Disillusionment

For the most part, people are just ridiculous (myself included). The real rub is most people don't realize how ridiculous they are. The ones that do often spend a lot of time laughing at themselves and everyone else. I mean look at us. Really. Good gracious. Every time I venture outside I wonder if I have stumbled into a sitcom, and nothing cracks me up more than people who take themselves too seriously.

Even horses think we are ridiculous. Horses!

Being ridiculous can be good and no one wants to be miserable in this wacky world. To help get us through our daily tribulations we employ the talents of the creative to help color and brighten our lives. Unfortunately the people who create art are themselves imperfect humans, and being one such construct I can verify this fact.

One form of art that just about everyone turns to in all degrees of mood is music.

Music came about as a form of expression, a way for people to make life more entertaining through an emotional and melodious medium. In the beginning some genius put it together that they could create a catchy beat by pounding on something, someone else sang, the natives danced, and the coconuts rejoiced. Fast forward through time and our popular music today is a far cry from that of our ancestors. I would say over the years mankind has produced some pretty remarkable pieces of music, such as Beethoven’s Moonlight. On the other hand we have The Black Eyed Peas.

This planet is doomed.

Sadly, this is the case with Heavy Metal as well. It started out as a great idea, you know, play loudly, bang head, and yell. Now it seems to be more about fighting over stage real-estate, not sharing the spotlight, how you play your tunes, and through what gear. I have come to notice a plague of musicians that are more concerned with displays of technical skill than the conveyance of their emotions. Actually, I think this has always been prevalent, I just didn’t notice it as much.

That feeling you get when you realize that the object of your passion isn’t as genuine as you thought is called: disillusionment. It’s kind of a drag a little bit. Well, it’s a drag until you realize it’s ridiculous, and then it’s funny, like church. Ha-ha-hallelujah!

God bless Photoshop.

Anyway, the culprit: Ego, the puppeteer of objectification and materialism.

It destroys everything, even Red Box. Nice wallpaper patterned with little yellow ducks, a soothing massage from a tiny Asian lady with loose morals, or a nice meal, we find ways to screw it all up with our insatiable lust for ego stroking. Sometimes we put a lot of faith into or place an overabundance of importance onto something deceptively simple. Other times we take something great in conception and warp it into a mockery or destroy it in implementation. We must love being miserable. Egotistically miserable, if there is such a thing.

I see it all the time at my band’s shows. Too many bands these days have no stage presence. The musicians just stand there, concentrating so hard that they refuse to move about, shackled by insecurity. They are so afraid if they play one note imperfectly that someone may notice and not think them gods. If they do move it is just to position themselves in the limelight so everyone can see how cool they are. They are more interested in appearance than music. Their music is just runway lights for their soaring egos.

Like high-school kids and their first automobiles, musicians these days try to one-up each other with their gear. Constantly people try to “talk shop” with me and I have no clue what they are saying. I just smile, nod, and make them so bored that they leave me alone eventually. Who cares what your guitar is plugged into; all I care is that it sounds good, and most folks today do not sound good, despite the cost and sheen of their over-expenditures. I find it sad that these people insist on muddying something as simple as music with hyperbolic jargon, the brands of their tools, and herd minded conformity. Metal used to be about pushing the limits, breaking the rules, and unleashing chaos. Now it is becoming a brand of clothing made of wool and worn by sheep. Baaah.

Guitar virtuoso.

It should be emotion that guides the composer’s pen over his or her manuscript and fingers upon the instrument, not ego. The moment you forsake truth for façade you forfeit your artistry. It’s called feinting by numbers.

As always, this just means the cream rises to the top and the unique flourish and succeed. Everyone else is just here for me to laugh or snore at. I’m in it for the art not the attention, or the sex, or the drugs. I don’t need the flaccid approval of others to feel good about myself. As long as I like what I play then I am good. I write and play for me and me alone. As long as the few pioneers out there keep innovating and leading us I can tolerate the ego fueled trite that burdens the stages of today. Barely.

Disillusionment with Metal is why I have found more enjoyment in other genres of music lately. I would have to say that my favorite bands of the past year and a half are: Muse, Franz Ferdinand, Garbage, Shivaree, with Yeah Yeah Yeahs barely edging The Birthday Massacre out of my top five. I still listen to the classic Metal bands that I have always loved (Black Sabbath, Cradle of Filth, Iron Maiden, Gwar, etc.) but I am stirred more by modern alt-pop-rock than what is passing for Metal these days.

