) and they played almost the entire Rubber Factory and Thickfreakness albums. It was so, so, so damn good.

The only bummer of the whole thing was that I was pretty sore, and standing that long kinda hurt, so I would occasionally squat down or lean on the railing in front of me and watch more over my shoulder than straight ahead.

But wait…

Why was I sore you ask? Did I leave out an essential part of the story?

Yes. Yes I did.

Friday afternoon I cleaned up the guest room where Brad was going to sleep. I’ve got a queen sized bed in there on which I had been piling all sorts of stuff the last couple of weeks, because it was a convenient place to pile things that was out of the way. I’m sure you all have similarly convenient piling places and can sympathize. Anyway, I got the bed cleaned off, and put on fresh sheets.

Then I called Brad to see how close he was so I could determine if I had enough time to take a shower before he got here or if I was gonna have to put a “come on in” note on the door.

He was in Hillsboro, so I had like 45-60-minutes before he showed. COOL. So I figured, hey, I’ve got a little extra time, I’ll use this opportunity to put a couple of mousetraps up in the attic. (I don’t think I have mice in my attic, but I just wanted to be extra sure. I’ve heard scratching up above my bed a couple mornings in a row, but I think it’s actually a squirrel in the rain gutter … But just to be sure…) SO ANYWAY, I get my couple of traps and a flashlight and I climb up in the attic and very cautiously begin tiptoeing my way from beam to beam towards my bedroom in the back corner of the house.

Then, I bumped my head on a roof joist and lost my balance. My right foot slipped off the beam and onto the sheetrock.

The world.
                 went.
                                  into.
                                                                    slow.
                                                                                                      motion.

It was like in the old Road Runner cartoons when Wile E. Coyote runs out across the canyon and there’s a delay of a couple of seconds before he looks down and THEN falls.

In this like 5 seconds (which was in reality like .005 seconds) my brain calculated that this sheetrock could not support my weight. It also then calculated that I was essentially screwed anyway, because there was no way I’d be able to LIFT that foot without “pushing off” to lift it.

So the ceiling DID in fact give way, and in a grand and dramatic fashion my right leg led the rest of the right half of my body in a mad dash for the floor 10 feet below.

Unfortunately, the right half of my body was (and still is) attached to the LEFT half of my body. And the left half of my body was trying to compensate for the sudden balance shift that had just occurred and my left leg slipped to the LEFT side of the beam I had been (partially) standing on. The left leg immediately punched through the sheetrock and essentially decided that this must be a race for the floor.

The middle half (yes, I wouldn’t have thought I had three halves before this moment either) sadly did not get the memo. It decided it was not having anything to do with this race and SUDDENLY STOPPED on the beam on which I had been standing.

The Three Stooges made crotch injuries seem so glamorously funny.

I probably hung there for five minutes wondering if I was going to die from internal bleeding and this was how my body would be found.

Once the blinding pain subsided to a mere severely throbbing death wish and my vision began to return, I pulled myself up, looked down into the gaping maw which had tried to swallow me, and screamed what very well may have been the loudest obscenities in the history of mankind. It’s quite possible you heard them.

I climbed back down out of the attic, still cussing like a sailor (who also happened to have searing pain in his crotchular area) and slammed every damned ladder and door in my path. I walked into the house to survey the damage.

This is what I saw:

Yes. That’s the newly cleaned guest bed.

Yes, the one with the freshly washed and changed sheets.

Yes, that’s about 50 gallons of fiberglass insulation.

Yes, Brad laughed non-stop for about 15 minutes when he got here.

So.

The good news is, my testicles are fine.

But before Friday if I had heard anyone utter the phrase “Bruised Taint” I would have assumed it was the name of a crappy punk band.

Enjoy this fantastic cover of one of the greatest guitar songs ever recorded.

One of my top 5 favorite movies of all time is The Big Lebowski.

I’m sure that my loyal readers, both of you, are shocked to hear this.

