Birth of the Cool

Fleetwood Mac's Rumours is a great album. It's also patently uncool. If you'd bother disagreeing with either of these statemenss, I'd say that you know little to nothing about what constitutes "great" music and what constitutes "cool" music. I'd argue that Rumours is the greatest uncool album of all time.

I suspect that Rumours may have been cool when it was released, as I think it sold well among 18- to 25-year-olds, who are the coolest people in the world. In fact, I have anecdotal evidence of this--my father recalls he and his friends constantly listening to the album the week it came out.

The former coolness of Rumours is self-evident. It had mainstream appeal as well as the support of young people, and therefore it was "cool." It's entirely possible that my father and his friends were patently uncool when Rumours came out, but my father was an alcoholic at age 13 and he served in the military. He also grew his hair long when he wasn't in the military. Using deductive reasoning here, we can conclude that my father was cool until he turned 26, and so were all his friends.

Needless to say, this album is no longer cool. It has no impact on 99% of popular music today. But it is still great.

***

So what makes music "great" and what makes it "cool"? And what do these brandings imply? This is where things get confusing. We'll start with "great," as its definition is crucial to the definition of "cool."

Greatness is not a simple concept. I've written about greatness before, using an alternate definition--transcendent coolness (see: Rolling Stones, The; Davis, Miles). But greatness can also mean the best (see: Beatles, The; Davis, Miles). The latter definition is how I'm referring to Rumours, obviously, since it's such an uncool album. This is what true artists strive for--integrity and quality. That much is fairly simple.

"Cool" is slightly more complicated. The Rolling Stones will always be great because they recorded Exile on Main St. When that album came out, The Rolling Stones were the coolest men on the planet. That album is still cool because cool people still like it. The Rolling Stones are no longer cool, however, because cool people don't like old people (except those lucky few, like Evel Knievel or Bill Clinton, both of whom will always be cool).

"Cool" essentially means "popular with and/or respected by young people." This is obviously independent of greatness, as at this very moment, Fergie and Panic! at the Disco are cool. But more importantly, popularity and success are married to coolness. This is why most popular music fucking sucks. "Artists" would rather be cool than great, because cool pays the bills and great doesn't.

Now that we've done a sufficient job of explaining "cool" and "great," we can categorize the world of pop music by four quadrants:

Quadrant I: Cool + Great
These are the ones everyone agrees on, or at least the people that matter. Michael Jackson is here, Bob Dylan is here, Led Zeppelin is here, and Gnarls Barkley and Justin Timberlake are contemporary examples of this.

Quadrant II: Cool + Shitty
These are the most obnoxious people in the world. They're all very popular, but they don't deserve to be very popular. Aerosmith is at the extreme of this quadrant. Modern examples include the aforementioned Fergie, Dane Cook, and VH-1's I Love the '80s.

Quadrant III: Lame + Shitty
The consensus is that these people suck. Their strange ability to stay well-known despite drawing hatred from every corner comes partially from Generation X's unconditional love of irony, but mainly they're the world's punching bags. Some people like these cultural figures, but those people are few and everyone wonders what those people are thinking. Examples include Adult Alternative radio, Paris Hilton, Creed, and Vanilla Ice.

Quadrant IV: Lame + Great
Generally overlooked, these people deserve much more credit than they're given. Like other lame things, there are always pockets of adoring fans, but in the mainstream most people think they're "weird." This is where Rumours falls, along with Steely Dan, Sufjan Stevens, and Prince. (Note: Prince was once in the first quadrant, but his sound is now dated and somewhat embarrassing. He may very well have been the coolest motherfucker on the planet around the time of Purple Rain, but that time seems like eons ago. Coolness is a volatile mistress.)

***

This is where objectivity and subjectivity collide. Objectivity in music seems like a foreign concept to some. "I like it" is too often equated to "It's good." You might like heavy metal and dislike rap music, but that doesn't make Mudvayne better than the Wu-Tang Clan. This is like saying Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is better than Le Bec-Fin because you're not a fan of French cuisine.

The issue has now become about what "cool" is. I suppose, to some people, "cool" is not what is popular among and/or respected by 18- to 25-year-olds. To some people, I'm sure contemporary country music is cool. I can't really argue that, as coolness is generally a subjective measure.

Greatness, on the other hand, is not. "This song is great" is true or false, with only one correct answer. That is why I can say with factual, objective accuracy that Rumours is a great album.

This subjectivity is what causes discrepancies in musical taste. The Cool + Great stuff is generally well-received by both fans and critics, while the Shitty + Lame gets panned. In the other sections, excessive coolness is often used as a shield for criticism (Franz Ferdinand) and excessive lameness often keeps good art from being successful (say, Belle and Sebastian). But another contributing factor to the discrepancies is the sad fact that, despite its ubiquity, most people know exactly jack shit about music. That's their choice, but then, these people should never bother arguing with me. They have different ideas for what's "great" because they simply don't know what "great" is.

I suppose the coolness of Rumours depends on whom you ask, but realistically, the people who think Rumours is cool aren't really on the pulse of American culture. That makes it uncool.

So where does it rank as a significant piece of music? With a subjective element in the mix, that can vary. But an important component of "cool" that I want to reiterate is that it is married to popularity and success. Some albums, like the classic example Dark Side of the Moon, have prolonged success. I can't imagine that Rumours still sells very strongly, notably among the young people that do most of the record-buying.

But popularity and success, unlike tangible greatness, are often fleeting. So, when ranking old albums, it only seems right that Rumours ranks highly despite its utter lameness, while AC/DC, which judging from Hot Topic t-shirt sales is still somewhat cool, should probably rank lower.

***

I heard a radio DJ say the other day that the Foo Fighters rock "without equal," which is obviously a retarded thing to say. But what he really means is that, to him, Dave Grohl and Co. are the coolest rockers on the planet. It's come to my attention that anyone who defines his musical taste by a radio format has no idea what is "great," only a vague idea of what is "cool." I suppose people who say they like "classic rock" think "The Joker" is a cool song, but because it's so fucking terrible, those people are destroying the potential of "classic rock." These are the people responsible for the success of Journey, I think.

The reason I have TV on the Radio's Return to Cookie Mountain as my album of the year is that it is both ridiculously great and marginally cool. I think Final Fantasy's He Poos Clouds and Joanna Newsom's Ys might be better recordings, but they're both unspeakably dorky. If the Beatles had gone for the same crowd as Paul Anka, the world would be a very different place today.

But the world as it is today pays little attention to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours, despite all its musical brilliance. And you know what? I'm okay with that. Because without "cool," everyone would be raving about Canadian violinists and prepubscent-voiced harpists. All things considered, I'm more comfortable with the popularity of "SexyBack." YEAH!