Another picture of a laughing horse, because hay, why not?

Maybe I am getting old and crotchety. Maybe stuff just sucks. I think I am just too Metal for Metal.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Shivaree Association

For the most part the best things in life are hidden to us. This is why it is so rewarding to find something truly unique and appealing. Sometimes these diamonds in the rough are so awesome that you may in fact miss them the first time you are witness to them. This is understandable considering how much trite we are accosted by on a regular basis. Sometimes our brains just can’t fathom something so great, similar to the ghost of Elvis popping up in your bathroom and puking in your toilet. This was the case with me and one of my new favorite bands: Shivaree. Minus the vomity apparition of course.

On April 16th 2004 the world was treated to the release of the film Kill Bill Vol. 2. Some people liked it, myself included, others not so much. Regardless of your stance on the film, it had an impact on me. Emblazing the motion picture like a jewel in a crown is a most luscious soundtrack. It includes such greats as Johnny Cash, Charlie Feathers, and Shivaree. I dug the soundtrack so much that I bought it immediately after seeing the film. Upon listening to it I was enthralled by a song called Goodnight Moon and was more than satisfied with my purchase. In fact, Goodnight Moon is the first song you hear on the disc, for good reason it is unquestionably a standout track, though it appears during the end credits in the movie.



Still, despite my love of Goodnight Moon I didn’t bother investigating the band that wrote it. I just foolishly associated the song with a soundtrack and nothing more. Eventually the Kill Bill Vol. 2 soundtrack found its way onto my CD shelf and collected dust. It stayed in my collection even though I have sold or trashed many CDs over the years. It even survived stormy relationships and several moves. Nonetheless, it was nearly forgotten.

Recently I felt an urge to discover new music. Being a musician I feel a strong connection to music in general. Music stimulates me on many levels. Like most people I can associate music with time periods of my life. For example, when I listen to Megadeth’s Countdown to Extinction I can’t help but reminisce about the summer between 8th and 9th grade when I would hang out at a pool with friends and jam out all day. Music can take you back which is one reason we all enjoy it. Even more so I couple music with emotion. My current state of mind and temperance all play a part in my choice of music listening. Surely we all have those songs that can lift our spirits when down or get our blood flowing when feeling energetic. Goodnight Moon definitely strokes my goat in this way.

One thing I associate music with is places and settings, oftentimes ones that are completely fictitious. When I write stories I like to put on some tunes that tie thematically to the chapter I am working on. Other times I sit back and wonder what kind of music I would listen to while doing a particular thing or being in a certain place. A new scenario involved imagining what kind of music I would enjoy while driving down one of those long straight highways in west Texas on my way to New Mexico at night. One of the first albums to come to mind was the soundtrack to Kill Bill Vol. 2. I took it to work with me and jammed it late at night while delivering pizza. Just as before, Shivaree’s Goodnight Moon leapt from my stereo speakers and stimulated my pleasure zones like ice cream on my nips.



Not wanting to repeat any mistakes from my past, I flipped the CD case over and read for the first time the name of the band that wrote that enchanting song: Shivaree. Better late than never I suppose.

Using a MP3 program called Zune—which is similar to iTunes but better and thus inferior—I was able to find Shivaree’s albums online, with the exception of one, and purchased them for downloading. I did not even bother to sample them first; I knew I would love it. Ding! It is immensely rewarding to discover a band that is new to you and that has released several albums. Now that I have acquired all of their albums, even the one that was never released in the US, I jam them incessantly. I would even venture to say that Shivaree is in my Top 10 Favorite Bands of All Time.

If you have never devoted brain cells to figuring out what your favorite band is then consider this: what band gives you goose bumps every time you listen to them? Being a performing musician I also ask myself, which bands would I love to play for? Shivaree would be the answer to both of those questions, as well as a few other bands.

