The Death of the Dream Band

Posted on August 14, 2011 | Leave a comment

When they aren’t discussing the latest band break-up or lamenting a new record, music forums are often spent focusing on hypothetical scenarios, such as: What if Brian Wilson had finished Smile in 1967? What if Cliff Burton had survived? What if I had more luck with women? The most popular hypothetical music discussion that takes place on the net, one that is reborn every couple of months, would have to be the idea of “The Supergroup.” In these threads, Joe Schmo can create a potpourri of his favorite axe-slingers and songwriters and imagine an ideal band; one that appeals to his incredibly diverse taste. When I see these threads, I am at a loss for words.

This could be due to the fact that I can’t imagine my musical heroes working well together. Stylistically, Rachmaninov (a classical composer) and Prince (a tiny sexual deviant) go together about as well as Smokey the Bear and forest fires. Due to creative conflicts and lack of common ground, I think putting a bunch of musicians together in a room who have nothing to do with each other would only cause them to dampen each other’s ideas out and create nothing that anyone in the room would be proud of.

I felt that feeling rush through me this summer. After years of making joke music together, my friend Jase and I felt it was time to get a band together. Sure, we’d made music together before… but the music we made as WDG Solid Experiment, a comedy band whose lo-fi LPs featured songs about robots and janitors, wasn’t necessarily the kind of music that we had always hoped to make together. When we were younger we had dreams of creating expansive music that would impress both melodically and emotionally. We had always had a strong vision but due to the difficulties of not being able to find a drummer in high school and living about three hours apart for two years, we were not able to make these dreams come to fruition until the spring of 2010.

But so much distance and so little contact can really get two people out of rhythm with each other.

Our band name was “Fishing For Guppies.” The first thing I thought when I heard that name was: Why would someone go fishing for guppies? That’s an incredibly arduous, boring process for little to no reward.

Being the only non-Winona alumni of the group, I was the odd man out at every band practice. While Jase, Lior (drums) and Kelly (lead guitar) all had a groove together and a lot of comradery, I felt like I had to struggle to be heard. For the ten months prior to the group forming, I had been both learning how to play guitar and how to write songs. When I had finally started figuring out how to string chords together in a non-diatonic manner, I presented all of my ideas to the band. In the past, I had been guilty of presenting underdeveloped ideas or Garageband projects that made little to no sense and asking my cohorts to write songs around them. I felt ecstatic that I had finally written some feasible honest-to-goodness quality ideas.

All but two were rejected. But still, I persevered, hoping to feel some magic in the shows we played together. As mediocre show followed awful show, I realized that I was not going to get any fulfillment from our live performances for quite some time. This would be okay, I thought, if I still had an outlet to express myself through the music we were creating. But I was not. My songs were drastically changed stylistically. “Hold Me Back,” a song from the perspective of a prescription addict, sounded like a peppy arena anthem and had become sapped of any emotion. “Beneath The Burning Sun,” a song that was originally intended to be an alt-rocker became a sappy ballad. I knew I wasn’t crazy when Kelly asked me if I was okay with how different my songs were becoming. I lied and said “Yeah man, it’s no problem.” I was given the opportunity to express myself lyrically, but that quickly became quashed as my lyrics were constantly brought into question by the other band members. “This is ridiculous,” I thought to myself, “If Matt Bellamy or Rivers Cuomo had been told to change their lyrics, they wouldn’t stand for it.” It wasn’t that I couldn’t compromise, it’s that it was my only option in working with these people.

I presented one last song idea to the guys before resigning from the band. It was a riff I made specifically for them. I worked really hard to make it sound like something they would definitely like. Though it worked, the song was utterly joyless and possibly the most contrived thing we ever did.

It was clear that, though Jase and I still enjoyed a lot of the same music, our goals in the creation of music couldn’t be more different. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t resent the fact that we “grew apart,” or feel betrayed. I just think that it’s a great example of how relationships work. You can either try really hard to make it work, despite the fact that you know it’s a pointless endeavor, or you can cut the chord and move on and try to find something new.