Good Grief

One of my favorite scenes of my favorite holiday special, Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown is when the old blockhead--whose improbable ability to survive extreme adversity I'll comment on later--goes to seek that bitch Lucy's psychiatric advice. After chucking a nickel into the greedy wench's tin can, she systematically goes through a bunch of phobias that Chuck may or may not have. Nothing seems to fit until she mentions pantophobia--

"Do you have pantophobia?"
"What's pantophobia?" Charlie Brown responds.
Lucy tells him. "The fear of everything."
...
"THAT'S IT!"

--and Chuck figures out what his problem is. Somehow, this young boy goes through life afraid of everything. Every social situation, every significant holiday, every menial task in life is a terrifying experience for Charlie Brown. He's got a terrible complex, and that's why he's such a failure. He's a god-awful pitcher, he has no sense of humor, he's got the worst Halloween costume ever made, and he lacks the cojones to tell Peppermint Patty that no, it's not fucking okay if she comes to his house for Thanksgiving dinner.

How Charlie Brown manages to keep himself from committing suicide is beyond explanation. Nobody like him, not even his dog or his sister or his best friend, Linus. Even in Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown, Linus tells him with disdain that Lucy is right--"Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest." How does this kid go on with his life? He's like Rodney Dangerfield--he gets no respect from anyone, ever--except he's not funny or successful in any way.

The prime example of the world's hatred for Charlie Brown is in Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown when he brings back the timid little twig with the pine needles falling off it, his best excuse for a Christmas tree. Now, I don't blame him for going the natural route. Aluminum Christmas trees are probably the most soulless, hollow things ever created. Thank god for Charles Schulz, or we'd all have them in our living rooms right now.

But when Chuck brings back that "tree," everyone absolutely flips out on him. One of the semi-anonymous girls looks at the tree, looks at Charlie Brown, and says coldly, "Boy, are you stupid, Charlie Brown!" Right to his face! And he just stands there and takes it! Another says, "You're hopeless, Charlie Brown. Completely hopeless." Dear Lord! Has anyone reading this ever had such an embarrassing public mockery made of himself? But Charlie Brown just acts as though it's a minor setback in his life--"Rats!" he says. "Rats"? How is he not wearing a trenchcoat to school and tossing bombs at everyone?

Even when the "tree" is fixed, it's not by Charlie Brown. It's by everyone BUT Charlie Brown. Sure, he laid the basis for the tree, but when he puts a Christmas ball onto the tree and "kill[s]" it, he leaves it for dead. Only when everyone comes in and salvages the poor tree does it shine in all its glory. Everyone graciously yells "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!" for the happy ending, but what has this asshole done to deserve a happy ending? He's got no self-respect. How can anyone else respect him?

As depressing as this may come off, Charlie Brown is an inspiration to me. How he continues to suck the energy out of everything around him and somehow keep going on with his life is a testament to his determination. To steal a quote from Chris Weeden's Facebook profile, the great Dan Winklebleck once said:

"Ah, fuck money. And doing what you love. It's all about fighting and clawing just to live every last second you can, just to spite the world. I figure, every day the world kills me a little more, but I hope I'm killing it a little bit at the same time. Someone's gonna lose eventually. And with that, I'm going to bed, to continue the war tomorrow."

I think that must be Charlie Brown's motto. I don't necessarily subscribe to that credo, but the fact that Charlie Brown employs it is what keeps me going. If such a colossal failure can manage to kill the world a little bit every day, I must be doing okay. He may be completely hopeless, but he's a world-beater.

***

So, here's what inspired me to write about this: Charlie Brown has pantophobia. He's afraid of everything. And when he has that moment of realization, his energy is so excessive that it knocks that devil woman Lucy clear off her phony psychiatrist's stool. Well, I've got energy now because I know what I'm afraid of. Before tonight, I thought it was dolls. Dolls are fucking creepy, man. But I'm not afraid of them.

I'm afraid of being abandoned. This all adds up, I promise. I've never been abandoned by my parents, but when I get the feeling that I could be, it's devastating. The same goes for my friends. And I think I know why.

My best friends in kindergarten were Derrick Smyth and Tim Myers. I still have random memories with these guys, for some reason. One time in kindergarten, I told Derrick--who was running out of space on his paper to write his name--that my mom told me writing smaller would help you fit more on a page. What a fucking novel concept that was back then. I also remember playing Atari at his house, which was amazing because I'd never played Atari before, and I haven't ever since. We also played with Beetlejuice and Dick Tracy action figures. At Tim's house, we may have played the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles video game (the good one) and we most certainly had the cereal. I envied him because he had Cookie Crisp cereal, which my mom refused to buy for me because it was basically a bowl of miniature cookies. I guess that was crossing the line.

After kindergarten, I never saw Derrick again and Tim went to Prez instead of continuing at St. William's.

My best friend in first grade was Adam Rosinski. After first grade, he moved to Fox Chase and started going to St. Cecilia's.

Second grade, Bob (then Robert) Miles. He was a Cowboys fan and I hated the Cowboys. We were never in classes or on teams together after that until 8th grade, when we were again amiable. He was a cool dude.

As if trying to find a new best friend at school every year wasn't hard enough, my best childhood friends John Sours and Eric Semola, both of whom lived on Gilham Street with me, began to drift away. John's family moved off the street and he didn't go to Catholic school, so I didn't see him every day like I used to. This drift continued further when he started going to middle school and made new friends there. Once he hit high school, it was pretty much all over. Eric wasn't like that. He was a grade below me and just started hanging out with other people, so that sucked too.

After fifth grade, my friend John Higgins moved to Fox Chase and started going to St. Cecilia's. After seventh grade, my friend Steve Snyder moved to Pine Valley and started going to St. Hilary's. Once high school came around, my best friend Sean Reinsel started hanging out more with people from his school and we drifted apart. Granted, I stay in touch with Sean, but still. The same thing happened with Matt Higgins, Joe Laut, and Dave Heinz.

I made new friends in high school. But then I got a girlfriend, and after high school she got into a fight with all my friends. I chose the wrong side and lost all my friends. Then when we made new ones in college, we broke up and she kept most of the friends. The one holdover was my roommate, Josh Ferris, who I've regretfully drifted somewhat away from as well. This is how my life works. Make friends, lose friends. I think that's why I'm so good at patching up my problems--I can't hold grudges because I can't afford to.

This fear of abandonment comes out on a smaller scale, too. Last September, I was arrested for underage drinking and public drunkenness when I told my friends I wanted to sit down and proceeded to sit down on the sidewalk, Indian-style. They didn't hear me and kept walking. As I saw them walking away, I began to weep like a little baby girl. I thought my friends were ditching me, and I became an emotional wreck for the next few hours as the police officer arrested me, interrogated me, and let me go with my friend Alex (another guy I've failed to maintain contact with on a consistent basis).

The reason this fear came to my attention is that twice in the past two days I've told--or thought of telling--two of my friends to make sure they say goodbye before they leave me. I have a terrible fear that, at any given moment, one of my friends will leave me without telling me. And that's probably why, for all the times I've felt like running away from everything, I never have. If I know I can't bear the pain, I can't possibly inflict that on other people.

