February 27, 2006
Review: Rock The Line by Kathleen Warnock
This play is about fans waiting in line for 8 hours to get into a concert.
Okay, that's a gross oversimplification. But this is not a situation that is foreign to me, as most of you know. I have always maintained that waiting-in-line time is in its own dimension. Emotions are high, concentration is nil, you are liberated from mundane life for the most part, even now with cell phones, even back then when there are photographs of me waiting in line for the Who while studying for a history exam.
I bring this up only because the world Warnock brought us into is one I know intimately. So I am sympathetic to the subject matter.
This is why I was slightly disappointed in the story she presents. The characters aren't archetypal enough to extend out of the community she was inspired by, and weren't unique enough to make me care. They weren't strong enough to be a tribute, nor were they honest enough to make me believe in them.
Waiting in line is the great equalizer. The first one there is the first one in. Money, education, job title, none of it matters in the line. You find yourself having conversations with people you simply wouldn't have the opportunity to in everyday life, whether it's a district attorney, a waitress, or a clerk at Wal-Mart. Some of that was conveyed in Rock The Line, but not strongly enough.
"It's 12 o'clock. The door doesn't open until 8pm. What are we doing here?" one of the characters observes, early in the play. I wish this question had been addressed more honestly. The characters explore their reasons for being there, but it was all too cliched for me: the object of their affections, Patti Roxx, saved their life, gave them hope, was a source of inspiration. All of which are the kinds of things you'd hear in any line for any concert. The question to me has always been - but what makes you sit here for 8 hours when 90% of the people coming to this concert are just going to show up at 7:30, and probably feel that they have been as moved or inspired as you are? It's a question that begs exploring and it wasn't done here. A character who questioned that and engaged them was missing, I think. It sometimes felt as though the characters would be so recognizable to those in on the joke (like half the audience; I've never been to a *play* where audience members had attended multiple times and half of them seemed to know each other) that she was afraid to be truthful.
The moral of the story: there is more to life than the show. This felt hollow and weak, probably because I didn't believe the defining moment, where one character makes a decision not to attend the show and convinces another to go with her. We suddenly abandon everyone else and I felt short-changed. "There is more to life than the show" is something my mother would have said when I was 15. To women in their 30's, like the characters, that lesson has already been learned and rejected, and their sudden embrace of it seemed unconvincing.
Of course, so many things were just right on: everyone dressing alike, or at least within an accepted dress code; the shorthand that everyone speaks in - Warnock nailed it, while keeping it accessible to the audience; the little details, like numbering everyone's hand with a sharpie to keep the line in order. There is so much here that could be ridiculed or glorified, but since it was written by an insider, I was hoping for a little more truth. And since this was, ultimately, my story, I held it to a higher standard and expected more.
February 22, 2006
bob stinson, 10 years on
One of the first things I looked for on the internet back in 1994 was a Replacements mailing list. What I found was The Skyway, which wasn't so much a discussion list as a newsletter. Matthew Tomich would compile things people would email him into a monthly digest. I liked the old-fashioned almost-zine-like quality of the publication. Nowadays, it's far more infrequent, but I still stay on it for old times' sake.
Today, he emailed everyone on the 10th anniversary of Bob Stinson's funeral. He died on February 18, 1995. The post (which includes the eulogy from the service) follows below, and after the jump. I found it extraordinary, and heart-wrenching, and it helped dig up a million little 'Mats memories. If you've got 'em, I hope it does the same for you; if you weren't there, maybe this will help explain what those days were like.
Ten whole years have elapsed since the world has been poorer with the loss
of Bob Stinson.
Here is his eulogy, as delivered by Jim Walsh of the St. Paul Pioneer
Press at his funeral at the McDivitt-Hauge funeral home on February 22,
1995:
__________________________________________________________________________
Words fail me, as they have failed most of us over the past few days.
Yesterday, Carleen asked me if I had known Bob very well. I couldn't
rightfully say that I did in the traditional sense of the term. For that
reason, I was a little reticent when Anita asked me to deliver this
eulogy. But like everyone here, and another multitude who aren't, I know
Bob's spirit very well.
