Strut Eleven

TODAY'S POST IS IN TWO PARTS. MY PART IS NOW. BOB'S IS WHEN HE GETS TO WORK AND DECIDES TO STOP WORKING AND INSTEAD ADD STUFF TO THIS BLOG.

part one: billy's inebriated recollections

Strut - Cheetah Girls (mp3)
(Yes, I posted this song last year, and I will post it next year if I go. It's just too cheesy and perfect not to.)

Tonight was Strut Night. Or, as a classmate of mine put: “This is the best night of the year.”

While it’s up for debate whether he would state that so confidently without having imbibed an excessive amount of alcohol, his aim was true. The Bessie Smith Strut, now in its young adulthood as an annual tradition.

I don't want to ruin my mood or the spirit of the Strut by getting too verbose, but I can't help but break down the following 30-second video with the passion of Kevin Costner reviewing the Zapruder film.



Let's work from the right. Or, as Costner might say, Back... and to the left.

In the background, right-center of the screen, is what we delightfully referred to as the Quiet Grinders. The guy hardly ever moved. The woman hardly ever moved. But very, very, very subtly, they were grinding. Just trust me on this.

Next, the guy with the funky cloudy Hawaiian shirt thing. At first, he just looks kinda funny. But watch again. And again. If you pay attention, he starts to look like a marionette. In fact, if you can zoom in, you will see strings dangling from his left arm and both legs. I only know for sure because I did this exact same dance with one of my puppets back home when I was in 4th grade.

The guy in the yellow shirt. I love his shirt. I wish I owned that shirt. Actually, I'm pretty sure I own that shirt. Also, that's exactly how I bob my head when I'm at a concert I love. Also, I used to own jorts just like that. Holy shit. It's my twin brother from another mother!

And now, to the true star of the show. I've had to watch CARS roughly 100 times in the past few months because of my son's unhealthy obsession with the film, and I'm almost positive that the woman with the visor is the original owner of Mater, the tow truck voiced by Larry the Cable Guy. Early in this video, you see her playing the fabled Air Guitar. But what you fail to realize, because you weren't there, is that this laid the important groundwork for a later part of the dance where she stops playing the fret part of the Air Guitar, and it becomes more of a Madonna-esque, public masturbatory kind of experience where it's just her and the strumming along her private region.



In a better world, I'd love to tell you this was the kind of thing we watched, but it wasn't. It was bad. Real bad. So bad you start using bad English and stuff. So bad you start drinking Miller High Life and enjoying it. And drinking it faster so all of you can leave with the excuse of needing another beer.

And then there's the sideshows.

The preachers -- who, for the record, have finally realized that telling everyone they suck and are going to hell isn't working -- got nicer. Their big signs just have general vague non-threatening Bible verses on them. They scream stuff about love and forgiveness. They don't have goatees. In short, they're a lot more boring. But in a way Jesus would find highly relieving.

The vendors. This year's best item was the "OBAMA got OSAMA" shirt. I'm posing (in disguise) at right with the vendor.



The sales girls. At left, I'm posing with the sorority sisters who drew the short straw and had to chaperone the Oscar Mayer (Anthony) Weinermobile. This picture is the closest I've ever come to exposing a large wiener via social media, and I hope for my sake and yours to keep it this way. What you can't quite tell from this picture is that these girls, bless their hearts, really really didn't want to take this picture. They were just being nice. OK, maybe it's obvious. But bless their hearts for trying not to make it TOO obvious.

Here's your final advice for the night, at least from Billy and "part one": the food. Chicken on a Stick from Champy's should be the next menu item on the list if Heaven ever offers a 7-course meal. It was fried and just a little bit spicy and had potatoes and onions and chicken, and I'm honestly shocked that no one shot anyone else this year at the Strut merely from fighting over these delicious wonders.

Almost Almost Famous

Variety Playhouse. Little Five Points. Atlanta, Georgia.
November 15, 2010.
Brooke Fraser Concert.

Who Are We Fooling - Brooke Fraser (feat. Aqualung) (mp3)

You want to be a true friend to them? Be honest. And unmerciful. -- Lester Bangs, Almost Famous

My first experience with Variety Playhouse was chaperoning seven students to a moe. concert in 1997. Jam bands don’t work for me. Worse yet, being responsible for seven adolescents in an environment where drug use is almost an entry requirement, made me like this particular situation less. I was new to the world of chaperoning and school, and I was uptight.

Everytime I return, that goddamn moe. concert comes to mind, which is a damn shame for the Variety Playhouse, ‘cuz it’s a decent venue.

I returned earlier this week for a very unique opportunity: to attend a concert for a performer about whom I knew almost nothing, about whose music I was fond but not a “fan,” and without anyone I knew accompanying me. The Brooke Fraser concert was a chance to experience the musical version of a stranger in a strange land.

Here’s my observations.

(1) The music business is meaner than Everest.
Brooke’s opening act was a Brit singer-songwriter named Sam Bradley. It was just him and another dude on a two-acoustic set. His pal was plenty talented with an acoustic. The set was a nice warm-up and had some strong moments. But here’s what I was really thinking about the back-up guitarist: The back-up guitarist for the opening act for a Kiwi pop artist most Americans have never ever heard of is a more-than-competent, talented guitarist. And he’s still just the back-up guitarist for the opening act for a headliner who’s virtually unknown in America.

Shark cages are more loving than the music business. If you’re in music to get laid, or to ride on Concordes, or to say words like “double platinum,” then there’s a 99.3% chance you’re in for the most depressing rude awakening of your life.

(2) “I write a music blog.”
These words are not meaningless in most situations, they’re downright toxically amusing. If I ever say this to people, the response their facial expressions can’t help but reply is, Why are you telling me this, and why should I give a shit? And this is precisely the reaction such a comment deserves in most situations.