Their Wikipedia page describes them as an American rock/pop band. I would also add that they display influences of blues, jazz, and experimental elements. Ambrosia Parsley, the female singer, shows variance of style and tone throughout each song in a way that helps keep each track fresh and entertaining. She can enrapture you like a siren or inspire you to sing along with pulse pounding ferocity. The band, consisting of Danny McGough on keys and Duke McVinnie on guitar, wield such a learned range of talents and techniques that no two songs sound the same. There aren’t many that can compete with this troika of awesomeness.



Do yourself a favor and give me a million dollars. After that check out Shivaree, buy their albums, and go see them perform live. We will all be better for it.

Love,
Smiley Grimm

Skinvestigative Reporting

For the most part I have lived a sheltered life. Well, if you ignore things like the unstable fathering from the old man and subsequent broken home, the teenage antics that led to me being expelled from school, the tattoos, the street fights, and all the chaos and tumult that comes with playing bass in a heavy metal band, then yeah, I have lived a sheltered life.

Totally my family.

And so it was that I found myself in the seedy, smelly, body-hairless dressing room of a male strip club.

As you may recall from a previous posting, the drummer for my band is an “entertainer.” Every year for his birthday he throws a party at his place of employment. He invites a handful of bands, including his own, to play. For one day of the year the club sets aside its oily studs for a night of local music.

Excluding pizza deliveries, I have never paid a visit to a strip club of any kind. I don’t understand dancing to begin with—much less dancing for dollars—and am not enticed in the least to stuff my hard earned cash into the dingy undies of alcoholic and drug addled mothers of five, no matter how sexy their cesarean scar. What’s more, being a male, I have what is arguably considered a male body, and honestly ladies, we aren’t works of art. Dudes are hairy, sweaty, and stinky. What, other than the same errant impulse that spurs one to put their hand into an alligator’s mouth, would inspire women to stick dollars into the shaved taint of some dude with a pseudonym? As it turns out a nice set of abs is ample motivation.

Even on a Sunday the ladies are willing to throw alimony and child support at strangers. Combine that with a mass of people that want to see heavy metal and you have a sizable and rabid crowd, even though there wasn’t any actual stripage going on. This is plenty reason for me to not be around. I don’t like crowds, or people…or roaches…or wasps. There weren’t any insects, so yeah, I had to focus on the first of that list of not-likes and sought the relative safety of the dressing room.

Naked male wasp. Probably a stripper too.

I can’t say I’ve ever wondered what it is like being backstage at a strip joint, but surprise, now I know! It is a smorgasbord (I hate that word) for the senses, to say the least.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It is reminiscent of a locker room, but there was a hint of something else in the air. Near the stairs that led from the dressing room to the stage there was a small table loaded with hand sanitizer and other liquidy products. They smell good. The rest of the place? Not so much.

The walls are bedecked with photo-collages, performance routines and schedules, and promotional posters featuring more glistening muscles than the meat market at your local grocer. Couple that with the exercise equipment—including curling weights that were so heavy my back hurt just looking at them—and you have plenty of reasons for a scrawny and unimpressive dude like me to commit suicide.

I was struck by the amount of props and costuming that goes into a typical production. I had always just assumed that a muscled up dude dancing to terrible music was enough for a female. Apparently I am wrong. One locker contained a boxing outfit. Another had canes, walkers, and an old man mask. There were even plastic guitar controllers for Guitar Hero in one. Swords: check. Torches: check. Children's Videos: wtfcheck. What else, ligature strangulation props for your murder fantasy? As far as I know, things of this nature aren’t put to use at clubs with female dancers. Just seeing naked girls is enough for most guys, but I guess ladies like to dress up the festivities a bit. Boy howdy am I boring!

More fun than Xbox.

The backstage restroom is totally non-private. The door was tiny and useless, and the urinal was just out in the open. I mean, if you have already been jiggling about all naked and stuff, what’s a little privacy for your dirty business? The main restroom for the club—conveniently located under the pink neon sign that read: The Powder Room—is unisex. Being subjected to seeing, hearing, and smelling a lady poo is pretty much my definition of Hell a little bit. I am sure this feeling transcends both sexes, so why make everyone share the same facilities? It’s savage, I tell you!

I make the place sound terrible. In fact, it is the premier club of its kind in our town and the lovely folks that constitute the staff and performers are very nice and totally cool. Not to mention, their clothing is totally fabulous. I am honored to have played there.

Now I can say I have performed on stage at a male strip club. What a life.

Love,
Smiley Grimm