And it is a spirit, as I have discovered, that is next to impossible to
hold in a room, pin down on a piece of paper, or capture with a couple of
stories. At first, I didn't have my own words, so I stole someone else's.
This is from "On The Road" by Jack Kerouac:
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live,
mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the
ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like
fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and
in the middle you see the blue center light pop, and everybody goes,
'Awwwww.'"
That was Bob. That is Bob. And you know what I mean, because we all have
our Bob stories. They're etched in our faces, planted in our hearts, like
seeds we never thought would ever bloom into anything much more than
memory. Of course, now we know better. This week, all the seeds blossomed
into vines, and tangled permanently around our hearts. This week, we
learned a lot about Bob, a lot about ourselves, and just how much we will
miss this fabulous yellow roman candle.
Bob stories. Over the past few days, I've had the privilege of hearing
quite a few told and retold. It was like a wonderful game of dominoes
that elicited as many tears as laughs. Everybody recounting tales about
Bob's wit, his loving gentleness, his sense of humor, his appetite for
life.
And, as a matter of fact, there have been an inordinate amount of stories
about just his appetite.
Anita remembers when Bob was five years old. The family had moved from
Minnesota to San Diego, and Bob and Lonnie made a practice of taking the
25 cents Anita would give them for the church basket, and buy cherry pies.
Clearly, it was a pattern that would play itself out in adulthood, or when
Dog's Breath, and later the Replacements, started up, Anita remembers
feeding the entire band, and often a slew of their friends, after they'd
practiced at the houses on 36th and Bryant and 22nd and Dupont. Bob would
always eat his fair share. With the Replacements, his penchant for eating
fast food in the van earned him the nickname of Bob "To Go" Stinson. As
the rest of the guys would sit in the restaurant, Bob would go in, get his
food, come back and sit alone in the van until he was ready to eat. Two
hours would pass, sometimes, before he'd dig in. Peter always figured it
was because he liked to eat his food at room temperature.
One of my earliest food memories of Bob is 15 years ago, when the 'Mats
were making "Sorry Ma" over at Blackberry Way. Steve Fjelstad and Peter
were in the control room, and had just finished a take, and they were
getting ready to do another. Suddenly, Bob was nowhere to be found.
Then just as suddenly, he was back. Before anyone could say, "Where's
Bob?" he had snuck out of the studio, raced to Burger King which was a
good two blocks away and returned. He set up his Whopper, fries, and Coke
on his amp and was ready to go.
One of the last times I saw him, we sat at a bar and I bought Bob and Mike
Leonard some drinks. Bob caressed the menu, rolled his eyes with that coy
look he'd give you, but he never asked, because that wasn't his style.
He just looked at me out of the corner of those mischievous winking eyes
until I melted, caved in, and bought him a cheeseburger and fries.
Bob stories. It seems like we've been telling them for most of our lives,
and I have a very good feeling that it is a tradition that will not end
after today. Carleen remembers his love for skipping stones, fishing,
walking around the lakes and by the railroad tracks, and as a father who
loved Joey with the fierce, all-encompassing passion of a papa bear.
Tommy remembers his as a great brother, the two of them running around the
house as kids, flicking the sides of each other's heads with their fingers
until it felt like their ears were going to fall off.
Chris remembers the day Bob physically grabbed then 12-year-old Tommy, who
was running around with his friends, by the shoulders, and dragged him
into a Dog's Breath practice. Like any good big brother, he talked the
other guys into letting the kid play with the bigger kids. Paul remembers
Bob's special genius, his ability to rail against the stuffed shirts, the
status quo with aplomb. Paul calls it, "creative insanity."
My memory is of him walking, always walking down Hennepin, around the
lakes, down Lyndale, clutching that omnipresent brown bag of his. I swear
I saw him last night around midnight on 22nd and Hennepin I even did a
double take and I wouldn't be surprised if it was him. Last night.
That's when it hit me: the streets of this town are going to be a lot
quieter, and a hell of a lot less fun, without our Spanky roaming them.
Patrolling them.