It’s been about 7 months since the Guppies swam their separate ways. Ironically, the band split up right before I was to begin my first semester at Winona. After the break-up, I became inspired to write songs. I soon found that I had a real knack for it and have chocked up a real impressive list of what I consider to be all-killer, no filler material (after throwing out lots of the latter). I’ve also practiced guitar like crazy and re-evaluated how I present myself and how I sing.

See, the truth is that all the problems with the Guppies had just as much to do with my feelings of inadequacy. While the other guys were skilled musicians, I had only been playing guitar for a year. I had to find a stage personality (and this was a most painful process, my friends), and I had to figure out how to sing live. The truth is is that maybe I wasn’t ready to be in a band and that is why we never achieved harmony.

All I know is, after a long break, I finally feel ready to give the dream of being the singer of a band another shot. I’ve learned from the time off I’ve had. This time I am approaching the idea with caution and a level-head, making great effort to not idealize the idea of being in a band which I have been guilty of in the past. You see, instead of a “dream group,” I’m instead forming a good old rock band. And nothing beats a good old rock band, no matter how much your mind may wonder otherwise.

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Death To False Records

Posted on November 18, 2010 | Leave a comment

Death To False Records

On December 5th, 2009, after performing to an enthusiastic Toronto crowd, Weezer’s singer and songwriter Rivers Cuomo found himself paralyzed and wondering if he was on his way out of here. After hitting black ice, his tour bus spiraled out of control, flinging him from his bed and breaking his ribs. His wife and three year old daughter were also on the bus, though thankfully they remained unharmed. All of Weezer’s touring and promotional plans were put on hold. After he recovered from these events, Rivers (renowned for his love of Vispasanna meditation) spent 45 days meditating and ruminating over these events.

Another thing that was put on hold due to this shake-up was the band’s then recently-completed rarities compilation Odds & Ends. Fans were left in the dark, wondering when they would receive this collection of unreleased studio recordings of songs that were “Too weird, too daring or too heavy for their respective albums” according to Cuomo.

Coming out on November 2nd, “Death To False Metal” is that rarities compilation… or at least it used to be. Before the bus crash, this set was to only receive light tweaking on sections with flubbed lyrics or bum notes. But when Rivers re-examined this set, he decided that there was more that needed changing. He changed lyrics, added harmonies, wrote entirely new bridges and eventually decided that this was no compilation: it was a new studio album by Weezer.

Does this tinkering come off as an artist finally completing lost works or as clumsy historical revisionism only rivaled by Lucasfilm. Sadly, it’s a little bit of both. Most of the changes Rivers made are pretty understandable, but some feel a little strange. And hearing modern-day Cuomo adding back-up vocals to songs featuring his old voice is about as disorienting and weird as that moment on American Idol where a contestant performed with a CGI version of Elvis.

At its best, the album is a rollicking good time. The sappy but crunchy pop-rock balladry of “I Don’t Want Your Loving” forces head-banging and a dopish grin, despite its insanely stupid refrain of “I Don’t Want Your Loving! I don’t want your love!” “Blowing My Stack” is a hard-rocking number about the trivialities of working for a living while your band is on a hiatus. It features several unique twists and turns and a spontaneous and “live”-feeling guitar solo. “Losing My Mind” is an emotionally powerful tune where we are forced to pity a drunk and lonesome Rivers thanks to some harrowingly honest lyrics and haunting orchestral strings.

At its worst, the CD helps showcase that leaving these songs off of their respective albums was probably a good call.  Dating back to 1998, “Everyone” is a Nirvana-style thrasher in which Cuomo vomits out the word “everyone” about 20 times, occasionally throwing in the commands “Suck a thumb” or “kick a bum!” It ushers forth an image of the bowl-cut ridden, braces-wearing Rivers who wrote it trying to think of the most “badass” thing he possibly can. And with its methodical rhythm section and unenthusiastic ‘whoooo’ backing vocals, “The Odd Couple” would be a shoo-in for the next Shrek film’s soundtrack (even though at one point it has Rivers admitting that sometimes he wants to strangle his wife’s neck. I am serious.).