There's a silver lining to this, of course, as there always is with a Kevin Doran problem. Once Charlie Brown realized he had pantophobia, he was able to address it. The problem with Charlie Brown is that he's a colossal failure, and because of that he failed to fix his problem. Even after the chorus of children sang "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" as the closing credits rolled, Charlie Brown had yet to accomplish anything worthy of praise. And eventually, all those joyous children would realize that and continue despising the waste of cartoon space that was Charlie Brown.

But now, I know what ails me. I could be like Charlie Brown and fail to fix it, or I could be a success and fix it. I don't know which category I'll fall into, but at least I know what I'm fighting against. And as that catty twat Lucy put it, "The mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone." And if Charlie Brown can beat the world, so can I.

Alright, Alright, Alright

I think I'm going to start with the year-end thing. My memories from this year are pretty hazy due to a number of factors, so I don't think I'm going to do a full-fledged year in review type thing like I did last year and after the summer. But I'll share some of the highlights from the fall:

• Me and Woytko go toe-to-toe.
• The Set-Up: The Daily Collegian's beautiful news staff has a hayride in early November. We tote two kegs full of Koch's Golden Anniversary Beer along with us, and the stage is set for me and Woytko to have our long-awaited drinking showdown.
• The Main Event: Both of us were a bit tipsy going into the hayride, so the terrible beer went down easily. After about a dozen (~8-10 oz.) cups, we decided to call a truce. I'd go into more detail of the hayride, but my recollection's a bit spotty from there on.
• The Aftermath: We ended up having a mini-party after the hayride, but I didn't stick around too long. I met up with the usual suspects, as Jake and K-Pat were visiting for the weekend. I had a few more drinks and then dared myself to get my head shaved. I passed the dare.
• The After-Aftermath: It was a really cold couple of weeks, but my hair's growing in pretty nicely nowadays. The kegs were demolished a couple weeks later when a bunch of the Collegian guys made it a personal mission to drink as many B-Dawgs as possible.
• I bring sexy back--YEH.
  
• The Set-Up: After a busy summer of previewing wagon train reunions and interviewing Death Cab For Cutie bassist Nick Harmer, I became the relatively unknown senior music reporter for the Collegian.
• The Main Event: Not to toot my own horn, but this semester I wrote some of the best stuff I've ever written. I think the J-Tim review kind of put me on the map and I won story of the week for it--which, admittedly, I still feel guilty about. All I did was listen to a good pop album and make fun of Justin Timberlake for 15 inches. Some actual reporters did some actual reporting and I beat them.
• The Aftermath: This was the first of many big things to happen to me as a reporter this semester. I got a ton of hate mail for concert and album reviews--both positive and negative--and got a lot of feedback in general for my stuff. It was fun as hell.
• The After-Aftermath: I somehow was nominated for news reporter of the semester, which is kind of ridiculous considering I don't have to do very much actual reporting. Eh, I'm not complaining. I got arts reporter of the semester and I made a lot of really close friends, which is all I care about anyway.

I could put some more stuff in here, but nothing else (that I can write about on the Internet) would be very suitable. I had a very good fall, though.

Now, onto what I really wanted to write about: my albums of the year shit. As usual, Venues was really small in the last week of the semester, so our staff picks featuring our favorites from 2006 got cut. L@m3.

So anywho, on with the list! Drumroll, please.

Honorable Mentions:

The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America

I gave this album to my dad to listen to because it's right up his alley. It's old school, it's lively, it's a good rocking album, it's bitter, it's sarcastic, it's drunk, it's pretty much my life expressed through the majesty of Craig Finn's songs. And if it helps, I gave it to my dad because it reminds me of Bruce Springsteen, and old people love Bruce Springsteen. The Hold Steady is a young person's version of Bruce Springsteen.




Sunset Rubdown - Shut Up I Am Dreaming

Spencer Krug should probably take a break once in a while. Not that I don't like him, but he's going to burn himself out. Wolf Parade, Frog Eyes, Sunset Rubdown, Swan Lake. Sunset Rubdown is like the artsy second cousin of Wolf Parade, but not as good. But it's still interesting enough to warrant listing. Krug's got some energy in him and the songs on this album do arguably a better job of showing that than his stuff with Wolf Parade.



10. The Decemberists - The Crane Wife

A few things about this one--first, it's getting better reviews than it deserves, in my opinion. Second, it's the most accessible The Decemberists have sounded, which isn't necessarily a good thing or a bad thing. Third, it's a very good album, but it's nowhere near their best. All that said, it's a very fun listen. It took me a while to get into the Decemberists, which has to do at least partially with Colin Meloy's over-enunciated vocals. But he is truly a great songwriter, and this album is a very good showcase of his style. On top of all that, I'm a sucker for a good concept album, and this is a good concept album.


9. Clipse - Hell Hath No Fury

This is the new darling of hip-hop critics. The Neptunes really do a fantastic job with the production, and the rap duo's flow is great. But lyrically, I don't think it's strong enough. I enjoy the album a lot, but it's not going to hook me the way some of the other albums on this list do. It got great reviews, I think because hip-hop had a really down year and it was refreshing to hear something...well, fresh. Good stuff, not great stuff, but it's one of the best rap albums of the year.




8. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass

First of all, fantastic title. I can't think of an album title I like more. For Yo La Tengo, this album was pretty interesting. They're a great band, but this one shows their versatility. They go from noise pop guitar jams to poppy singalongs like it's nothing. It's a really fun listen if you've got the attention span for it.





7. Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings the Flood

What can I say? Apparently I'm a real sucker for redheads. But I'm especially a sucker for redheads named Neko Case who have amazing voices. This album is stunning. She's a great songwriter, a great singer, and she's gorgeous. She's the total package. A modern day Joni Mitchell. I think I'm in love.




6. The Roots - Game Theory
I friggin' love these guys. Black Thought's at his best and the band just flat out rocks on this album. I find it difficult to go a day without listening to "Here I Come." That's my hip-hop jam of the year, or it's at least in the top two. So freaking cool.








5. Joanna Newsom - Ys
She plays a mean harp. Seriously, though, these songs are great. There's only five of them and and the shortest one is 7 minutes long, but they're all fantastic. Her vocals have been compared to Lisa Simpson, but if you don't mind that, you're in luck. I like them, personally. This is not an album to be taken lightly.






4. Final Fantasy - He Poos Clouds
Terrible band name, terrible album name. Amazing album. Owen Pallett became widely known when he played violin for Arcade Fire, but he's not too shabby a songwriter, either. This album is beautiful and brilliant. It sounds more "classical" than any pop album I've ever heard, but it works so well. I can't wait to hear more from him (which, by the way, is something I've been dying to say for this whole countdown, but I think it's more true of Final Fantasy than anyone else). I seriously think that anyone who gives this an honest listen would love it.



3. Islands - Return to the Sea
Pure pop gems on this one. From the ashes of the Unicorns came a phoenix called Islands. "Rough Gem" is fantastic, as are a ton of other songs on this album. It doesn't blow you away, but it's a very gratifying listen.







2. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale
Man, thank god I started listening to more hip-hop this year, mostly thank god I started listening to Wu-Tang this year. The Iron Man is gold on this one. I love "The Champ" and I feel the need to give props to its apt paraphrasing of quotations from the Rocky series. I now regularly steal those quotations, randomly saying "He's a bulldozer with a wrecking ball attached!" a la Mick. And unlike most skits on rap albums, this one's got some humor in them.




1. TV On the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain
I've written so much about this album, I almost don't want to anymore. But god damn, this album is so good, I can't help but fawn over it for another paragraph. The band is so tight, so smooth, so powerful. I wish the album cover didn't suck; it doesn't do any justice. It kicks fucking ass and I will still be listening to it in 30 years wondering where my life has gone. But during "Wolf Like Me," I'm going to forget about all my problems and just listen to the music. That probably sounds really fucking cheesy, but I don't care. It's so good. And that's what I'm leaving you with, because nothing I can write after this will top this album. Go listen to it, and if you don't like it then fuck you. Happy 2006.

Blink

As is my custom upon finishing mind-blowing books, I'm going to write about Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, which is my most recent literary undertaking.

Like The Tipping Point, which I wrote about over the summer, Blink is very thought-provoking and, to say the least, utterly shocking in ways. Gladwell is a master at taking seemingly inexaminable subjects and connecting them to the human psyche. Of course, he's not really the psychologist doing all the studies, but he can connect multiple seemingly unrelated subjects and cross-examine them. For example, Gladwell discusses an expert's ability to break down video footage of married couples talking and decide, with stunning accuracy, whether that couple will stay together for 15 years. The man does this based solely on facial expressions and phrasing. Gladwell compares this trained ability to a tennis coach who has the distinct ability to know when a player is going to double fault--before the player even swings the racquet.

This is just one example, and it's a fairly easy connection to make at first. But Gladwell takes minor examples like these and connects them to major social occurrences. He discusses the breakdown of the mighty U.S. army's tactics when put up against a long-retired war hero in a simulated war game. He discusses the split-second reactions of four New York police officers who accidentally killed a non-threatening, anonymous man. He takes all these situations and links them together through his theories on the human psyche. And in the process, he reveals some stunning mental characteristics.

How are all these events connected? Through a couple of Gladwell's buzzword concepts, including what he calls "thin-slicing." Thin-slicing is basically an extension of a first impression. We take a situation, and within a matter of seconds we analyze a situation unconsciously. That's where all our impulses stem from, from the Pepsi Challenge to racial stereotyping. In some ways, it's a bad thing, of course. But in many ways, it's what makes our brains so powerful, like a human supercomputer. Without thin-slicing, we'd spend too much time thinking about things. An example Gladwell uses is of a group of firefighters who enter a house to put out a simple kitchen fire. The kitchen is at the back of the house, so the firefighters bring the hose in through the house to extinguish the relatively small fire. But after trying to put it out for a bit, it refuses to die. A small fire in a kitchen should die very quickly. But, realizing something's not right, the captain urges all the men to get out of the house as soon as possible. He didn't know exactly what was wrong, but he knew something was wrong. As soon as they got out of the house, the floor on which they stood collapsed. As it turns out, the fire was in the basement, below the kitchen, and it was anything but a small fire. If the captain hadn't thin-sliced, the fire would have consumed them all.

The book has tons of great narratives like that, and they all show you what the thinking process is really like, in a very interesting way. I thin-slice every time I listen to new music, and since I'd consider myself something of a music expert (and a modest one, at that) I have faith that I'll be able to judge a song in a relatively short time, or judge an album after just a few songs. Expertise matters with thin-slicing. Brett Favre is a gun-slinger-style quarterback, but he was so good in the NFL for so long because he came prepared. He was an expert at quarterbacking and had a feel for the moment. He took chances, but they never really hurt him in his better years because he was ready for those pressure situations. Take away his offensive line, his run game, and reliable targets, and he's throwing 20+ interceptions a year. But in the right system, with the right tools, he was a great quarterback. Brett Favre, in his prime, was a master thin-slicer.

One of the most interesting parts of the book, to me, was the discussion of a survey conducted on Harvard's web site. Basically what the test does is gauge a person's immediate reaction to the goodness or badness of different demographics. For example, my curiosity was piqued and I tested myself on heterosexuality vs. homosexuality. I'm fairly progressive, supportive of gay rights, and I've never had a problem with gay people. But at the same time, I know I'm built to be somewhat homophobic coming from an Irish Catholic family and having gone to an all-boys' Catholic high school. But I was still surprised when the test told me I had a moderate automatic preference towards heterosexuals (which placed me between "strong" and "slight" preferences towards heterosexuals). I fell somewhere between the 29th and 53rd percentile of people preferring heterosexuals to homosexuals based on snap judgments, which sort of surprised me. If you're interested, they've got other tests too (race, age, disability, weight). Here's the link.

There isn't a whole lot of the book I find interesting to write about, but a lot of it makes for very interesting discussion, as I've found already. More than likely, if you get into an extended conversation with me over the next month, you'll hear me talk about this book in some way, shape, or form. I've already done it a number of times and I just got the book earlier this week. It's a very impactful, very thought-provoking book, and it's also a good page-turner. I highly recommend it.

The Rules

A note, before you read this: I started this list back in May and somehow completely forgot about it until paging through my past entries tonight. I hate not finishing what I start, so I decided to add a bunch more to it and post it tonight. This will explain my now pre-empted hatred of the wave, which DJ commented on in his lone addition to my awesome blog (hint hint, DJ).

These are my rules for public decency. If you are a stranger who does these things, I will hate you. I don't hate people I know, but I am very judgmental of first impressions. It's hard to change a negative first impression with me, and though I may remain amiable, on the inside I'm really seething every time I see you. No pressure or anything, though. Anywho, these are your rules to live by.

While attending a concert:

1. Do not open up your cell phone to use as a lighter-type object, no matter what the band tells you. It's really fucking lame.
2. Don't push past people to the front. If you wanted to see the band so bad, you should have shown up earlier.
3. If you want the best sound, stand near the sound board. If you want to gawk at the spectacle onstage, prepare to be squashed as you hold your own by the front. Do not complain about being squashed; it's part of the experience.
4. Don't show up drunk. I'm all for getting drunk and doing irresponsible things, but have some common courtesy. Drunk people + crowded area = disaster. Buying alcohol at the concert is fine, because drinking in public makes you look cool or something.
   
5. If you're going to smoke weed, follow the rules from grade school. I hope you brought enough for the whole class.
6. Don't smoke cigarettes in a crowded area at all. I know, you've got an addiction or whatever, but deal with it on your own time.
7. Don't sing along unless it's requested. I didn't come to hear you, I came to hear the band.
8. Stop crowd surfing. I've got enough on my mind without worrying about some dude's foot hitting me in the back of the head.
9. Note: Rule 8 applies only to men. Ladies, crowd surf at your own risk. Prepare to be groped.