Bob stories. The ones that probably stick in most of our heads are the
ones that have to do with his guitar. It all started on Christmas in
1969, when Anita bought Bob his first guitar, an acoustic one. He took to
it right away. By then, the family had moved from San Diego to West Palm
Beach, Florida, where Bob played softball, joined Cub Scouts, and
continued a love for the water that had started in California. Anita
remembers the time he took a summer job mowing lawns, and, after a
rainfall, tore up a customer's lawn on a riding mower. Clearly,
landscaping was not his forte.
Around the same time, he learned how to play guitar, and he made some very
good friends through it. When Bob's grandfather died in 1973, Anita moved
the family back to Minnesota, to the house on 36th and Bryant. Bob was 15
at the time, and the move was rough on him. He found solace, and learned
to express what he couldn't verbalize, through his music.
For the first couple years after moving to Minneapolis, Bob was unhappy
until he found friends, again with his music. First time Christ ever saw
him, Bob was bumming around the neighborhood on a girl's bike. He had
long hair, like his hero, Steve Howe [of Yes], and was sitting on the curb
smoking a cigarette, sneaking a listen to Christ playing guitar and drums
up in the bedroom. They eventually hooked up, formed Dog's Breath, and
later the Replacements. The rest, as Anita says, "was destiny."
Throughout his life, the guitar was Bob's main mode of expression. And
even though he will be remembered most as founder of the Replacements, the
fact is, he got just as much joy playing in Static Taxi, as the collage
attests, the Bleeding Hearts, and the numerous other bands he played with
over the past few years. He brought the same no-holds-barred approach to
all o fit. He did not play for fame or wealth. He played simply because,
as he once said, "I have a gas playing the guitar."
That was abundantly clear, just from watching or listening to him. He
became an inspiration to hundreds of thousands of guitarists out there,
but there never has been and never will be another guitar player like this
one.
I'm sorry to have to bring everybody down ever more, but I have to report
that I saw the Eagles last night. Bob was there, too during "Rocky
Mountain Way." But I'm here today to say that there are countless quote
musicians out there like the ilk of the Eagles rich, famous, practiced,
accomplished, clean, stylish who don't, in the entire membership or body
of work, have the artistry, abandon, instinct, ability, guts, humor, or
feel that Smokin' Bob Stinson had in his little finger.
There are a million Eagles out there, but there was only one Bob Stinson.
More than any guitar player I have ever seen or heard, Bob had an uncanny
ability to actually fuse his personality with his guitar, and express
himself through it. His leads made you actually crawl inside him they
were funny, intense, sad, and joyful, all at once.
Chris talks about when the 'Mats would do "Rock Around the Clock" at 100
miles an hour, and about how much he loves it when the lead came, and Bob
would, unfailingly, nail t to the floor. There are countless other such
moments you could name: the other worldly magic "Go" and "Johnny's Gonna
Die," the manic force of "Dose Of Thunder," the goofy insanity of "Tommy
Gets His Tonsils Out," the barely controlled chaos of "Customer," and on
and on and on.
Along with his playing, of course, there was Bob's special panache he
rough to the stage. I remember that magnificent face, scrunched up like
he had a secret. I remember his falsetto on "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,
Yeah" and "Little G.T.O." I remember him ripped off a lead he'd be
particularly proud of, flicking his wrist like "waiter, my check," then
patting himself on the back, all in one motion.
And, of course, there was the wardrobe. The gorgeous, and always
tasteful, dresses. The Hefty garbage bags. The overalls. The Prince
"1999" t-shirt. The little jean jacket. The genie get-up that prompted
Chris to start calling him "Sim Salabim." One night at Duffy's, my big
brother and I rolled a garbage can up on stage. It came to rest
perfectly, next to Paul. Bob pulled it back by the drum riser and climbed
in it as the band spun into "Rattlesnake" or something.
Halfway through, the thing tipped over in slow motion, and Bob and the
entire contents beer bottles, food wrappers, everything- spilled out all
over the stage. I remember being worried about Bob for a second, but he
kept playing, never missed a beat, and popped up, indestructible as ever.
And when he did, we all saw that he'd lost his skirt and that he was buck
naked underneath.
To this day, I have never laughed harder or had a single moment so fill me
with the pure wonder and liberational power of rock n' roll. That power
was evident off stage as well. Paul talks about the last time he saw Bob.