I absolutely love the scene which generates the following dialogue, resulting in the dude indeed getting kicked out of the cab he had hired:

The Dude: Jesus, man, could you change the channel?
Cab Driver: Fuck you man. If you don’t like my fuckin’ music get your own fuckin’ cab!
The Dude: I had a rough…
Cab Driver: I pull over and kick your ass out!
The Dude: Come on, man. I had a rough night and I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man!

Personally, I love the Eagles. But I can totally relate to the way The Dude is feeling here.

You see, deep within every music lover resides a deep hatred for one or two acts that everyone else might seem to believe are the quintessential examples of rock and roll perfection. Usually you tolerate them on the radio, or in social settings. You may even know all the words to their songs, after all, as well-loved as they are you may have heard them with enough frequency to commit them to memory.

Then, one day, when you’ve had a particularly rough go of things, you’ll find yourself in a mood where you’re just NOT GOING TO PUT UP WITH IT TODAY.

Today Merlin Mann posted something on Twitter that unleashed my inner Dudeness.

This.

Seriously. Click through on that link. I promise it’s not a Rickroll. I’ll be here when you get back.

…

OK, did we all make it back? Good.

SWEET JUMPING JEHOSEPHUCK, WHO THE HELL GETS A BOB FUCKING SEGER TATTOO?!?!

Did they know this was Bob Seger and not Bob Saget?

Bob Seger
Bob Seger is at the top of my list of “get kicked out of the cab” artists. I’m not sure exactly what it is about his music that particularly irritates me. It’s OK. I just don’t find it particularly good. And maybe that’s it — that he has squandered his fame with dizzying volumes of mediocrity.

(I’ve always found that song title to be a bit ironic, since you could probably name any song on any of his albums “Still the Same” … every one of them feels like it’s the same as the one before to me.)

I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think that not liking Bob Seger probably makes me a communist or something. Just to reassure those people, let me state for the record that I prefer Coke over Pepsi (and will take RC if you’ve got it), I pull for Dale Earnhardt Jr., and I drive a bigass American pick’em up truck.

Are we cool? Good.

So who else is on my list? Who else might you be wise to avoid putting on the iPod if I’m carpooling with you? I’ll give you two:

1 - Eddie Money
To be perfectly honest, I find Eddie Money more objectionable than Bob Seger. He may be the nicest guy in the music business for all I know, but I just find every song I’ve ever heard of his to be absolutely dreadful. I think it’s no coincidence that “Two Tickets to Paradise” is the theme song for the most retarded show in the reality TV genre: Paradise Hotel.

2 - Jackson Browne
I know I’m supposed to like Jackson Browne. I just don’t. And he’s a good songwriter. I can objectively admit this. In fact, I love “Take It Easy,” which he co-wrote with Glenn Frey for The Eagles. And I understand he had a hand in making America’s “Sister Golden Hair,” which is a total hit with me as well. Both of those songs get very high marks from me.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about Jackson Browne that seems to irritate me personally. It’s like he’s that guy everybody knew in high school who was overly friendly with everybody. So much so that it was kinda creepy. Then you find out at your high school reunion that the guy grew up to be an anesthesiologist and lost his license for taking pictures of his patients’ naughty parts after he’d knocked them out. I dunno. There’s just this vibe about him that weirds me out.

A couple of friends have forwarded me this video (which I’m sure will be taken down from YouTube by the IP police shortly) of Prince covering Radiohead’s “Creep” at Coachella. It’s been making the rounds on the internets this evening with comments like “EPIC!” and “OMFGTHISISTHEBESTCOVEREVERNOSERIOUSLYEVER!”

I respectfully disagree. It has some fantastic elements, no doubt. (I do absolutely love the guitar solo.) But the rest of it kinda makes me want to shove a screwdriver in my ears.