But attend a sold-out concert, wear a cool wristband that embodies you with special privileges, and carry a sweet digital SLR with two lenses. Then, when you say these words, people look at you differently. Suddenly you have this weird level of clout in the only place where music blogs matter.

“You’re gonna write about Brooke on your blog?” they asked.
“Yup. That’s the plan.”
“That’s so cool. She’s so awesome. Are you a fan?”
“Not in the traditional sense. Just here to cover the experience.”
“Cool man. Cool.” (They had no idea what “cover the experience” meant, nor did they really care.)

Some variant of that conversation occurred at least four times. I won’t lie. It felt kinda cool. Perhaps because my bar of feeling cool is very, very low.

(3) Brooke is the cool big sister without the fights.
It seems like almost all fans follow a musician for one of a handful of reasons: their musical talent is worthy of awe (think: Rush), you lust after them or envy the lust they engender (think: Bon Jovi or Britney), you sense of a kindred spirit (think: Patty Griffin), or you dig the character and theatricality of it all (think: Lady GaGa).

For the fans with whom I spoke or overheard, Brooke is of the kindred spirit variety. This kicked up a notch knowing that Brooke is a Christian singer. While her latest album wouldn’t fall under “Contemporary Christian,” enough of her lyrics dance around that burning bush that it didn’t surprise me to see so many clean-cut doe-eyed Christian kids in the crowd.

Two large groups of college-age girls crammed in on either side of me during her show, and I overheard conversations in both groups suggesting that Brooke is that friend who never does you wrong. She always has the right advice and is completely trustworthy, and you never get in a fight with her.

A rough guesstimate had the crowd at 60-70% female. At least five or six dudes yelled out “I love you Brooke!” She’s married.

(4) Brooke Fraser puts on a good, chill show.
At one point early in, Brooke announced that she didn’t show up in Atlanta to put on some boring, listless show. In a sense, she was being honest. But in another sense, Brooke isn’t exactly gonna rock out. I mean, she’s not gonna rip down the glass with shrieking and guitar shredding. Her music might have moments of energy and exuberance, but it’s mostly a chill set of ethereal pop songs. And she and her band did a damn fine job of performing her set, keeping the crowd engaged, and most decidedly not just dialing it in.

She talked a lot, too. Some people don’t like that. They think it takes away from the number of songs you get to hear. But I tend to think talk is the one thing most musicians can’t help but mix around from one concert to the next. Monologuing is the truly unique snowflake of each concert. So I like it when they talk. It showed she was having fun and approached her job and her success with the right mindset. It was adorable.

And it sure beats the ever-loving hell out of a jam band stretching three songs and calling it a concert.

Visit her web site.
Get her music at eMusic.
Here's her cool video for "Shadowfeet" from a previous album:

Fiddle Me This!

Chopsticken - Barrage (mp3)

Life ain’t nothin’ but a funny funny riddle.

This week, my fine wife and I took our children to a special performance at another private school in town. The school played host to the musical “fiddle-fest” known as Barrage.

You take some Stomp!, you add a little Riverdance, and you center it around some kick-ass violin-playing, preferably by disarmingly charming young adults who can sway some mean hips, and you’ve got a totally entertaining spectacle that dares to suggest that fiddle-playing is neither stiff nor nerdy.

Granted, what cannot be removed from any musical spectacle where the description includes “Riverdance” is what we like to call Velveeta, as in highly-processed cheese product. The cheese factor with Barrage is high, and if you don’t like cheese on your musical burger, then you were bound to be a little put off by their schtick.

But children love cheese. Teenagers, in the right setting and mood, love cheese. And adults who don’t cotton to Beethoven or Puccini can handle a little cheese if it lets them enjoy some fiddlin’.

Barrage was born in 1995 and has gone through several member changes, much like Menudo or other groups where the performance is more central than the performers. (I just like writing the word “Menudo.”) Without doubt, energy, sensuality, and flair are all essential concepts to their performance.

The act centered around four hip and happenin’ violinists, two of each gender, all of them phenomenally talented at pickin’ the fiddle and playin’ it hot. The two guys were each charming in their own ways. Justin from Arizona had this kind of Justin Timberlakey feel to him, curly hair and big smiles and imminently comfortable with himself on stage. Mark was the bigger and slightly clunkier stage presence (probably because he was the newest member of the troupe) who could play bagpipe! Both seemed very comfortable connecting to the audience, although Mark’s approach felt like the guy you’d rather have a beer with. You grab a beer with Justin, and he’s too busy scamming on the girls or the guys (whichever way he leans) to pay you much attention.

The girls were a mixed bag. Annette was from Germany and lacked a bit of stage polish. Her biggest handicap, however, was having to perform anywhere near the presence of Christine.

Christine is the kind of presence around which you build an entire show.

Alec Baldwin, in Glengarry Glen Ross, says ABC means Always Be Closing. If real estate is about closing a deal, then stage performance is about opening. Create desire, or create connection. Put yourself out there in some way that makes as many viewers as possible connect you to something they need or want. Seem accessible.

The best stage presences open themselves to the audience and force the audience to take account of them. Wish you were me, or wish you were with me, or believe I’m that friend you never had.

Christine is a highly trained dancer with a focused background in ballet, according to their web site. Her body was its own instrument, and she wielded it with incredible skill. Every movement had purpose, and every position had reason. Everyone else moved a little stiffly. And why shouldn't they? They’re violinists, not trained dancers. That they were pretty damn good at all was pretty damn impressive. The others moved from Point A to Point B; Christine flowed.

She made eye contact with dozens of audience members, as if she was trying to communicate telepathically with us. She didn’t look as often at the guys, probably because they were all drooling, which probably gets annoying after a few hundred times.