They were both walking on the same block, at different ends of the street,
and they met in the middle. They hadn't seen each other in a while, but
they talked about guitars, music, and Tommy like no time at all had
passed.
Others have said the same thing. Bob was one of those guys you had an
ongoing conversation with. It always seemed like you picked up where you
left off with him, even though you weren't even quite sure if he
remembered you, or if you had mattered to him. But then he'd amaze you
with some remembrance, or a lost nugget that he wanted to tell you that
he'd filed away in that wonderful spin art mind of his.
Slim remember Bob as a teacher; the most uncompetitive, giving musician
he's ever met. Lori Barbero remembers the last time she saw Bob. He was
tugging on her shirt at the Uptown, urgently, peskily, until she finally
turned around and gave him a hug. He didn't want anything else. That was
all. That's all he wanted to give, and to get. A hug. In some of their
last encounters with Bob, Peter and Jim Boquist had similar experiences:
After a typically all-over-the-map Bob conversation, he surprised them
both with a hasty, out-of-the-blue, "Love ya, man."
Yesterday, Anita got a letter from one of Bob's many fans. "I'm not sure
guys like Bob know what they mean to people who love their music," he
wrote. "For me, Bob's guitar playing always made me feel like I should
keep moving in life, no matter how much the odds seemed stacked against
me. I grew up with Bob as one of my heroes. He will always be one of my
heroes, somebody I'll tell my kids about someday."
I think that pretty much sums it up for all of us. Late Monday night as I
was gathering my thoughts to write this, my little brother called me up on
the phone, and he was sobbing. He articulated some things that I had been
feeling; that Bob's death was more than the passing of a tremendous
musician, a wonderful father, son, brother, friend, husband, grandson, or
uncle. He said that a little bit of all of us had died with him.
I suppose that's what people say whenever someone dies, but everyone here
knows exactly how true it is. The weird thing of it is, my little brother
had never even seen Bob play. Still, he felt it. He felt the connection.
He felt the spirit. He felt the loss.
And at the end of the day, that may have been Bob's greatest contribution:
through his guitar, through his magnanimous good nature, he made people
feel like they were his closest friend. Better yet, he made us feel like
we were in on that secret little joke that hid behind his omnipresent
grin.
There are people in this room that I haven't seen, or seen together, for a
very long time. Leave it to Bob to get us all together for one more
swingin' party. HE would've thought the suits and ties and pomp and
circumstance were silly, he would have wondered where the beer was, and he
would have been embarrassed by all the attention and the tears. And what
his passing means I can't begin to explain, but as Robert Frost said:
"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes
on."
And Bob goes on. On the phone the other night, through his tears, my
little brother told me that his band played "Sixteen Blue" at the Cabooze
last week, and that when he went to Slim's gig Saturday night at the 400
Bar, Slim played one of his newer songs, "Big Star Big," and sang, "I
wanna be a big star like Bob Stinson." At this, my little brother and I
were both getting pretty choked up, so we started to say goodbye. As we
were about to hang up, I heard myself say something that I haven't said to
him in a very long time:
"Love ya, man."
In the past few days, you've probably said something like that to someone
you haven't said that to in a very long time. Rock n' roll doesn't always
lend itself to such blatant sentimentality, but this week we have all been
provided with a chance to get a little closer to each other, and a lot of
unspoken feelings have been spoken. WE have been reminded that people are
precious, that the bonds that we have made through this slippery thing
called rock music are not dismissible, or intangible, or imaginary, or
Other. They are real. For that, for all of that and so much more, we have
Bob to thank.
So thank you, Bob. Thank you for bringing us, all of us, together not
just for a day, today, but for yesterday, all the yesterdays, and
tomorrow. Thank you for touching us, for linking us, for helping us to
recognize all the phony bullshit, all the stuff that doesn't matter, that
the world throws our way. Thank you for cutting through the crap, always.
Thank you for making us feel like we were part of something, like it was
us against the world, and you were the third base coach, wildly waving us
all in. Jumping up and down. In a dress.
Most of all, thank you for allowing us to glimpse, ever so briefly, your
irrepressible, childlike spirit. Thank you for allowing us, forcing us,
to acknowledge the very natural connection between hopelessness and
happiness. Thank you for this glorious gift. Thank you, you fabulous
yellow roman candle, for lighting our fuse. May it never burn out.