1. Jesus Christ, GET TO THE POINT Mr. Nelson! This song should not be seven minutes long. And this is coming from a guy who just saw RUSH and loved it, for chrissake. The arc of the original song truly WAS epic. This stretches it to the point it feels belabored.
2. I love Prince. I love Creep. But this is not a case of “two great tastes that taste great together.” This is like combining filet mignon and vanilla ice cream. They’re both wonderful things, but are not meant to be eaten together. (Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be kosher, anyway.) The ice cream will melt, and then you’re just left with sticky meat.
3. This song was not meant to be sung sans the F-word. Seriously. It ruins one of the most poetic uses of the word in modern pop music. (On a similar note I liked Prince better back when he was a little - or a lot - naughty. The mischief is gone, and with it, some of the magic.)
4. The original song has some of the best dynamics in modern pop music. This doesn’t crescendo in nearly the same way. The way the original builds up, the chorus hits you like a ten pound sledgehammer to the chest. But then it lets you down softly and you “float like a feather” back to the ground. Prince’s version seems almost binary in comparison.

I dunno. Maybe I’m being overly critical or a little harsh. Maybe it will grow on me. (I’ll listen to it again for the guitar work.) But this just rubs me the wrong way.

And now may all of my friends who believe that neither Prince nor Radiohead are capable of doing any wrong let loose with all of the “You just don’t get it! This is absolutely brilliant!” comments.

Like I said, I love them both, but this just ain’t right.

UPDATE: Found another video of the performance (Which is also sure to disappear from the interwebs.)

Last night my buddy Scott and I saw Rush at the Superstarnoff Musicplex Center.

Good gracious, what a ridiculously awesome show.

In the last year or so I’ve been catching up on a lot of the “classics,” and this show was BY FAR the best of the bunch. The Police was fairly disappointing, The Who was great (though obviously past their prime and missing half the band), but Rush was absolutely FANTASTIC.

The band has certainly aged, and cracked jokes about needing an intermission because they’re “not spring chickens anymore” but musically they haven’t lost a beat. In fact, I’d venture to say that if anything they’ve only gotten better. Geddy Lee still belongs on the cover of Bass Player magazine and hops all over the stage. Alex Lifeson makes me drool both over his immense talent and his immense collection of gear. Neil Peart could still make Thor blush with the thunder that he brings forth. (Though I’m sure Mr. Weir still disagrees.)

And as for the spectacle of the thing … sweet jeebus, do these guys know how to put on a show. Pyrotechnics, frickin’ laser beams, the McKenzie brothers from Strange Brew, a badass song intro courtesy of Southpark…

Such a damn good show. Everyone should experience this, at least once in their lives.

A couple of observations on the crowd:

1 - The nerdiest crowd of any “mainstream” act you’ll see
Well, what else would you expect from a band whose lyrics are often inspired by science fiction and Ayn Rand novels? If you were in any nerdier of an audience you’d probably be wearing a costume of some sort or dodging flying boxes of Kraft Cheese and Macaroni. There were several cars in the parking lot with bumper stickers like “My Other Car is a Tardis” and “Marching Bands Do It With Rhythm.”

2 - Superstarnoff Musicplex Center sells a lot of hot dogs to this crowd
That’s not because these are particularly the kind of people who like concession stand food, but because for being such a nerdy crowd, this is the closest thing many of them will get to an Allman Brothers or Grateful Dead show. Though it doesn’t seem to be nearly as common at concerts much any more, there was a thick haze over portions of the crowd that couldn’t be attributed to the fog machine. And you know, after a while, man, those nachos just start to look sooooo good.

3 - It was an overwhelmingly male crowd
There tends to be something about Rush that just draws Y-chromosomes and repels estrogen. As far back as I can remember, I’ve really only known one girl who liked Rush, and a lot of people pretty much already assumed she was a lesbian. That’s fine. Truth be told, we guys are quite happy to enjoy air drumming along in the audience without being told to cut it out because “we’re making a scene.” Speaking of which…

4 - You will never see more “air drumming” in your life
90% of the dudes in the crowd looked like this:

Yeah, I’m not old enough to remember that either. But anyway, I hear they used to do that. If they ever get the wild hair to try it again, I hope they show this video, because I’m absolutely in love with it. It’s so freaking beautiful.

The Rockbottom Remainders played The Gypsy Tea Room in Dallas tonight.