But when she did deign to look at the men, her eyes said, “Jenkies, I know you’re drooling, and gosh I’m awful sorry I’m doing this to you, but gee willikers you have no idea the kind of damage I could do to you in 20 minutes.”

My daughters were also awestruck and waited in line for autographs mostly because they wanted Christine’s. On the way home they said more than once, “She looked at us!” If you can make the moms think you’re inviting them for coffee, the dads convinced you’re making goo-goo eyes, and the daughters think you’re the coolest aunt they never had, all done merely with the use of your eyes while you’re shaking your hips and playing some seriously nasty violin chords, then you are an exquisite stage performer.

Bigger than any performer, however, was the joy of watching almost 100 students from grades 6-12 on stage, performing to a captive audience, having enjoyed a lengthy afternoon workshop with some really cool and talented guys and gals. The look on those faces as they walked back off the stage, having participated significantly in the show’s second act, was... well, a barrage of glee. The song "Chopsticken," composed by one of the group's founders, is what they all played together.

America's Best Bar Band

The Bottle Rockets--"The Long Way" (mp3) (played it)
The Bottle Rockets--"Solitaire" (mp3)

Because they've hung out in a lot of bars.

Because they've played in a lot of bars.

Because they write songs about being in bars.

The Bottle Rockets are, without a doubt, America's premier bar band. And that, in no way, intends to damn them with faint praise. They are also one of America's best bands. And they are playing a free outdoor show in Chattanooga tonight. I'm fired up.

I don't even remember how I got into the Bottle Rockets, probably followed one of those alt-country flow charts that somehow led me to them, but I've been with them since their first album, and they have very rarely disappointed.

Who else:

1) writes songs about being in love with the girl who sits in the booth at a small gas station?

2) writes songs about a family burned up in their trailer because they tried to heat it with gasoline instead of kerosene? (played it)

3) writes songs that reveal this kind of wisdom: "If a thousand-dollar car was really worth a damn/then why would anybody ever spend ten grand?" (played it)

4) writes songs about a guy who watches "Sunday sports in his boxer shorts?"

5) writes songs about Nancy Sinatra?

6) writes songs about being "stuck in Indianapolis with a fuel pump that deceased?" (played it)

7) writes songs that reference Rush Limbaugh as an "angry, fat man on the radio/[who] wants to keep his taxes way down low?" (played it)

8) writes songs about coffee?

9) writes songs about the "kid next store [who]...ain't comin' back no more" because he went off to fight in the Middle East?

10) writes songs about an abused woman sitting alone smoking cigarettes who threw her man out of the house but knows damn well that if he'll just call, she'll take him back?

And all of that is in addition to the songs about the bars--like "Slo Tom's" (played it) a shitty little bar that is right down the block from where they live and "ain't much a nuthin' but it sure is somethin'," or a bar where the narrator is seeing double, but is counting on "One of You" to help him get home.

And in addition to that, Brian Henneman's songs convey the underlying romanticism of the best country music with some of the prettiest, saddest little songs you'll ever hear, like "Got What I Wanted, But Lost What I Had" and "Pot Of Gold." Their reach extends from the loneliness of modern cowboys to the Kit Kat Clock that's "hangin' in the kitchen." (played it)

Add, finally, add to that a band that's tighter than a nun's crotch, with two killer guitar players, one of whom, Henneman, also possesses a wry sense of humor and an unabashed love of Neil Young and you've got authentic American roots rock at its finest.

The Bottle Rockets are one of those bands that you kind of take for granted because they aren't that popular and so you kind of figure they will always kind of be around, but now that they are here, now that I've written about them, it all kind of coalesces for me: Man, these guys are really, really good and I can't wait to see them.

The Bottle Rockets' new CD, Lean Forward, is available at eMusic.

In Defense of Karaoke

Rough Night In Jericho - Dreams So Real (mp3)
Try Too Hard - Pink (mp3)

Forthwith is my attempt to defend karaoke. It is an admittedly uphill battle.

Chattanooga recently opened up a new karaoke bar downtown. “Sing It Or Wing It.” I know what you’re thinking. “What town doesn’t need another karaoke bar??”

The exciting part is that the bar has added to the closest thing Chattanooga has to a Nightlife Strip. We have approximately 14 bars and restaurants over a stretch of eight square blocks. Compared to any number of stretches in actual cities, this is laughable and pathetic, but for The Noog, it’s practically Bourbon Street. There’s even a stretch of about 30 minutes each year when there’s enough of a crowd in all these bars to, like, totally populate a McDonalds or something.

Anyway, Sing It Or Wing It is clearly a nascent bar crafted by someone whose heart is in the right place, but who didn’t quite grasp the true complexities of making a Great Karaoke Bar.* And by “Great Karaoke Bar,” what I really mean is “All karaoke bars should aspire to be Cat’s Meow.”

* -- This bar, as best I can tell, is all karaoke, all the time. It’s not one of those bajillions of places that rent an emcee and set-up for one or two nights each week. Karaoke is what this bar does, all day, all night, angels watching over me my Lord. It's like those dueling piano bars, but requiring less talent.

My wife and I spent a valuable portion of a rare date night in the confines of Sing It Or Wing It. While I enjoyed it, I couldn’t help seeing all the glaring and obvious ways the place could truly reach its pinnacle of potential. So, to the owner of Sing It Or Wing It, a bar I totally want to thrive, I offer the following open suggestions.

(1) More than One Mike on Stage
Drunk tone-deaf people prefer performing in packs. And, honestly, an audience much prefers a large group of stupid goofy drunk people making fools of themselves over a sad solitary soul, drunk or sober. Watching one person sing off-key to “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” doesn’t do anything but make you either want to drink more or wish you were at Chili’s.