While attending a sporting event:

1. STOP DOING THE FUCKING WAVE. There is a sporting event in progress. You're not paying attention and in the process standing in people's lines of vision. Unless you're in Los Angeles, stop it. Now.
2. There is a cadence to chants. Da-daah da-daah *clap clap clap-clap clap* is a New York cadence. Da-da daah-daah *clap clap clap-clap clap* is a Philadelphia cadence. Hopefully you know what I mean. If not, think "Let's go Flyers." That's a Philadelphia chant. All chants in Philadelphia should share that cadence.
3. Slow claps should be well-organized. Two or more people must start a slow clap. REMEMBER it's called a SLOW clap. Increase the tempo very slightly. Don't blow your load. A slow clap that lasts less than 15 seconds is a failed slow clap.
4. Do not wear apparel for other teams not involved in the contest. An Eagles cap at a Phillies game is okay. A Yankees cap at a Phillies-Nationals game is not, you fuckface.
5. There is a time and a place for abusive language. A sporting event is one of them. However, the abusive language must be witty and specific. Don't say "Get off your knees, ref, you're blowing the game!" because come on, who hasn't heard that? Keep it fresh.

At a restaurant:

1. Always tip 20%. A) It's easy to calculate. Divide by 5. Boom. 2) It's not too much, but it's not the bare "minimum" of 15%, either. D) It's not the waitress's fault your food was late. And tips are part of their salaries, so they're counting on you.
2. Don't be the asshole who orders a dessert when nobody else wants dessert. They just had a meal and now they need to walk it off. Now you're turning those calories into fat and forcing them to watch you eat a ridiculously delicious treat.
3. When you have to give a name, try to spice things up. You know it's not your name, but the hostess doesn't. It's kind of like pretending you're another person for five minutes. My favorite is "Slimer."
4. Take full advantage of any and all free refills. Turn every restaurant into an all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink buffet. It keeps the waitresses on their feet, too.
5. Two words: tabasco sauce. It goes with everything. Ketchup is for pussies.

In a bathroom:

1. Look straight ahead. Peripheral vision is dangerous ability in public bathrooms.
   
2. Don't speak unless spoken to.
3. Leave a buffer when possible. If impossible, use a stall. If all stalls are occupied, maintain as much free personal space as possible and don't dilly-dally. And no, that doesn't mean what you may think it means.
   
4. If you piss in places other people will have to touch, please clean up after yourself.
5. For bathroom proprietors: thank you so, so much for installing those automatic towel dispensers. They are a godsend.

At the store:

1. When possible, leave your child far away from the general public. You're the only person who thinks knocking shit over and unknowingly walking in front of me is cute. Kidnapping is a better alternative.
   
2. When you pick shit up, put it back where it belongs. I say this for the benefit of two groups of people: A) The employees, who must go back through the store and re-organize it because of inconsiderate jerks like you, and B) The fellow customers who would probably like to find stuff in the easiest manner possible, rather than combing through shelf after shelf of Barry Manilow albums just to find the misplaced My Morning Jacket album that the clerk's computer says is "in stock."
   
3. For clothing stores--why don't you ever have the right sizes? I swear, the only people with my waist size are apparently George Costanza and Danny DeVito. Do skinny people have this problem? Is every person in the world out of proportion, or is it just fat people? And if the stores are just selling more of the proportional sizes, maybe they should re-stock proportionally as well, no?
   
4. Find the shit you want and get out. In the Internet Age, you're already wasting time by even travelling to a store. You might as well give the stores more bang for their bucks.
5. Coupons are gay. You barely save any money with them, and they hold up lines too long. I need to pay full price for my shit and get out as fast as possible, okay?

On AIM:

1. stop trying to save the english language by using proper punctuation and capitalization, no offense to anyone who does, it's just a pet peeve
2. Type complete thoughts before entering them. Not necessarily complete sentences, but don't you fucking dare press that enter button unless what you're saying makes complete sense on its own.
3. If you're going to say "hey," you better follow it with more than just "what's up?" I am not a clown. I am not here to entertain you. You initiated the conversation; now you better follow up on it. Once or twice is a mistake; regular offenses are worth dropping you on my list of friends that exists only in my head.
   
4. Away messages are overrated. Being idle is where it's at.
5. Those links in your Buddy Info that track who's clicking your shit? Those are bullshit. What is this, 1984? The Internet is useful for one thing, and that's spying on people. Trying to crack down on spying is abuse of Internet power, and I'm not going to stand for it.

Those are the rules. Like I said, if you don't follow them, you better be really cool or I'm probably not going to like you anymore. I'm a hard-liner on some, a bit softer on others, but in general, if you follow all these rules, I'm less likely to be annoyed by your presence. Good luck with the self-improvement.

Allen Iverson

Everyone knows by now how impossible it is to be a Philadelphia sports fan. I'm going to save you the belly-aching about how futile this city's been for the past 20+ years. I'm saving it because I'm not upset, not sad, not disappointed about this city's sports team right now. I'm just fucking angry.

I've been angry before. I was angry when Scott Rolen refused to sign a contract that would have made him the richest third baseman in baseball history. I was angry when I saw that our starting goaltender for an upcoming season was to be Jeff Hackett. I was angry when Andy Reid continually refused to sign a short-yardage running back. But no team has made me more angry than the Sixers are right now.

Allen Iverson is one of the best basketball players of all time. He's done things that nobody will ever be able to do again. He has singlehandedly carried a shitty, shitty, shitty basketball team on his back and into the playoffs on a number of occasions. And now he wants to leave. And I can't blame him.

I don't want Allen to leave, ever. I want him to be a lifelong Philadelphia resident. I want to see him play here until he's 40 years old, and then I want to see him on TV when he's retired. And I want that just so I can remember all the amazing plays he's made. When he crossed over the best NBA player ever, making him look like a fool. When he exploded against the Toronto Raptors, going toe-to-toe with Vince Carter like two heavyweight prizefighters. When he made that shot right in Tyronn Lue's face, then stepped over him like Muhammad Ali.

It's funny to describe a basketball player under six feet tall like a heavyweight champion, but that's what Allen Iverson always has been. He plays harder than anyone I've ever seen, in any sport. He's Rocky Balboa. He's the perfect Philadelphia athlete. And I'm angry because he's another athlete that we've completely squandered. And on top of that, he's never gotten the complete respect he's deserved. Years down the road, people like my father will probably talk about how he was just a nigger. Fuck that.

Allen Iverson played hard every time he stepped onto the court. He was late for practice, meetings, everything. But he just wanted to play basketball, and when he did, he was always the best player out there. He elevated his game when he was going against the best. I'm going to spend the next 15 minutes punching things while I think of how things should have been. If we didn't have the dumbest motherfucker for a general manager. If Iverson had the quality big man and the reliable outside shooter that he needed to win a championship. But he never had those things, and he never won a championship. I don't want him to leave, but I guess it's inevitable at this point. And when he does leave, I hope he wins. I don't really have to hope for that to know it'll happen. He's the toughest motherfucker in the game.