February 20, 2006
more comment bs
I had to do some tweaking with the comment mechanisms since I was getting flooded with spam comments still, so if you try to comment and cannot, please email me.
February 17, 2006
rock the line
This should be interesting:
ROCK THE LINE
Written by Kathleen Warnock
Directed by Steven McElroy
In Rock the Line, seven hardcore fans meet in the parking lot of a club in a Rust Belt town to renew their faith in rock and roll and its patron saint, Patti Roxx. Having traveled long and hard to be at the show, their love of her music is the best thing in most of their lives. But before the doors even open, they must first face each other.
I have heard that the Patti Roxx character is based on Joan Jett. I first wanted to see this because the story line seemed very close to a screenplay I'm working on, but now I'm breathing a sigh of relief because it seems to be going in a totally different direction. I'm still looking forward to seeing it next week. At the Emerging Artists Theatre.
February 16, 2006
Dear Bruce:
PLEASE GET A BAND TOGETHER FOR JAZZFEST. PLEASE DO NOT PLAY ACOUSTIC.
I am sure Elvis would be pleased to loan you the Imposters. And if not, EVERY FUCKING BAND IN THE WORLD IS PLAYING. Borrow Dylan's band. Oh my god, borrow Dave Matthews' band (it's just him I hate, not the band).
JUST NO MORE ACOUSTIC.
I know, the Pete Seeger thing is coming out. But go to New Orleans and rock the fuck out. Give Social D. a call.
And some new songs would be great. Break out that notebook.
Best regards,
me.
February 09, 2006
Grammy Aftermath
About 30 people landed here yesterday because they Googled "Grammys suck" and that number has tripled or quadrupled today. (There's also a huge quantity of people who want to know why Sly Stone walked offstage. That didn't surprise me as much as him actually showing up.)
The thing is, this year sucked the least, in my opinion, and Pareles at the NY Times captured why best: because this year focused on musical performances. Not that many awards were broadcast at all. There were actual performances, whether I wanted to see Mariah or not, it wasn't just a video for the record. There were production values. Aside from the annoying piped-in crowd noise, it was good music on tv for a change. It wasn't even that annoying ADD-type camerawork that we are used to from anything that MTV films.
I thought Madonna was underwhelming; I wish Bruce had delivered a stronger performance; I was reminded how much I like "Vertigo" and that I was probably unnecessarily harsh on U2 earlier in this record's release (and the only loss there was mine); Kelly Clarkson needs some serious coaching but how high are your standards, really, for the pop song category; and finally, am I the only person out there (besides Bono) who genuinely *likes* Kanye West? Did I miss that hipper-than-thou memo? I keep reading shit like "well, unfortunately, Kanye West won something" and I am trying hard to think of another Grammy spectacular that was that energetic or amusing or just enjoyable? I've been listening to "Golddigger" on repeat since last night.
Yes. It sucked that the New Orleans tribute wasn't at the center of the broadcast but it was structured as finale material, and my only complaint was that they ran the credits over it. Should it have been longer and should there have been more? Maybe, but this is the Grammy broadcast. 10 minutes in prime time on a major network is a lot.
And when people are giving thank you speeches, they are thanking people, and I don't expect them to turn it into some kind of political platform. Would I like it if they did? Sure. But I'm not going to skewer them if they didn't, especially in the case of Green Day, who already went out on that political limb with the fucking song in the first place, or Springsteen, who continues to happily attempt to alienate the more obtuse part of his fanbase (not obtuse because they have differing opinions, obtuse because they act like they're surprised that he feels this way). Do these artists need to stand there with a large neon sign reading "REMEMBER: THIS SONG IS POLITICAL" while they accept their award? I mean, jesus, doesn't Bono get shit for putting his money where his mouth is and sticking his nose into political issues all over the world on a daily basis - he had to do it here, too?
End rant.
Some real writing coming back to this space soon.
February 08, 2006
the grammys 2006: how much can they piss me off
And here is the photo worth it all:
~~exciting live coverage!~~
11:31. And thank you for playing. God knows I'm not ever doing this again.