(2) Give The People The Words
Yes, it’s important for the person singing to have the words and to hear the music. But more important, in a land where more singers suck than dentists prefer Dentyne (that’s 4 out of 5, for those born after 1985), is providing the almost always sympathetic audience with the lyrics as well. The audience wants to sing along. Even the people who don’t want to get on stage want to sing along. It’s why we go. To mock, and to dream. Some dream on stage. Most just dream haphazardly on their barstool. And that’s OK. Karaoke bars need those people to thrive. So give them what they want, which is the fucking words!!

(3) Two More Decent Speakers
As we sat and listened to the performers, the toughest part was making out the music. (No, not making out TO the music... just hearing the stuff.) While in a relatively narrow and acoustically powerful space, the speakers blasting the music were insufficient to cover the area. Further, when it comes to a bar, you don’t want people incapable of conversation. The perfect volume is one where people can, with a little extra gusto, enjoy their standard barroom convo without wincing too painfully about that lady who thinks she’s Trisha Yearwood. If the sound is limited to just a few speakers in the front and in the back, the only way to get the right volume to the folks in the middle is to deafen the corner areas. Add a couple of good speakers to the middle and avoid that problem.

(4) Chalk Board!
The most important feature at Cat’s Meow -- which, admittedly, is packed and full of willing participants every night -- is the beloved chalk board to the right of the stage. It tells you how many people are in line. It tells you how long you’ll have to wait. It tells you everything. Granted, it’s gotta be a pretty successful bar, so maybe SIOWI isn’t there yet. But if you know you can rely on a decent crowd, it helps people to know where they stand in the que. How many beers they’ll be able to enjoy before they shame themselves. How many different places they can go before coming back to sing. Whatever.

(5) We’re Not All Alright
I know it’s the 21st Century, and I know Stuart Smalley is our hero and god, but the terrible awful no good truth is that we can’t all sing. Even more, there’s good, there’s OK, there’s bad, and there’s ugly. Unfortunately karaoke bars make a significant chunk of their profit off the people who make possums weep, who give baby kittens nightmares, who kill mockingbirds with their tonality, so they can’t shame them, and they can’t ignore them. But you can keep their performances in check and properly measured. I think a decent karaoke bar needs, at the very least, a Good-Bad-Ugly pattern. Know your crappy regulars well enough to make sure they’re properly spaced.

(6) The Emcee Is The Special Sauce
This last one is for down the road, once the owner knows she’ll make her money back and wants to hit that next level where karate masters get that sublime glow that covers their bodies and make Sho’Nuff wet his pants. What a karaoke bar needs, badly, is a captivating and talented emcee.

Cat’s Meow lets its emcee(s) perform every other song, and that’s too much unless you’re on Bourbon Street and never suffering for patrons, but a talented and charismatic emcee can help stack the deck in times when the Good-Bad-Ugly pattern is falling apart. Someone get up there and stop singing or suck? Super Emcee to the rescue! Need an upbeat number? Step up, Super Emcee! Revive that crowd!!

SIOWI has a little time before this becomes essential, but if they maintain a crowd, they’ll need to find some talent behind that mike. And I don't mean to poop on the lady who emcee'd last night. She was fine, and she thought everyone did a great job. But eventually, when you've hit your stride, you're gonna need some serious pizazz running the show, the karaoke equivalent of Tom Cruise in Cocktail.

Good luck, SIOWI, and to all you readers out there, Support Your Local Karaoke Bar and help keep the pathetic off-key loser goobers in one centralized location!

For those who must know, I did go up and sing. I sang "Superstition," the Stevie Wonder version. It's way out of my comfort zone, but since I knew no one there but my dear wife, I figured why the hell not.

Observations from The Strut

Strut - Sheena Easton (mp3)
Strut - Cheetah Girls (mp3)

The Bessie Smith Strut is an annual Chattanooga tradition, a Monday around which all portions of The Noog community gather on Martin Luther King Boulevard to enjoy music, vendor grub, and beer all in the name of togetherness, drunkenness, and blues baby blues.

For the second straight year, I was bullied and intimidated into attending Chattanooga's largest annual no-admission event by my BOTG partner in crime, and that's why you've gotta love Bob.

Originally I'd planned to write something about vampires today, but you can't be all hungover from Strutting and then not write about The Strut. So here are some observations from this year's adventures:

WHERE ARE YOU DIAPER LADY?
Last year, a super-skinny black woman in a neon shimmery green matching bonnet and diaper hung out near us and danced almost as badly as she dressed. There was no such lady this year. The freak eye candy wasn't nearly as fun this year, although we did have one guy who looked like he'd been excommunicated from the Hari Krishnas, and a large number of people with their entire bodies covered with terrible tattoos. (No, I'm not saying tattoos are terrible; I'm saying that the tattoos covering these particular bodies were terrible.)

POLISH SAUSAGE IS DA BOMB
After four beers, and after standing in 93-degree heat (heat index: 101) for a couple of hours, very few food items would taste bad. I ordered a delicious Polish sausage and ate it so fast I had to convince myself it wasn't just a dream. Unfortunately, Bob forgot a very important rule of food purchases: Make sure your Polish Sausage isn't charred black to the core. In all my years of knowing him, I've never seen Bob react to a bite of food like he reacted to his first bite of that Polish Sausage. In fact, his reaction was almost exactly like the lady's reaction to her Whammy Burger at the3:32 mark of this clip from "Falling Down."