Watch this and tell me you don't feel the same way:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LwTgriL29o

Goodbye and good luck, Allen.

I'm So Tired I Can't Sleep

Whenever I'm falling asleep, it seems, no matter how tired or awake I was before I went into "it's time to sleep" mode, I always find myself in this in-between period right before I drift into sleep where I'm thinking of things that barely make any sense, scattered thoughts that don't go together, non-truths and altogether really wacky stuff. It's like the beginnings of a Lewis Carroll novel. But I'm also conscious of the fact that all this stuff passing through my mind is completely nonsensical, and it's always encouraging--I know that I'm about to fall asleep.

Well, tonight I'm on very little sleep, and I'm very tired. But I can't sleep. I lay in bed and I think of all these somewhat nonsensical things, but they're not that crazy. And I can't sleep. But despite my consistent insomnia, I'm really happy that I've got the chance now to start writing about some of the really cool shit (or at least it seems cool to me, at least right now) that I'm thinking about.

There are a lot of things on my mind keeping me awake. But it sort of started when I somehow got Don Maclean's "American Pie" stuck in my head. It's been in there for over a week now, I think, since I was trying to come up with an obscure holiday to dress as for Terry Casey's in-its-very-early-stages-of-planning Obscure Holiday Party. I was so broken up that both No Pants Day and Talk Like a Pirate Day were taken well before I'd even heard of this proposed party idea, so I hit the net for some ideas. And I was stumped. But I sought help from friends in the office to find me a good holiday. Devon found one that fits me so obviously that I'm almost angry I didn't figure it out. The Day the Music Died.

So anyway, since then, I've had "American Pie" stuck in my head. But I've been thinking about the song--a few years ago, I happened upon a web site that--for some godforsaken reason--completely deconstructed the lyrics, line by line, pointing out every cultural allusion Maclean made. It completely changed my outlook of the song. It's actually a very good literary piece, and musically it's not bad, either. I've also been thinking about years ago when VH-1, in the pre-I Love the '80s days, relied solely on ridiculous Top 100 (or more) list shows to garner cheap ratings. They happened to do some sort of Greatest Rock Songs of All Time list, and went with the head-scratching decision to make "American Pie" number one. I was baffled. How did it even qualify for the list? Has anyone in pop music history been the least bit influenced by Don Maclean? Seriously, how can a Beatles song not be number one on that list? Or at the very least, a Beach Boys or Bob Dylan or Led Zeppelin song or something equally typical of VH-1?

And due to all these burning questions on my mind in the past week, I've come up with what I think the problem with lists is. In any given mainstream media outlet, "greatest" has come to mean "the best good." "Great" doesn't even mean "great" anymore. "Great" is too risky for the mainstream. "Great" is Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters and Hank Williams and Chuck Berry; "great" is not Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley or Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page. Those guys are all in the "best good" category. They're safe; they're accessible; they're taking what's already been created and marketing it better. That doesn't mean they're not better than those other guys. It just means they're not greater than those other guys.

So take this theory and apply it to, say, Rolling Stone magazine's 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. What's number one? "Like a Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan. Now, I'm not going to say Bob Dylan didn't influence anyone. He influenced the Beatles, which, if that's all you do in your musical career, is good enough to warrant legendary status. But what about "Like a Rolling Stone" is so great? It's a traditional rock song. It may be Dylan's only traditional rock song. It didn't change anyone's mind about music; it didn't spawn a musical revolution. It just happens to be a really fucking good song. Number two on the list is "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones. A three note riff, maybe the most recognizable in rock history. Vaguely angry lyrics. Lo-fi production. It's the Rolling Stones, for chris'sakes. How is this song even in the top ten, though? If this is the second greatest song of all time, what the fuck are we doing making music? It's a lost cause if that's the second best we can do. Seriously, world, stop making music. You'll never get better than a three-note riff and an unmelodic melody.

Now, you may respond by saying something along the lines of "Well, that's just Rolling Stone. You're putting too much stock in their list." Am I? Is there a better known, better selling music publication in the entire world? This is what Americans (yes, Americans, the ones who invented rock and roll) read every month. It's a piece of shit. And then they put on their VH-1 and sing along to the billions of verse-chorus-verse-chorus-verse-chorus of "American Pie" and they watch their NFL and drink their Budweiser and drive their SUVs. America, fuck yeah.

Okay, I'm coming off a bit too angry. It's okay that Rolling Stone made this list. Really, it is. This is what sells magazines. This is what even keeps people talking about music. It's the stimulation for healthy discourse. And if that list leads to five people seeing "Monkey Gone to Heaven" by the Pixies and wondering why they've never heard that song, that's five more people learning more about music. For that, I am satisfied with Rolling Stone's position in American culture.

What I am dissatisfied with, however, is this throwing around of the term "great." Pixies? Not very good. But great. Nirvana? Very good (yes, I believe this). Not great. The Velvet Underground? Should be unlistenable, really. But mind-numbingly great. Led Zeppelin, on the other hand, is a band of four incredibly talented musicians who couldn't have recorded a great song if God himself transcribed it and handed it straight down to Robert Plant.

The world is satisfied with very good. The world loves very good. The world cannot fucking stand "great." Great is new and different, great is dangerous. This doesn't just apply to music; it's an epidemic of culture. Democrats and Republicans are very good choices for political office because they're safe and they're predictable. They will do what we think they will do. They are terrible choices for utopia or dystopia. Well, who would want dystopia? I wouldn't. But dystopia is a great thing--it changes the world on a widespread level. There is not a single politician in America who will ever do that again.

But before I get too far up my own ass with cynicism, let's go back to some things I didn't fully expand on. You could make the case that "American Pie" or "Like a Rolling Stone" is the best good song ever recorded. They work within simplistic, formulaic song structures. The listener knows what to expect next and isn't scared away by something surprising and new. They have very strong lyrics that put the listener into the stories they tell. But at the same time, they are very unaffecting lyrics. Maclean's lyrics document an historical day. To the listener, it's in the past. It's very sad that we lost Buddy Holly, et. al. to a plane crash, but what are we supposed to do, bring him back to life? There's no challenge for the listener. Likewise, in "Like a Rolling Stone"--and I don't believe this was Dylan's intention at all, but this is how it turned out--we take the vivid illustration of the life of a vagrant and reflect on it. "How does it feel?" Now we think we know. But really, think about that--does anyone who's ever listened to "Like a Rolling Stone" and sincerely reflected on the lyrics have any idea whatsoever how it feels to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone? No way. Maybe some bums have heard it in passing. I'm sure they have better things to worry about than the lyrics to a song written by a man whose social circle was based in Greenwich Village and whose hobbies consisted of writing poetry and smoking lots of weed.