11:30 FUCK YOU FOR CUTTING TO COMMERCIAL WHILE THIS IS ON.
11:30: Irma Thomas with Sam now. Bruce and Elvis are having a great time.
11:30: The Edge, Bruce and Elvis... and the Esquire is onstage.
11:29: Nice dedication to Wilson Pickett from Bruce.
11:28: I once flew 3,000 miles, ticketless, on a wing and a prayer to see Bruce Springsteen and Sam Moore on the same stage, and it still remains one of the best concerts I have ever seen in my life. Bruce and Sam Moore on "In The Midnight Hour" is unbelievable.
11:27: BRUCE AND SAM MOORE.
11:27: Where is the second song.
11:27: the Edge and Elvis Costello (who has always been a severely underrated guitar player).
11:24: this is pretty cool. I am kind of astonished by the actual quantity of real music and performance on this year's show.
11:22: WHERE THE FUCK IS THE NEW ORLEANS TRIBUTE.
11:21: Adam says something unintelligble. Oh good, they turned the mic up. He thanks their producers. That was nice.
11:20: "Kanye, you're next."
11:20: Bono is visibly shocked, but he stopped and went over to Kanye, who got robbed.
11:19: Album of the Year. The call here is for Kanye.
11:17: Bonnie Raitt and James Taylor. This has got to be leading up to the New Orleans tribute.
11:10: Richard Pryor tribute. isn't this supposed to end in 20 minutes? Oops. The tribute film did not roll.
11:08: The dead people segment.
11:06: Best new artist, or the 'who cares' award. John Legend.
11:05: this is interminably horrific.
10:58: Four minutes later and it still sucks.
10:54: This is the Herbie Hancock and -- Christina Aguilera. GAG.
10:53: Jessye Norman wins an award.
10:47: this is a longer post, but i have found myself in the improbable position of defending Green Day more times over the last few years than I ever expected. I am glad they won this.
10:46: Record of the Year. Green Day needs to win this.
10:46: Sheryl Crowe and Sting. Just great. Cream is getting an award.
10:45: I am still in shock. that was incredible.
10:40: this is f'in righteous.
10:39: Kanye!
10:35: Consensus in the Springsteen community is that Bruce said "Bring them HOME."
Right fucking on.
10:33: Clearly I need to get out of the prediction business.
10:32: So much for that prediction. I do predict someone in U2 mentions winning over Bruce, however.
10:31: As much as I don't want Bruce to win a Grammy for this, it's obvious he's going to get it.
10:30: Okay, "Bring 'em on" implies that other musicians were about to join Mr. Bruce Springsteen. Instead, Destiny's Child is standing onstage.
10:30: "Bring 'em on." Bono is giving Bruce a standing O.
10:28: Word on the street is that Bruce is doing two, possibly three songs.
10:27: I challenge anyone to show me how this is a rock song.
10:25: Here we go. "Devils & Dust". I am waiting for a dozen text messages from various friends with various comments and snarky remarks about how I never wanted to hear this song again for quite a while.
His hair looks terrible.
10:24: Tom Hanks means Bruce is next. But first, the Weavers are getting an award. This ties into the Pete Seeger record Bruce is putting out next month.
10:19: Bruce is probably next.
10:18: Now I understand the t-shirt. Macca onstage. This is really stupid.
10:15: Jay-Z is wearing the Bob Gruen John Lennon new York City photo tshirt.
10:14: Jay-Z and Linkin Park. "I was hoping LL Cool J would introduce Bruce."
10:13: LL Cool J is giving an award to Robert Johnson. I am having a hard time comprehending the point here.
10:07: Sly has left the stage. Again, trainwreck.
10:06: Whose idea was this? This is a trainwreck, in the saddest way possible.
10:05: Oh my god. He has a platinum mohawk. "If I came back after 19 years, I'd want a platinum mohawk too." He looks like Jean Beauvoir.
10:04: The concept of the medley should be blown off the face of the earth.
10:04: Thank god, Steven tyler, Joe Perry and Robert Randolph. Some actual MUSICIANSHIP. It's an interpretation but it's not one that sucks ass.