GOD IS WATCHING US... BUT FROM A SAFE DISTANCE
It's called "plausible deniability," and God wants it as much as anyone. He's definitely watching us, as Bette Midler insisted so many years ago in her cheesy awful song, but I think He stays at a distance more for His sake than for ours. At moments, being at the Strut reminds you why humanity is so cool. Then overweight redneck white men start showing up with signs and handing out cards explaining why we all shouldn't get along because God will smite those who don't worship Jesus exactly the way overweight redneck white men do.

IF IT WALKS LIKE A DUCK...
Chattanooga, for all the great reasons to enjoy this town, has suffered a little bit of a crime relapse lately, and especially in gang-related matters. We had a shooting in a downtown park a few months back where the police insisted it "wasn't gang-related" even though numerous bystanders observed that the conflict involved two different groups sporting two very distinct and consistent color choices in their clothing. Last night, the Strut ended with serious crowd panic and dispersal -- although I never heard a gunshot, someone familiar running past me said he did. As I hopped on my scooter to find my next bottle of water, I motored past nine young black males, all wearing either red shirts, red bandanas, or red belts. Lot of red. Now, with as little as I know about anything, particularly inner-city life, maybe I'm jumping to unfair conclusions to say it was members of a gang. Maybe they were a soccer team. Maybe they were all wearing Spain jerseys in anticipation of their World Cup match. Maybe they're volunteer firemen. But I'm gonna go with the theory that it was a gang.

TANK TOPS... A GUILTY PLEASURE
This one probably speaks for itself. I probably shouldn't make much of an effort to explain it further. They're kinda cheap and low-class, but my goodness they can look nice.

"ARE YOU GUYS GAY?"
Bob and I concluded our evening at a local dive where they were holding Trivia Night. After we proved ourselves marginally useful for one team of competitors, the crowd mostly died down, and Bob and I sat at the bar nursing the night's final beer. Some early 20s dude in a white button-down over a white wife-beater and carefully-manicured hair pulls up next to Bob with the tremendous introduction: "Are you guys gay?" Bob and I looked at one another and shrugged. If I recall, Bob's response was something like, "Maybe, but we have five children between us."

Point is, if some dude you've never met comes up to you and starts his conversation with that question, please don't let him sit down and destroy whatever conversation you were having with your not-gay friend of the same sex. Especially if the kid was home-schooled and looks like a mix between Ducky and Patrick Dempsey from Can't Buy Me Love.

Consider yourself warned.

To Be A Witness

Coast Is Clear (live) - Curve (mp3)

Wake Up Exhausted (semi-live) - Alkaline Trio (mp3)

In the late summer months of 2008, fellow BOTG'er Bob and I had a back-and-forth regarding the comparative joys and downfalls of recorded music versus the experience of a live performance. In that semi-debate, I begged to find live music lacking by comparison. After last night, although I still stand by much of my argument, I feel I owe an apology to my blog partner.

On Monday night, I witnessed the glorious sight of my alma mater, UNC, winning their fifth national championship on a TV screen in Chattanooga. I stood, nervous and fidgety and with a pitch half an octave above my normal range, with some 25 other alumni and family members in the pool house of one of Chattanooga's newer and nicer downtown condo complexes. The atmosphere and experience were fine. We won a championship, and the feeling was very cool.

Quite a different experience from my national championship memories from 2005 and 1993.

In 1993, I was a junior in Chapel Hill. We watched the game on our (at the time) huge 26-inch low-def TV with a dozen or so friends, and then we sped up (thank God for non-drinking friends!) to Franklin Street -- "downtown" in Chapel Hill is, for all intents and purposes, a six-block stretch of a single street -- and joined the 20,000+ people who were in the streets to celebrate a truly unifying moment.

It was a horrible night for such a celebration, to be honest. A freezing drizzle fell most of the night, and temperatures sank from the low 50s down as time passed. With the trusty assistance of Alka Hall, I managed to stay plenty warm, as did most of the other thousands around me. Those who were still cold found furniture and other flammable materials and burned them in the streets. (It was a humanitarian act, much like Han Solo slicing that Tauntaun with a light saber in order to keep Luke warm.)

By the end of the night:

• I'd been kissed on the lips by two great female friends who would never have otherwise kissed me and never did again;
• my beautiful cream-colored sweater (I've always been a sweater guy) had been spray-painted with "UNC #1"
• one of my roommates passed out in the bushes five blocks away;
  
• another roommate reunited (again) with the ex-girlfriend he would ultimately marry;
  
• I'd been quoted by a Daily Tar Heel reporter as saying, "Because they told us not to," in answering the question, "Why are so many people jumping over the fires?"
  
• I'd met someone who would later become a three-week girlfriend of sorts;
  
• I discovered that I love everything about a celebratory crowd so long as gunshots and rock-slinging never get involved.
  

Rumors of coeds having sex in the trees or in the street were greatly exaggerated. At least, in the streets and trees where I looked. And I did look. Still, as wild nights go, it was the wildest night of my life considering the numbers of people and the activities involved.

In 2005, I was in St. Louis with that same now-married roommate thanks to the incredible fortune of having, as one of my student advisees, a young man whose father was highly-connected at UNC. I sat with said family 23 rows from the floor, behind the very backboard where freshman Marvin Williams made the play that helped seal the victory down the stretch. While the post-victory celebration wasn't comparable in numbers or insane acts, the evening had with it this religious exhilaration of having witnessed something transcendent in person for the first and likely last time.

On Monday night, while we celebrated the victory by... cleaning up.

We stared at the screen, through myriad commercials, all to wait for the cheesiest season-concluding tradition this side of the credits to Solid Gold, Luther Vandross' "One Shining Moment." I received text messages from Frank, the young man whose parents gave -- yes, gave -- me that 23rd-row ticket. He's a sophomore at UNC, and he was kind enough to empathize with my jonesing to be on Franklin Street and send me cell phone pictures documenting the night. He at one point got hit in the head by a removed street sign, but no matter to those in such heightened states of existence. (One such picture included at right.)