That's why those songs are so very good and so frustratingly un-great. The same could be said for John Lennon's "Imagine," which found its place at number three on Rolling Stone's list. John Lennon wasn't a communist; he was anything but. But that's what "Imagine" is about. Everyone knows that damn song; everyone loves that damn song. It somehow is more recognizable than most of the Beatles' canon. But it's such a vapid, empty song. Yeah, I can imagine all that stuff. So fuckin' what? That song ain't going to change anything. It might make some people feel all warm and gooey on the inside because gee, they really wish the world was a better place and that makes them good people. Sorry people, but listening to John Lennon's hypocritical hypotheticals doesn't make you a good person.

My final thought on the Rolling Stone list comes down to a band I've already mentioned: Led Zeppelin. Poll listeners of classic and mainstream rock stations on what is and always has been the "greatest" song of all time, and the answer will ultimately be "Stairway to Heaven." Rolling Stone put it at 31. Granted, I think the magazine had some convoluted ranking system compiling the lists of editors, reporters, musicians, and other industry types, which would contribute to "Stairway" falling so far short. But I think they should have made an editorial decision, an ultimatum on "Stairway." For a song that's so widely considered to be the greatest, it must be number one--or nowhere at all. Now, I've never been into the idea of being "controversial" just to sell a product (see the music rag New Musical Express, or NME, if you need an example), but what the hell is that about? 31? What an awful number. It's either number 1 or number 501 (right behind "More Than a Feeling," which I admit I was ecstatic to see on the list).

I am not arguing that "Stairway to Heaven" is the greatest song of all time, or even the best good song of all time. I think it's a ridiculous song in many ways. It's got a pretty freaking awesome guitar solo--actually, the whole section there is awesome. Its convoluted lyrics are simultaneously breathtaking and laughable, as is Robert Plant's delivery of them. But if that's the power and the glory right there, when Plant belts out "AND AS WE WIND ON DOWN THE ROAAAAD!!!!" it's gotta be either the best or worst song ever made. This is taking a stance on rock and roll, and you put rock and roll at number 31. I don't get it. If I were on Rolling Stone's staff when that magazine came out, I'd have personally apologized to everyone I knew, just because "Stairway to Heaven" was placed at 31.

The wackiest thing I thought before I didn't fall asleep tonight was the concept of what Rolling Stone does. I pictured this blue, spherical shape. It was incomplete--just a bunch of little blue dots, some connected, some disconnected. But they were in the general, vague shape of a sphere. There is a heavier concentration towards the middle. On the outer edges, the blue dots become less concentrated and tend away from the herd a bit more. Rolling Stone takes that blue sphere and looks at it, and says, hey, that's great. Then they take a white, empty square and place it concentric with the sphere. But the square is smaller than the sphere. The dots that stray from the sphere too much get cut off by the white edges of the square, and those in the middle of the sphere are included. That's the way music, and art in general, works. The world uses a square to decide how much of that art it wants. Some people place the square in different parts of the square--maybe there's a section that focuses on screamo. Maybe there's a section for opera. The most efficient square is concentric and tiny. That's what Rolling Stone is. And that's what America is. It's efficient and superbly boring.

And that's the problem with America. America can't decide whether "Stairway to Heaven" is the best or worst thing to happen to music. America wants to play it safe. That's why Dane Cook is so insanely popular (really? this is the comedic superstar of my generation? where's Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy or Woody Allen?). That's why Bill Simmons is the most popular sports columnist in the country. I mean, seriously--I don't cover sports, but I could write a better sports column than Simmons. And yet, his relevance and hugeness has me opening every column he writes. Usually I get a few paragraphs in and become disgusted with him for writing it and myself for continuing to read it. This is America, though. Fuck yeah. Vote Democrat or Republican in '08, listen to The Eagles, drive Ford trucks. We may not be the greatest country in the world, but we certainly are the very best.

God/Allah/Xenu bless America.





By the way, I have not taken any drugs today, except for caffeine in the form of a minuscule cup of free coffee I drank at the State Theater at approximately 8:30 p.m.

Year-End List, Paul Thompson Edition

In an insomnia-inspired fit of journalistically egotistical curiosity, I went a-googling tonight and found my name mentioned all across the interwebs. It's kind of creepy in some ways, but also kind of flattering. Sort of like having six billion distanced stalkers--all have the capability to hang on my every written word, yet only a few take advantage of the opportunity. But since you're reading my blog, I'll assume you're one of the few who do, and therefore you're utterly enraptured by my self-centered nature.

SO...getting on with things, here...I found my name mentioned on Paul Thompson's blog, which until tonight I was not aware existed. You learn something new every day. I could take this opportunity to gush about Paul Thompson and his wonderful contributions to the Daily Collegian over the past...oh, eight or so years, is it? But then, I'm assuming you've already moved your mouses as quickly as you can to the address bar in your browser to search the Collegian archives and do just that already. In which case you're no longer reading this blog entry, which is sort of paradoxical, in a way.

And there I go again. I'm in a wordy mood tonight. The point is that Paul's most recent entry offers a guide to writing your year-end top ten albums list in typical hip rock critic fashion. You can find a link to Mr. Thompson's blog to the right (from my blogger site, you lazy Facebookers are gonna have to go to grafsmanship.blogspot.com to check out my bland Blogger template before doing so, since I'm too lazy to simply insert a hyperlink--which I'm not certain would transfer to Facebook, anyway).

Therefore, a disclaimer--this is not my actual year-end top ten. You can see my top five in this week's Venues (that's called a teaser) and I'll likely write an extended addendum by the end of the year in this here space. This is, rather, my version of Paul's skeleton (sans blurbs--sorry, I'm not in the blurbing mood right now), and a fabulous one it is. My actual top ten will only ever-so-slightly resemble this. But if I'm gonna be a rock critic someday, I suppose I have to learn to make lists like one.

10. The Elected - Sun, Sun, Sun
9. Ali Farka Toure - Savane
8. Belle and Sebastian - The Life Pursuit
7. Thom Yorke - The Eraser
6. Bob Dylan - Modern Times
5. Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
4. Destroyer - Rubies
3. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
2. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale
1. TV on the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain


And there you have it: my 75% of a true story (if that) Best of 2006 list. And dastard (that's not a typo, look it up) though I am, as I typed out that list I realized that my top 5 that will appear in this week's Venues is NOT, in fact, my honest-to-goodness top 5. I played politics; I'll be honest. I didn't want to go super-indie on State College. But, as I think about what I cut and what I kept, I'm realizing that I placed one minority above another. Being a music reporter is a lot harder than you guys think; I swear. Okay, that's a lie. But if you make it needlessly, frivolously stressful like I do, it can be!

So naturally, if you want to see what the hell I may be talking about, you can 1) Check out Paul Thompson's blog; 2) Pick up a Venues/browse the Collegian site on Thursday; and 3) Look for my Super-Official Best of 2006 List in the coming weeks. But until then, I'm gonna see you again next time for another great legend of the hidden temple!