Rivers has stated that Death To False Metal is the “logical follow-up to Hurley,” the band’s previous studio offering. In many ways, he’s right. Death To False Metal does seem to address many complaints that fans had with Hurley. While Hurley was largely the work of Cuomo and a myriad of songwriting collaborators, only two of the songs on Death To False Metal weren’t written by Cuomo, not counting its closer (more on that later). Hurley was lacking in guitar solos, meanwhile there is a bevy to choose from on Death To False Metal. And while the drums felt restrained and held-back on Hurley, this new LP is drummer Pat Wilson’s best work since his jawdropping performance on the revered 1996 classic Pinkerton (whose unreleased tracks are not featured on DTFM but instead on Pinkerton: Deluxe Edition, also coming out on November 2nd).

But none of this matters when you look at just how dire some of the songwriting and lyricism is (which is not the case on most of Hurley, a surprising return to form). “I’m A Robot” is a peppy number about Rivers working in a cubicle (something he’s never done in his life), being an emotionless man/robot and… that’s about it. The awkward couplet that sums up the song best: “I have a child and a wife waiting at home / Occasionally, I give my dog a bone (Cuomo then goes “woof” in the right speaker. I am not kidding).  Even in the instrumentally powerful “Trampoline,” Rivers gets in his own way with a tepid chorus: he repeats the word trampoline three times before saying “You’re on my mind.” In “Autopilot,” our intrepid hero goes into detail about how he takes his dogs for walks and examines their droppings under a microscope. I am not kidding.

Perhaps Weezer heard about Toni Braxton’s recent financial struggles and is trying to do her a favor because a cover of her smash 90’s hit “Unbreak My Heart” closes out this ‘record.’ It’s fairly serviceable, and the guitar solos are tasty though Rivers’ vocal feels very stringent and reserved and the chorus doesn’t feel nearly as anthemic as it should. Rivers only lets loose at the end with some high falsetto, but it just doesn’t sound emotionally resonant. In the end, it makes the abum’s finale and the album itself come off feeling a little bit like some sort of strange joke that we’re not sure if we’re supposed to laugh at.

In the end, the CD flows about as well as you would expect a compilation featuring songs ranging from 1998 – 2009 to: really disjointedly. Rivers can call it an album all he wants: most of his fanbase respectfully disagrees. Albums are about more than stumbling upon 30+ minutes of tunes and queuing them up next to each other. That’s not how great album are made; ITunes playlists or mix cds, sure, but not albums. Until Cuomo sees that distinction, Weezer will never make another great record.

Also, DTFM spends way too much time talking about dogs and robots. You guys, Rivers doesn’t even have a dog.

DOWNLOAD: Blowing My Stack, Losing My Mind

CHECK OUT INSTEAD: Weezer – Pinkerton: Deluxe, also coming out on November 2nd, featuring 4 unheard songs.

 

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What Makes a Writer Write Right?

Posted on November 14, 2010 | 1 Comment

It’s a tragedy when bad things happen to good people. This is one of those undebatable truths in our lives (other famous truths include “Air is important” and “Weezer’s first two albums are better than their others”). But what’s even worse than bad things happening to good people is interesting things happening to terrible writers.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen some nice unassuming kid start a blog about their pursuits of studying abroad. They have been brought into exciting, different territory and have the chance to really explore the differences between our culture and theirs. Perhaps they’ll learn as much about themselves as whatever it is they’re studying down there.