This leads me back to Bob's argument about live music over the recorded stuff and why I must apologize to him.

My experience of witnessing UNC's national championship on Monday was, basically, a recording. It wasn't the real experience. The concert experience is being in a town of tens of thousands whose spirit and focus and energy is aimed smack dab in the same direction as yours. The concert experience is watching the game itself play out before your very eyes not 100 feet away. Sure, I was totally giddy on Monday night, but it was a different and weaker kind of giddy.

The live version would have been so much better. And it's not even close.

House Concerts 4 Sale

Bill Mallonee--"Punk Rock's Dead" (mp3)
Vigilantes of Love--"This Time Isn't One Of Them" (mp3)

It must be disconcerting, if you've been even the slightest version of a rock star, to walk into the first suburban home for your first suburban house concert. 'Oh, my God,' you must think, 'is this really what the rest of the journey is going to be like? Am I really going to talk to mothers with a baby in one arm and an Amstel Light in the other instead of women of indeterminate age who wait after the show to tell me how much they love my songs? Am I really going to talk to men who preen like peacocks because they're hosting my show and they want to tell me about the time that they, too, were in a band? Where is the rider that guarantees me 4 chilled bottles of a vintage chardonnay, a tray of sushi, and a private dressing room? Will my car hold up for the trip back home?'

But, then you realize that you are going to make some money tonight and that you will be playing in front of a crowd of people who love your music, or at least who know someone who does.

Welcome to the world of house concerts. I'm pretty sure it's a late-to-post 90's phenomena, this idea that any of us can get a not-as-popular-as-he-or-she-used-to-be-singer-songwriter to come play a concert at our house for a pass-the-hat price of several hundred dollars. To us, it's a bargain, an exciting event. To the performer, it's money, maybe a chance to play, maybe a stopgap measure in a career that might revive.

Thanks to the initiative of our friend John, we've now hosted 4 house concerts among our friends here in Chattanooga. All have featured Bill Mallonee, former songwriter and lead singer of the band Vigilantes of Love. Bill is a good sport about all of this--house concerts have helped him to get through some tough times and he has the kind of engaging personality that allows you to feel like he really enjoys and appreciates the chance to play for you. He's also pretty receptive to requests, and, even though he write a fresh bunch of good songs each year, he has the sense to build a show that mixes favorites with new stuff. And, you get to know Bill and his wife, Muriah, and they remember you when they come back, so it gets a little more personal each time. In short, he's the real deal, and the ideal house concert performer.

From his perspective, house concerts allow him to maintain contact with a fan base (for who would initiate a house concert if he or she wasn't a big fan) and to build something of a tour, that would, no doubt, include some clubs and festivals, but would fill the time and space between with house concerts. All things, of course, are relative, but regardless of where you once might have been, $500 for 1 1/2 hours' worth of work is still a pretty good deal.

Working out the logistics for a house concert is quite interesting. Stop right now and figure out if you were going to host a live concert in your house, where would you put the performer? In the age of everything available on computers, are you going to allow die-hard fans whom you don't know to come be a part of your concert, or are you going to keep it private? Do you only invite friends who you think will appreciate the show or do you invite as many as you can to try to keep the costs down? Are you going to ask friends for money or are you going to trust that donations will take care of it? Food or no food? Are you going to provide the drinks? Are you going to suck up the cost if no one else helps out? Will you be able to host the show and enjoy the show?

Perhaps this is proof that the world truly is getting smaller. Or maybe that doesn't even matter. What if you could host a concert for your closest friends? What if you had a chance of saying, one of the best concerts I ever saw was in my living room? That's the lure of the house concert.

"Punk Rock's Dead" comes from Bill's solo record, Friendly Fire. Though he says it doesn't get much reaction elsewhere, it is a definite favorite at Chattanooga house concerts. "This Time Isn't One Of Them" comes from the Vigilantes of Love cd, To The Roof Of The Sky. Both are available at Itunes. Well, maybe not "Punk Rock's Dead." Bill's myspace page is here.

Live (rhymes with "jive") in The 'Noog

Mountain Girl - Blue Mountain (mp3)
Take a Ride - The Dirty Guv'nahs (mp3)

I owe my partner Bob a minor apology, or at least a clarification, in regards to live music and the worthiness of it in comparison to recorded music. (If you're just dying for Bob's original column and my response, there you go.)

You see, we were two of many hundred who attended last Friday's NightFall, a night in downtown 'Nooga where bikers and other strange people with a variety of fashion senses all gather to listen to talk to one another over the din of some random live music played on stage. NightFall is to concerts what the Macon Braves are to baseball, which is to say, people really go because it's cheap and a fun place to have a conversation whilst getting inebriated, all under the umbrella excuse of liking whatever's being offered at the venue.

Still, NightFall does have its true music fans, such as Bob and many other regulars. People who truly love live music but tolerate having to talk with others because they enjoy that, too. Best of both worlds for the Bobs amongst us.

Anyway, toward the end of Friday's set, we were all gathered to actually stop talking (more or less) and listen more intently to the band of the hour, Blue Mountain. Just three members. Geetar, bass and drums, aka Bob's preferred live music arrangement.

They had gotten themselves good and lathered up an hour into their set, it being hot as the fourth circle of hell in the D'town 'Noog, but they kept playing like they needed redemption and really wanted it. And I'm in total agreement with Bob that, with every additional instrument past three (four if you count vocals ala Rock Band!), live music risks getting muddier and more muddled, harder and harder to hear the the singer or any particular instrument. [NOTE: Bob, if I'm not expressing that correctly, just come on in here and edit it! You have the powah!]