10:03: No, you do not get to rap the song instead of singing it.
10:02: Okay, will.i.am could be okay, but the backing band is HORRIBLE. Where is Paul Schaeffer when you need him?
10:01: And Ciara couldn't remember one verse of the song without a teleprompter. My niece can sing the song without a teleprompter. Of course, that is because I am her aunt, but still.
10:01: AUGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHHG MAROON 5 ARE RUINING EVERY DAY PEOPLE
10:00: I am hard pressed to believe that this is all they could fucking get to perform in a Sly Stone tribute. Who is this punk ripoff with the Supercuts do? Also, oversinging much?
9:59: A bunch of people oversinging. Great.
9:58: Here comes Sly. I am so genuinely excited for this. Please do not fuck it up. Please please please.
9:55: Dave Chappelle introducing. Or babbling. Or something unfunny.
9:51: Sly Stone is apparently in the house because they are now claiming he will be performing.
9:50: And Linkin Park are surprising me by not being neanderthals, but thanking MTV.
9:48: Best Rap Song Collaboration. Jay-Z and Linkin Park.
9:47: "The new rnb teen sensation!" and Carlos Santana. Alright. Mo Ostin is getting recognized by the Academy.
9:41: Jenna Elfman is introducing Faith Hill and Keith Urban. This is the moment the boyfriend has been waiting for, he is running out for drinks.
9:40: ARE WE GETTING TO THE GOOD PART YET?
9:34: Kelly Clarkson. That's the right one. this is actually somewhat charming.
9:33: Best Pop Vocal album. Sheryl Crow looks HORRIBLE.
9:32: I want to buy a drink for anyone who didn't give her a standing ovation.
9:31: There is a gospel choir now. The sound is off but her face is getting all red and stuff. I guess I should listen.
Um, no.
9:28: This isn't even worth throwing stuff at the tv over. I long for those days.
9:26: Mariah"psychobabble" Carey.
9:19: Only one person has thanked God. I am so disappointed.
9:18: Best male rnb vocal performance. "Who are these people?" We are savages. John Legend wins.
9:17: Black Eyed Peas are giving an award to Chris Blackwell from Island.
9:16: Still with the piped in crowd noise. even that can't help this performance. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah could have done a better version.
9:13: An incredibly anemic "Helter Skelter." "If you don't bring Bono up onstage, you're in trouble." Dream on. No one is going to share that stage with Macca.
9:12: There's the Beatle bass. "I'm glad I passed the audition." Hey, asshole, that was JOHN's line.
9:11: This amplified crowd noise is getting to me. It's starting to sound like KISS Alive.
9:08: Ellen DeGeneres is on. "Our next performer needs no introduction." She walks away and Paul McCartney starts to play.
9:04: Thank you, Edge, for pulling that out of the toilet.
9:03: Is this making any sense to anyone?
9:02: "Couldn't Adam just give the acceptance speech." I would vote for Larry myself.
9:02: U2 wins. The boyfriend is 4:4 and regrets not having placed any money on these. "You can in Vegas."
9:01: How is "prairie wind" a rock album? It's called "neil almost died so we feel guilty so let's nominate him."
9:01: Best Rock Album nominees. Bite me, Coldplay. And I will throw up if the Stones win.
9:00: Gwen Stefani and Billie Joe Armstrong. The boyfriend is betraying a preference for Gwen Stefani I have never been aware of until now. He seems dismayed she is pregnant. We learn that Les Paul is in the hospital, which neither of us know.
8:56: Kelly Clarkson. time for a break.
8:55: some slob from the Steelers is presenting. "Why is this asshole onstage at the Grammys?"
8:49: Kanye West, Late Registration. What *is* he wearing? He just pulled out a big piece of paper that says, "THANK YOU LIST" on the back of it. The boyfriend points out he is 3 for 3. He should be glad he is not here. U2 got thanked for bringing him on tour.
8:48: Best rap album time. Matt Dillon and Ludacris. Maybe Bruce and Ludacris could get it together. He's talked about listening to him in the car.
8:47: CLIFF PONCIER is giving David Bowie a Lifetime Achievement Award? And of course, Bowie doesn't show.