But most of the time the blog ends up looking like this:

“Hi, my name’s Bread*. I started this blog to talk about my studying abroad trip to Britain! I hope you enjoy it! Just got to Britain. WoW!!!!!! This is crazy! I can’t believe I’m finally in Britain. I’m sitting in my hotel room and I finally made it. I called my mom and she was super excited to hear about my trip. It was a little bumpy but I wasn’t even scaresd (well, maybe a little! ;p )

Tomorrow, I get to meet my professors and beg them to take it easy on this old yank! Check back then! Thanks for reading.”

And then what follows is a bunch of inane posts about the way that foreigners always seem to know that they’re Americans (“is my accent that noticeable?!” / “are my teeth that pristine?!”) and new words they’ve picked up from the locals. And you know, it’s a lot like someone telling you about the dreams they had last night. It may seem interesting to them but, unless they’re a really good storyteller, it’s just gonna sound un-relatable to you.

This kind of relates to why I haven’t updated lately. I try my best with what I’ve got but lately that amounts to a whole bunch of nothing. That would explain why I haven’t updated this here blogster** in ages. The utter minutiae of my day is not fit to write here, nor anywhere(I do so try to make this a professional-looking affair). By the time I’m done with homework and studying, I have no energy left to write about the things that I want to write about (interesting music, dogs, Tommy Wiseau’s The Room).

But I must never give up. I feel a deep dissatisfaction growing inside of me. Though I have written many songs at Winona which I would consider ‘very good’ to ‘great,’ I have been living in a dead zone when it comes to my writing. I think of good ideas, ruminate about them for a few days, then get sick of them and throw them in the trash bin. I’d really like to blame this on my ‘Literary Studies’ class, which makes writing seem like an arduous Herculean task but I’ve had tough writing classes before. I’d love to blame this on my roommates being loud and obnoxious but they are very respectful of volume levels at night. Hell, I’d love to blame my parents, but I’m on my own here. There’s only one person to blame here and that’s my dog myself.

So I will persevere and bring this blog back from the dead like the mighty phoenix or something from one of those stupid Harry Potter books. Oh lord, I will try my very best to get back on track with this blog. Writing about pop culture and life’s intricacies isn’t just something I do for shits and kickles, I do it because I am compelled. I don’t just want to write about the things that bring joy to my life: I need to.

(I realize that the introduction of this post might seem a bit mean-spirited and jealous towards people who have earned the opportunity to venture outside of this country. To prove that I am not just a grumpy gus, here’s an example of a really good “Studying Abroad” blog by my friend Arielle. It’s called Blonde Girl. One Year. China.)

* I understand that the name “Bread” does not sound like a feasible name for a real human being at all. I agree, it’s ridiculous. I don’t know anyone named Bread. WITH THAT SAID, can you admit that someone having the name “Bread” would be pretty damn funny?

** Note to self: trademark “blogster.”

**(2): Note to self: It’s already trademarked. God fucking damn it.

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In Defense of Gray Hair

Posted on September 20, 2010 | Leave a comment

Whilst looking in the mirror last week, as I am wont to do, it dawned upon me that my hair looked a little shaggy. Not wanting to give off a druggie, hippie or huggie vibe, I decided I needed a haircut. Now in order to save money, I decided to have one of my friends cut my hair for me. She did a fantastic job with what she had (my shaving razor and a rusty pair of scissors).

But it wasn’t perfect yet in my eyes. I decided that I needed to get it “evened out” somewhere. I spent the day scoping out haircutting places that were a hop and a skip away from my dorm in this town called Winona. I was presented with three options and two of them were for women and looked quite expensive. The third option was right next to my dorm so I decided to give it a look-see. However, my time had run out… It was 7pm and the place had closed an hour earlier.

Let down and slightly humiliated, I drudged onward to my friend’s house to drown my sorrows in cheap vodka. As I approached the business suit black railroad tracks, I caught sight of a squirrel. He had just walked in front of my mammoth feet and was watching me on the grass.  I took a step toward him, expecting him to dash away in instinctual fear. He did not move. I gambled on the chance that my new friend was rabid and violent and took another step. I knelt down to catch a closer look at him. This was enough for him to want to create some distance between us. He climbed up the nearest tree.

