What the 21st century needs most is a tv show about superheroes that drink. I give you...No Heroics.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Dream me oh dreamer, Down to the floor
I was on my way home last week and saw posters up all along Pender Street advertising an upcoming show from a Motley Crue “tribute” band. You don’t pay tribute to a band like Motley Crue; they appear in your town like the first sore before a major herpes outbreak and infect other innocent bands. The World Health Organization should follow them on tour. They were here a couple of months ago on another cash-in tour of sad, predictable Disneysleaze and two months later here comes a poster advising me that “rock n’ roll ain’t dead”. What a relief.
I don’t want to come across like some effete indie fan who sits at home listening to The Decemberists or Belle and Sebastian albums, cataloging my cardigans and bursting into tears every time I get an erection. But I also don’t need a washed-up cock rock band touring around perpetuating the myth that if you don’t wake up next to some strange silicone and peroxide casualty every morning while coughing up cigarette tar onto a pile of money and cocaine somehow you’re a less authentic rock band. Yep, rock and roll is all about sex and there are tons of awesome sleazy bands that rock out with their cock out but clinging to that faded rock star fantasy is a tired move. The 80’s were a dark time that is currently in vogue, we don’t need any more reminders than we already have.
So, in the interests of reminding myself that there’s more to rock and roll than the “we like to score” ethic I decided to get me a scalped ticket to TV on the Radio last night. I wanted a good show to cap off the summer and TVOTR seemed like a safe bet as they’re a transcendent live band, and one that I’ve got a mad love on for.
I hit the street early and ended up waiting some time for the scalpers to show up while sitting drinking cheap beer on the patio of a café next to the Commodore Ballroom. It wasn’t a pleasant wait.
Granville Street is a weird place to hang around these days. The entire street has a nasty “brought to you by Jagermeister” vibe. Crowds of people wander around drunk, coming up with increasingly annoying ways to let passers-by know what a good time they’re having. Three douchebags had set up shop next to me with pitchers of beer and an Mp3 player and proceeded to serenade everyone with bad renditions of popular rock hits. One of the three didn’t even sing, he just screeched out phonetic recreations of all the guitar solos.
Bad karaoke like this is the dark by-product of games like Guitar Hero and Rock Band. There was a horrible moment when they started to sing and I realized that they were practicing for another marathon gaming session. Don't they have homes to go to? Girlfriends to neglect? I had to sit through not one, but two renditions of Say it Ain’t So. They went on for at least an hour and a half and finally wandered off singing We are the Champions. I had rich, detailed fantasies of beating them to death with my chair. I should have moved, but the patio had an excellent view of the street and as I said the beer was cheap. In a way I was a little bonded to them by the end. Some kind of weird Stockholm syndrome thing. After they left I missed hating them so much I kind of wished they’d come back.
Eventually I sidled up and bought a ticket. I ended up paying more than I would have if I'd gotten off my ass earlier and bought it through regular channels, but I consider the extra cash paid to be a sloth tax. The show was worth every penny.
TV on the Radio played brilliantly. There's no point in breaking it down to "they played this song, they played that song" commentary. The band don't waste a lot of time with banter, they just wander out on stage and get right down to business. They take songs that on their albums are interconnected sheets of noise and adapt them into epic rock songs that are free of irony, free of cliche. Each song is totally reborn from the way you're used to hearing it every time they play. Well worth wading through a sea of douchebags to listen to.
I feel more like smiling these days than I have for some time and they made the perfect soundtrack. One last burst of summer enthusiasm to carry along with me as the nights get longer and colder and wetter.
I don’t want to come across like some effete indie fan who sits at home listening to The Decemberists or Belle and Sebastian albums, cataloging my cardigans and bursting into tears every time I get an erection. But I also don’t need a washed-up cock rock band touring around perpetuating the myth that if you don’t wake up next to some strange silicone and peroxide casualty every morning while coughing up cigarette tar onto a pile of money and cocaine somehow you’re a less authentic rock band. Yep, rock and roll is all about sex and there are tons of awesome sleazy bands that rock out with their cock out but clinging to that faded rock star fantasy is a tired move. The 80’s were a dark time that is currently in vogue, we don’t need any more reminders than we already have.
So, in the interests of reminding myself that there’s more to rock and roll than the “we like to score” ethic I decided to get me a scalped ticket to TV on the Radio last night. I wanted a good show to cap off the summer and TVOTR seemed like a safe bet as they’re a transcendent live band, and one that I’ve got a mad love on for.
I hit the street early and ended up waiting some time for the scalpers to show up while sitting drinking cheap beer on the patio of a café next to the Commodore Ballroom. It wasn’t a pleasant wait.
Granville Street is a weird place to hang around these days. The entire street has a nasty “brought to you by Jagermeister” vibe. Crowds of people wander around drunk, coming up with increasingly annoying ways to let passers-by know what a good time they’re having. Three douchebags had set up shop next to me with pitchers of beer and an Mp3 player and proceeded to serenade everyone with bad renditions of popular rock hits. One of the three didn’t even sing, he just screeched out phonetic recreations of all the guitar solos.
Bad karaoke like this is the dark by-product of games like Guitar Hero and Rock Band. There was a horrible moment when they started to sing and I realized that they were practicing for another marathon gaming session. Don't they have homes to go to? Girlfriends to neglect? I had to sit through not one, but two renditions of Say it Ain’t So. They went on for at least an hour and a half and finally wandered off singing We are the Champions. I had rich, detailed fantasies of beating them to death with my chair. I should have moved, but the patio had an excellent view of the street and as I said the beer was cheap. In a way I was a little bonded to them by the end. Some kind of weird Stockholm syndrome thing. After they left I missed hating them so much I kind of wished they’d come back.
Eventually I sidled up and bought a ticket. I ended up paying more than I would have if I'd gotten off my ass earlier and bought it through regular channels, but I consider the extra cash paid to be a sloth tax. The show was worth every penny.
TV on the Radio played brilliantly. There's no point in breaking it down to "they played this song, they played that song" commentary. The band don't waste a lot of time with banter, they just wander out on stage and get right down to business. They take songs that on their albums are interconnected sheets of noise and adapt them into epic rock songs that are free of irony, free of cliche. Each song is totally reborn from the way you're used to hearing it every time they play. Well worth wading through a sea of douchebags to listen to.
I feel more like smiling these days than I have for some time and they made the perfect soundtrack. One last burst of summer enthusiasm to carry along with me as the nights get longer and colder and wetter.
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