According to guitar player and Pulitzer winning columnist Dave Barry, “We play music as well as Metallica writes novels.”

The Remainders are a band comprised mostly of writers. The lineup changes from show to show (because they play only once or twice a year) but for this gig it consisted of Dave Barry, Amy Tan, Mitch Albom, Scott Turow, Greg Iles, Ridley Pearson, and a few ringers who fancy themselves as “real” musicians. Tonight they were joined by Dave’s brother Sam, Mitch Albom’s wife, drummer Josh Kelly, saxophonist Erasmo Paulo and Monte Montgomery, who honestly may be the best guitar player I’ve ever seen live. I’ve seen him four or five times now, and every time it has blown me away what he’s capable of pulling out of that guitar.

Anyway, it was a helluva lot of fun, and went to benefit a good cause. Here are a few pictures from the show:

Mitch Albom sings Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right”

Scott Turow singing a Wilson Pickett song or something.

Amy Tan doing “Leader of the Pack” may be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!

I take it back. Amy “Joy Luck Club” Tan in a dominatrix outfit whacking Mitch “The Five People You Meet in Heaven” Albom across the ass with a cat o’ nine tails is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Dave Barry. I think he’s blinded by the light, wrapped up like a deuce, another roller in the night.

Captain Picard has been stealing from Guinan’s wardrobe. And taking saxophone lessons.

Yes, that was a Trek joke, Thankyouverymuch. Actually, that’s Erasmo Paolo.

The band had a ringer, Monte Montgomery, who never fails to astound me every time I see him play.

Expect a sequel: Wednesdays with Elvis.

Scott Turow as Ziggy Stardust.

One of my favorite musicians is a singer/songwriter by the name of Slaid Cleaves. He’s got one of those rare voices that is simultaneously smooth as silk and rough as sandpaper. I stumbled upon his website tonight looking to see when he might be releasing his next album (May 23rd!), and while browsing around the site, I found this short essay he wrote about his relatively unusual name.

Apparently, people frequently ask him if “Slaid” is his real name. I guess I never thought about it. I just assumed it was too damn weird on its own to be made up.

As it turns out, it’s his middle name.

But as a guy who never really went by his given legal name until a couple of crotchety old teachers dictated otherwise, I can relate with his predicament. My first experience with the “is that your real name” conundrum was almost identical to his. He writes:

I’ve heard that question, oh, several hundred times I guess. The first time, the phrase was not in question form: “That’s not your real name; that’s your nickname. Richard is your real name.” This came from Mrs. McLean on the first day of first grade, and it pissed me off. It was my first encounter with fill-in-the-form bureaucracy. (How many times have you been asked for your middle name on a government or company form?) I had been writing S-l-a-i-d on all my drawings and finger paintings for about a year now, and I’d never been called Richard a day in my life. I didn’t know how to spell Richard, and I didn’t want to know. I knew what a nickname was, and I knew that Slaid was my real name.

If you just replace Mrs. McLean with Mrs. Patterson, that’s pretty much exactly how I remember it going down for me, too.

Anyway, I enjoyed reading his story and thought I’d share. (And conveniently plug one of my favorite artists.)

You can read the whole story here.

And you can buy his songs on iTunes by clicking here.
(I highly recommend the albums Wishbones and Broke Down.)

Megaphone guy and his cadre of 15 year-old blonde pamphlet girls was also accompanied by this guy, carrying a “Matthew 7:13-14″ banner.

I guess their message is that secular rock and roll leads to sympathy for the devil. I guess they missed the Capital Metro gospel tent.

The following verse, Matt 7:15, warns to “watch out for false prophets.”

Then again, Matthew 7 starts “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” so perhaps I should shut up now…

Fundamentalist “missionaries” go to all the best parties. The guy talking into the megaphone was preaching that John 3 was the best message man’s ever received. (I won’t argue with that.)

He was accompanied by a handful of youth (seemed to be about 14-15 years old by my guess) passing out pamphlets.

It was hard to hear Coldplay over the megaphone. (It was just as entertaining though.)