But still, he didn’t hide. He poked his head out and watched me with a perplexed curiosity. He then skittered down the tree and hopped onto the curb. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him in this moment. I prayed that I would not witness vehicular squirrel-slaughter (I phrased this less stupidly in my prayer). Once again, this squirrel surprised me. It took notice of the bright lights of the incoming cars. He scanned the scene and waited until there was no incoming traffic and then he blasted across the street victoriously.

The main thing I remember about the squirrel’s appearance, aside from his polished, black cherry eyes, was how gray he was. I’ve never seen such a gray squirrel in all my life. It got me to thinking about the positive things gray hair symbolizes in our society and how they applied to this squirrel, if I reached and personified hard enough. He seemed much wiser than any other squirrel I have met, he strategized and did not make rash decisions, and he did not let a potential food opportunity pass him by (I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the first person to feed a friendly squirrel). And yes, now that I think about it, I am sure that this squirrel was in love with me.

But that love-struck squirrel’s gray hide also made me remember some of the negative things we associate gray hair with. To some, gray hair is nature’s cruelest reminder to the not quite old that they are on their way there. It’s a tiny strand of impending doom. It’s understandable that people feel that way because gray hair is a result of melanin and pigment cells dying, never to return. Finding a gray hair is similar to hearing that high frequency noise in your ears that lets us know that we will never hear that pitch again.

When I found my first gray hair, I was already having a pretty bad day. This was back when I was still going to Normandale Community College, one of the most soulless, unfriendly establishments I have ever stepped foot in, Some bitch in my Psychology class told me that I looked like Harry Potter in front of everyone. Oh how they all laughed at that. Little did I realize how much I would wish I had mastered sorcery when I looked in the mirror later that day. If only Normandale taught that.

I had just taken a generous piss and was washing my hands when I noticed something… funny about my hair. My bangs looked fine proportionally and all in all it was a great cut. But something felt off. One of my hairs looked much, much shinier than all the others. I examined it for a bit then spent a good minute trying to pull it out. When I held that hereditary flask in my hand, I made a startling discovery. I remember whimpering aloud: “A gray hair?”

Just as I was bout to frantically continue my search, a big black guy walked into the bathroom and I pretended I was done and walked out of there. Then when he left I dashed back in there.

I tried to deny the problem at first. “Wow, I found a gray hair. Ha. What are the odds? That was probably the only one!” But each day I seemed to find new gray hairs, each more metallic and shiny than the last. I noticed little patterns in their texture. I began to resent them, wondering why I had to become gray so young in my life. I wanted to cancel all my musical plans because there was no way a singer with gray hair would make it in the young man’s game of rock and roll. I began to wonder if my hair would be more silver than brown by the time the summer rolled around. I paid my dues and made my will.

But over time, I grew to realize that gray hair is not the end of the world. Gray hair actually has a way of making men look more mature and proud of their appearance. There’s nothing worse than an old goat drowning his hair in a dark black, printer ink hue. A mix of gray and black hair makes a man look much more dignified and strong.

Some of the very things I used to hate about my gray hair are actually the things I love the most about it now: the shine, the unique feel and the texture. I feel like this is one sign of aging that is to be embraced and never covered up. Because when it comes to the marks aging will make on you and I, the worst is yet to come. And that’s okay.

I never did get my hair touched up. It grew out just fine and now it looks just wonderful. I haven’t seen any gray squirrels lately, but I am always looking.

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How to Underestimate Your Dog

Posted on September 9, 2010 | Leave a comment

Before I left home for college, I had many worries. Would I pass my classes? Was my major right for me? Would the band survive throughout the school year? But the biggest worry was about leaving behind my dog, BulRok.

This may make me seem callous or emotionally retarded considering I was also saying goodbye to my mother and older brother. The key difference is that I knew they understood why I was leaving. BulRok, as lovable and funny as he is, is not too smart. He’s about as smart as a bulldog can be , but like any other dog, he can’t fathom abstract concepts like someone “leaving.”