The five or six songs I actually got to listen to (as opposed to just overhearing) were very appealing. They threw in their own rendition of "Squeeze Box" by The Who, which gave me an ecstatic moment of actually knowing the words they were singing. Fine job covering that song they did, sez Yoda.

I was so impressed with the 30 minutes I got to savor that I got in line and purchased one of their albums. (Yes, it just so happens that a ridiculously attractive woman was in line before me, but all we talked about while waiting was our children and how courageous she was to bring her 5-year-old boy down and watch over him while rockin' out. No exchanging of phone numbers. Or names. Or )

On Saturday, I popped that CD in... and it was OK. I'd hoped for a little more than OK. Could be that I picked the wrong CD to purchase. (The hot mom in front of me bought Midnight in Mississippi, their newest of all-new songs, so maybe I should have followed her on that, too.) Which offers me an opportunity to confess to a hole in my preference for recorded music over live music.

For bands about which I know little or nothing, live music can be every bit as vital, if not moreso, than their recorded music. Hundreds upon hundreds of wonderful live acts can probably put on one helluva show, wowing the crowd and wooing their die-hards, but somehow this electricity never quite makes it into the studio.

One key difference, and this can't ever be given enough respect in the music world, is the producer. It's tough for a Walkman powered with Everready or Ray-O-Vac batteries to hold up against something running on Duracell or Energizer. Likewise, it's hardly fair to compare these bands, with the only producers they can afford (and maybe on less-than-stellar equipment?), to the bands I adore and the producers their labels can bestow upon them.

For the Blue Mountains and Dirty Guv'nahs* of the world, give me the live act. Seeing these bands live is better than permanently possessing either of their CDs. In their cases, the explosive moment is far better than the long-lasting light bulb. That's hardly the kind of compliment I'd pay to my favorite bands.

* -- I discovered the Dirty Guv'nahs playing at Market Street Tavern early this summer. No cover charge, and we're enjoying a drink when this band kicks into a set that sounds more sincerely Rolling Stones-esque than any 'Nooga-centric band deserves to sound. They even closed the night by putting together a rendition of "Sympathy for the Devil" that not only seemed to last 20 minutes, but was also mighty damn good, as in I honestly think Keith and Mick could have sat there and said to themselves, "These redneck blokes ain't half bad."

"Mountain Girl" comes from Blue Mountain's 2008 compilation Omnibus. "Take a Ride" comes from The Dirty Guv'nahs' debut EP Don't Need No Money. The first picture was merely stolen from Google. The second was taken by my own cell phone on Friday night. I have not yet repented.

The Best Music is Packaged - A Rebuttal

A response to Bob's previous post

Thunder Road (live) - Bruce Springsteen (mp3)
Talent Show - The Replacements (mp3)

Give me recorded music over concerts anytime. But first, I must digress.

Before I saw him perform at the Dean Dome in Chapel Hill in 1993, I was hardly a fan of Bruce Springsteen. Before Courtney Cox hopped up on stage with him in 1984 whilst I witnessed the event from my living room watching MTV, I didn't know Bruce from Adam.

I was 12, fer' Chrissakes. I still thought "Hello" by Lionel Richie was a kickass song. (Lionel's first two solo albums were amongst the first dozen I ever purchased.) I was too naive to even appreciate the disturbing stalker professor nature of the song.

Born in the USA became the first in a string of Springsteen album purchases for one of my best friends, and as all good friends should, I worked hard at liking that huge LIVE 1975-85 box set he got for Christmas, even though that song "War" and the video of it really just scared me.

As a sophomore, I finally began to buy into his brilliance when a hallmate forced me to sit down and listen all the way through "Thunder Road" three times. This was while a keg party raged all around us, but John swore my lack of appreciation for the song was much more important than any girl. By the third time, I knew he was right.

A year later, Bruce had released both Better Days and Lucky Town to an array of opinion, but I was a nascent fan, so he could do no wrong. A girl I pined over for two years mentioned he was coming to town, so we camped out together and got second row upper level seats. Hell, just getting to be in line with her was worth the money. We were going on a date! I thought!

I have told many friends about this particular concert. It was, simply put, the single most impressive concert experience I've ever had. Springsteen played for right at three hours (maybe 2:45 if you take away the breaks between two encores), all the while my date-slash-friend held a lengthy and flirty conversation with the two Army dudes from Fort Bragg sitting behind us. But even her betrayal wasn't enough to take my attention away from Bruuuuce, whose joy for performing has been plenty well-documented.

He sang "Thunder Road" the way he performs it on the MTV Concert album, the way some dude who was older in the tooth would sing it, all the while crying for and laughing at the young twenty-something who wrote the song in the first place. That song is so freakin' amazing that it's stunning at any speed, even with the inestimable Roy Bittan laying down some mood-altering organ instead of pounding on that wonderful piano. "Light of Day" was so transcendent that I to this day can even listen to the Joan Jett/Michael J. Fox version and still adore it.

The whole damn concert was an emotional injection of musical adoration. It made you love music more to see these veterans up there having the time of their lives performing songs they'd played thousands upon thousands of times before.

But then came the part that made the experience truly unique.

The lights went up. The roadies came out and started breaking down the stage. The crowd thinned out, but I was stuck with my date -- except now she was clearly just my friend, because she was still talking to this one Army dude while his friend and I exchanged frequently uncomfortable looks.

And then we heard some girls squealing. And we heard applause. And we saw the remaining ants on the floor below us rushing toward the stage, or what was left of it. Our eyes went to that area, where we witnessed The Boss and his E. Street Band taking off the roadie coveralls. They had merely sized the stage down for a more intimate set to be played only for the true fans who refused to leave and the goobers whose attempts at romance backfired.