8:46: The boyfriend offers that "One" is U2's best song. I offer that we need to shelve this for another time.
8:45: This is one of the best fucking things I have ever seen on the Grammys. He let her sing that last bridge and that was BREATHTAKING. It was too good for the Grammys.
8:44: Here is Mary J. That green Gretsch is totally fucking wasted on Bono. LEAD SINGERS SHOULD NOT PLAY GUITAR.
8:42: Bono tags "She Loves You" at the end of Vertigo. Into the second song. "One," so Mary J. will be out here soon. I didn't get to hear this the last time they did it. I do a mean karaoke version of this song. (HI SHARON!)
8:41: "Bono needs to cut his hair shorter."
8:39: "We're the loudest folk band in the world." Uno, dos, tres, quatorze. WHEE.
8:33: I am now told that Bruce is a Kenny Chesney fan. I am even more concerned.
The boyfriend points out that he is 2 for 2 in predicting the broadcast awards.
U2 and Mary J. Blige are next. As the credits flash past, I observe that I would give just about anything to see Bruce Springsteen and Kanye West perform together.
8:32: Merle Haggard is getting a lifetime achievement award. Now we are at the Best Country Album. The boyfriend seems to be very interested in this category and I am slightly concerned.
8:31: How is "Devils & Dust" a rock song? there is nothing rock and roll about it.
8:30: Spinal Tap moment: there is interference in the vocal signal of whatever crappy New Country band is onstage now. This is funny.
8:27: Bruce is 1 for 4 in pre-show awards. He won Best Solo Rock Vocal Performance beating Neal, Rob Thomas, Robert Plant and Eric Clapton. The categories he lost in: Best Rock Song (to U2), Best Contemporary Folk Album (to John Prine), best Long Form Music Video (to No Direction Home).
8:24: John Legend is babbling about something. I am not going to pretend I care. I realize this makes me some kind of savage.
8:18: Strike that. Chris Martin is now running through the audience in a move so borrowed Bono will be calling the trademark office tomorrow. I have never seen them before and the blatant U2 derivation is making me hurl.
8:17: Chris Martin is 'spontaneously' climbing into the audience. I think I have reached the limits of any Coldplay snarkiness.
8:16: Chris Martin's shirt is too short and he's trying to pull it down. Um, Gwyneth, wardrobe check.
8:14: Oh, look, it's Coldplay.
"People who are overrated for $200.00, Alex."
I guess this is supposed to be spontaneous or something but this is so not working. Oh, look, they're going to perform. Time for a cold drink.
8:13: Kelly Clarkson won something. Her dress is unspectacular. For some reason she is carrying her evening bag up to the podium. This is "Female Pop Vocal Performance." *yawn* She is crying.
8:11: Acapella "Higher Ground." The boyfriend: "That was completely unnecessary."
8:09: Alicia Keys and Stevie Wonder. Stevie: "You look beautiful." He's cracking up at his own blind jokes.
8:05: "Madonna looks really good for a 50 year old woman."
"Right. If I had her money, her personal trainer, and her free time, I would look like that too."
"But still."
"Right, and she did take care of herself. She didn't do lots of drugs, or--"
"Oh, come on. She must have done lots of cocaine in the 80's."
8:02: "Where is Madonna?" Oh, here she is.
8:00: Here we go. "Which moment from tonight's Grammy awards will everyone be talking about tomorrow?" Um, not Madonna and Gorillaz. This is fucking boring, but I'm sure there are several thousand BOF's sitting in their chairs going, "Oh my god! Cartoon characters! We need to do something like this!"
7:54: The online tv guide listing for the Grammys says: "Exellence in the recording industry." HA!
February 03, 2006
CARE PACKAGE FOR A TOURING BAND:
1 Deluxe Roadmaster Road Atlas
1 book: "In Me Own Words: The Autobiography of Bigfoot"
1 2 lb bag "Family Size" Red Vines
1 deck of Elvis Presley playing cards
1 bottle 500mg tablets Vitamin C
1 set of Creepy Crawly plastic insects and amphibians
1 set of "American Band" plastic instruments
2 packages men's socks (6 pairs in total)
2 king-size Tootsie Rolls
6 packages Emergen-C