The Outtakes, Part Two

Okay, part two of the outtakes is to part one as this completely unnecessary Texas Chainsaw Massacre re-make sequel is to the terrible remake. That is, this is the prequel. I found my notes from Sean Paul's performance at the BJC back in September. As I typed them back, I found that they're very similar to the actual review published in the paper. I guess I had the foresight to try writing the review as it went along, since I'd only have about a half hour to an hour to type it out once I got back to the newsroom that night. So anyway, enjoy.

Bubba Sparxxx
The crowd erupted as the lights went out...and quieted after they came back on five minutes later, Bubba Sparxxx nowhere to be seen.

A half hour later, the show went on. The crowd bounced to Bubba's bass-heavy Dirty South hip-hop as Sparxxx half-heartedly lip-synched to a backing track. However, the energy escalated when Sparxxx invoked the crowd's hatred for Notre Dame and dedicated the upbeat, Timbaland-produced single "Deliverance" to the Penn State football team.

Sparxxx played to the crowd's wishes when he queued up "Ms. New Booty" to close out his abbreviated set. Every woman in the crowd stood and shook her moneymaker for the most inane chorus in rap. Every song in Sparxxx's set was ended with the same explosion sound effect. It was the exclamation point on a set that was more comical than musical.

In between sets, a couple uninspired DJs made the same reference to Notre Dame, and Penn State's number-two party school ranking they did before the show, then threw out free swag to the crowd. It was reminscient of some lame middle school pep rally, except I've never seen couples grinding at any of those.

Sean Paul fans got treated to an indecipherable MC who shouted out directions like a European dictator--and that was just the warm-up. Shortly thereafter, Sean da Paul was getting the crowd hyped with his upbeat hit "Like Glue" while a full band and camo-clad backup dancers did their thing behind him.

Paul's energy extended deep into his set. I'd compare him to Speedy Gonzalez, but I don't remember any episodes where Speedy sported cornrows, bling, or a Jamaican accent. Every song in the set flowed seamlessly into the next, with few breaks.

It's hard to judge the technical merit of a live show by Sean Paul, since if he forgot any words, no one would be able to tell the difference. It probably wouldn't have mattered much to last night's crowd anyway, as the Jamaican hit machine kept everyone on the floor on their dancing toes.

The authoritarian MC interjected when Paul needed a break. He apparently suffers from severe short-term memory loss, as he asked roughly 586 times where the "sexy ladies" were. Someone also needs to send a press release to Jamaica telling them that nobody does the peace sign anymore. When implored to do so during "Never Gonna Be the Same," the crowd awkwardly used the finger symbol that was last popular around the same time as bell bottoms and The Carpenters.

But Paul drove the point home, doing his best Bob Marley impression (which wasn't very good) with a slow beat and an acoustic guitar. The crowd was seemingly unenthused; they came for the hits. Paul saved his biggest ones for last, sending the audience home happy.

The Outtakes: Part One

It came to my attention while typing up my review of Friday night's Godsmack concert at the Bryce Jordan Center that I have a shitload of read-worthy notes that will never see the pages of the Daily Collegian. So I'm going to take this opportunity to talk about some of the stuff I wanted to put into my articles that got cut.

[Disclaimer: This post is highly self-obsessed, as I generally thought that some of this stuff was downright hilarious but just too inappropriate/not relevant enough to fit into an article. I hope you enjoy my wit as much as I do.]

From the Toby Keith concert:

Joe Nichols, one of Keith's openers, had the fattest drummer I've ever seen. I've seen fat bass players on a number of occasions, which makes sense, since the bass is a fairly inactive instrument. At least on guitar, you're moving your arm to strum. On a bass, you essentially use only your wrists and fingers to play. But drums? Come on. Drums are a full-body exercise. Both legs, both arms, and if you're adventurous, maybe your head. There's no excuse for this guy to be so fat. But you know what? It makes sense considering how fucking repetitive and simplistic these drum beats are.

Nichols got his biggest cheers when he played covers. I can't blame the mostly middle-aged audience for enjoying the more recognizable songs, but I can throw down a few bucks at any bar in town to hear a cover band.

There was more energy in the pre-recorded video introduction/hyper-extended Ford F-150 commercial than in the opening numbers. The main hook from "Stays in Mexico" comes straight from a Las Vegas tourism commercial. He uses some stage tricks, but they serve merely as momentary bursts of excitement between bland, hookless mid-tempo cliches.

There's no continuity to the set. He switches from a more rocking, risque song to "A Little Too Late," a low-key ballad, without allowing the audience to get on the same page. It ruins any chance of maintaining momentum. Right after, he goes to a party song, "Get Drunk and Be Somebody." I'm all for mixing it up, but you have to do it with grace. Keith's got no grasp on how to transition from his campy rock numbers to the heartfelt, honest ones. You wouldn't follow up "I Will Always Love You" with "Closer" by NIN, so why would you put "A Little Too Late" and "Get Drunk and Be Somebody" back to back?

"Talk About Me"--laughable attempt at rapping, though just a half hour ago he was mocking hip-hop culture in his intro vid.

Two songs in a row, he resorts to a post-song sing-a-long, since apparently he doesn't know how to finish a song.

The biggest burst of energy came when Keith's mic malfunctioned and the crowd broke into an impromptu "We Are" chant followed by the man deferring to his Easy Money band, who can actually rock a sweet brass section when called upon. Unfortunately, the brass section was fairly neglected in favor of more generic setups.

The momentum was short-lived, though, as this was Keith's opportunity to plug his box office bomb, Broken Bridges, even going so far as to show a trailer for the film. It also served as an opportunity for Lindsey Haun to show off her pipes, which, while it seemed forced, was one of the highlights of the show.

Guitar solo--disconnected guitar wankery. More cliche with "Who's Your Daddy?"

Ode to Willie Nelson--"I'll never smoke weed with Willie again" seemed to split the crowd. The willing cheered, the uneasy sat. I guess getting drunk and getting in bar fights and having promiscuous sex with anonymous women is cool, but weed? No way, man. That's crossing the line.

"Shoulda Been a Cowboy" got them back into it. But do any of these people realize cowboys barely exist anymore? You don't hear any rock songs like "Shoulda been a gangster," or salsa songs called "Debo ser un conquistador." Well, maybe you do, but they're just as stupid.

Finally got his act together, over an hour into the set. He's lucky noboby blinked, they'd have missed the dozen entertaining minutes of the show.

"American Soldier" claims he's not doing it for the money or glory, compars himself to a soldier, and yet he stands in front of a gas-guzzling Ford truck. He touchingly brought up a few men in uniforms. Then flashes a flag up on screen, has a short National Anthem, and finishes off his jingoistic ejaculation playing "The Angry American" on an acoustic guitar with with a flag pattern on it. It excited the crowd, who paid 50 bucks for this embarrassingly over the top crap.




More to come...