We all ran down to the floor and enjoyed what, if memory serves, was another six-song set. They played long enough that word had spread to the exiting masses, several more thousand of whom came rushing back, packing the floor. (And this was before cell phones and text messages!)

The concert had converted me to a fan. That final encore made me a believer.

Of the many amazing concerts I've seen, The Boss @ the Dean Dome tops them all.

But if I had to choose between my memory of that experience or my ability to listen to any of my Bruce songs anytime I want to, I'd take the albums every time, and I wouldn't even have to think twice.

The reasons are simple:

1. Simple math, really. In 1991, I saw the Zoo Station concert in Atlanta, 10 rows from the floor, for $35. Or, in album math, roughly the price of three albums. If I wanted to see anyone who has ever sold more than 500,000 albums in their career in 2008, I'd have to fork over at least six or seven albums' worth of cash. The concerts haven't gotten twice as good. If they were only worth three albums in 1991, then they ain't worth a penny more today.  
2. I've never had some fucking moron scream out "FREEBIRD!!!" while I'm listening to my iPod.
3. On my iPod, no jerk next to me sings so loud I can't hear the Bono or Patty or Geddy, and I can sing along as loudly as I want without someone else thinking of me as that same jerk.
   
4. No one holds up fucking lighters every time they hear a cheesy ballad on my iPod.
5. Without the recorded music, nine times out of ten I wouldn't go to the concert. The egg really does precede the chicken more often than not for concert-goers.
   
6. Finally, and most importantly, for every Great Concert Moment in my life, there are 20 times when I was stranded on an emotional island in my room, or in my car, or somewhere else, and I heard a song, and my isolation was gone. Or I was overwhelmed with love, and I heard a song, and it me to an altogether even higher place of joy. Or I was sad but had held back my tears until I could be alone, and a song put its hand on my shoulder and let me lean into the nape of its neck to lose myself in a healing cry. As amazing as music can be in bringing people together, it's even more valuable to me when I'm alone with it.

 If all concerts were like Bruce's in Chapel Hill... it would at least be a harder decision.

'"Live Music is Better" Bumper Stickers Should Be Issued'*

*quoted from the Neil Young song "Union Man" off Hawks and Doves.

John Hiatt--"Have A Litte Faith In Me (live)" (mp3)
Richard Thompson--"Don't Renege On Our Love (live)" (mp3)

Got to see Robben Ford last night downtown. Never bought one of his cd's; haven't ever really even heard him, except on other people's stuff. He's the guitarist backing up Joni Mitchell on her classic live cd Miles of Aisles. He's even played with Miles (Davis). He duels with Stevie Ray while backing Jennifer Warnes on her cover of Leonard Cohen's "First We Take Manhattan."

But I'm not necessarily here to talk about Robben Ford. Great show, though, Robben. Guitar, bass, drums, my favorite of all band line-ups. Inspired soloing. Fresh-sounding songs with chord changes that would make Stevie Wonder proud. And unlike several other gunslingers I know, Ford a) can actually sing and b) interacts with his band. One of the things that bugs me about the late, great Roy Buchanan is that the band behind him lays down the most basic rhythm they can because they know he is the show. Ford gives the other two players their own space and spotlight. I knew I was in the presence of one of the better guitarists on the planet. Melodic, too.

Anyway.

I hate to break the news to you youngsters out there, but the older you get, the harder it is to rev it up for a live show. Anytime you think you might want to see someone live, there are a thousand reasons waiting to talk you out of it--kids, weariness, responsible behavior, money, parking, convenience, what to wear, how to drink beer and drive home, inertia, etc. The most overwhelming reason of all is simply that you're older.

Live music is a necessity of youth and a luxury of wealth. As the years have accumulated, I've gotten to see most of the "big names" that I wanted to see live (Tom Petty is a notable exception), and now if they're still big and still out there, I'm no longer willing or able to pay the ticket price for a big name rock show. When the Eagles busted out their "Hell Freezes Over" tour, and may they rot in hell for doing so, they jacked the price of concert tickets to a level from which prices have never recovered and never will. It's like gas; they know people will pay, so why lower prices?

So when I go now, I go for smaller bands that are still good--Son Volt and Gillian Welch are recent ones I've seen for low prices. Incredible shows, both. A couple of weeks ago, I went to see a free show starring Michelle Shocked and was pleasantly surprised at how good it was. As you get older, you have to want to make the effort.

But everytime I do make the effort, it reminds me how worthy it is to go see live music. Aside from the obvious family pleasures of children and intimacy, it is difficult to even come up with the short list that compares with live music. A great meal, maybe. A noble deed, perhaps. A party with friends. A sporting event, if the weight or outcome matters. Not a movie. Not a book. Not a beer.

I know this: I'm more alive when I'm standing in the audience in front of a band or a singer, maybe the speakers are a little too loud, maybe even (see warning from earlier guest post) I'm drinking a Michelob Ultra in public, maybe there's a light rain. Who cares? And it's these smaller shows that feel more authentic to me now. Maybe I'm just becoming a cheapskate.

As we stood by the left speaker the other night, peering between the wall and the front column at Robben Ford working the entire fretboard, a former student reminded me how much Chattanooga's music scene sucks. I nodded, but then recalled that since January, without a whole lot of effort or money, I've seen Emmylou Harris, Patti Griffin, Buddy Miller, Shawn Colvin, Robert Plant, Allison Kraus, Michelle Shocked, and Robben Ford. I can't speak for Chattanooga, but as a live concertgoer, I'm not doing too badly.

Richard Thompson's live track comes from off the grid. John Hiatt's comes from Hiatt Comes Alive At Budokan, available at Itunes. Both artists have appeared at Chattanooga's Nightfall.