What worried me far more than him missing me and not being able to cope was him totally forgetting me and moving on. The possibility that I was nothing more than a negligible dent on the coffee table of his consciousness saddened and frustrated me. When I said goodbye to my dog, I am not ashamed to admit I welled up. As he peered up at me from his cage, I wished I could tell him that I would be gone but that I would be back very soon. All I could do was try my best to smile and leave like any other day.

While I tried my best to branch out and meet people at school. Living away from my animal friend became easier, though the thought remained in the back of my head: Did he miss me? My brother and mother seemed to think so. I got e-mails saying that he would wait by the door and go into my bedroom hoping to find me there. As said as these stories were, they comforted the worries which had been growing. I tried my best not to personify these actions and there was probably a far colder, scientific reason for him doing these things. They were only blown out of proportion because I was gone.

Over time I heard that BulRok had stopped missing me as much. I was mature and thought this was a positive thing. That weekend I was going to visit home for Labor Day. I prepared myself for BulRok treating me the same way he would have treated one of my friends.

But nothing could have prepared me for how things really happened. I slowly crept down to his cage and said “Hi buddy!”

He looked up sleepily and stretched. He did not notice me yet. When I opened the door he got out slowly and sniffed my leg. After that something clicked in him. I’ll never forget the next moment for as long as I live. After sniffing me, BulRok looked up and quickly leapt up at me. My mind can only allow me to think of this as a “welcome back, embrace.” After slipping off of me he did it again. I am thankful to say he did not ruin the moment by trying to hump me. He looked up at mom as if to say “Is this real life?” David After Dentist style.

Nothing between me and him was any different than before. He recognized when I was going to bed, where my room was… all that boring dog-owner stuff. It was so great to see that my absence hadn’t removed me from his thoughts.

As I sat on the couch after watching him go to the bathroom, he sat beside my leg. I scratched his side and he made the happiest, most content gurgling sound I have ever heard come from him.

I will not underestimate my dog again. He can open a sliding glass door for God’s sake.

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In Defense of Avoiding Isolationist Technologies

Posted on September 7, 2010 | Leave a comment

The professor for my Catastrophes & Extinctions class started her class with a peculiar “get-to-know-each-other” exercise. Everyone in the room was to write down one fact about themselves which made them special or different. I resisted the urge to quote Fight Club (“You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake”) and set to work coming up with one fact about myself thatwhich made me interesting. Eventually I settled on the fact that I have a bulldog named BulRok (I doubt anyone else in the room could claim this). Our professor said she would have a list of some of the more interesting facts this Thursday. With that, we learned about how our beautiful mother Earth was conceived and when class was over, I was eager to see a little piece of my soul on a Powerpoint slide for all to see.

Unfortunately, she did not choose my factoid. Instead she had gathered a nice little pile of mediocrity, from which festered replies like “I was in a Best Buy commercial” or “I was prom queen.” Hell it seemed as If the only interesting unique entry in the bunch was “I have 12 toes” which was unequivocally the class favorite. But the mini-confession that caused the most confusion amongst the class was “I’ve never sent a text.”

“What?”

“Are they serious?”
“Who wrote that?!”

From Jacob to Jamie, it seemed as if every member of this student body wanted to find the culprit. It wasn’t that they were offended and it wasn’t even that they didn’t believe it… it was more the fact that they couldn’t understand it.  How could someone in that classroom have survived so long without sending a text? There wasn’t even the stereotypical “oldie on campus” to pin it on.

The more I reflect on that day, the more questions seem to crowd my mind. But the questions aren’t about who had never sent a text. They’re rooted in something far more abstract: Why was this so startling to us?

Why does this appear to be such a big deal? I don’t think in written history, there has ever been a moment where sending a text was the appropriate form to communicate. This is, of course, barring people who do not have the capacity to speak. Even then, wouldn’t an e-mail be far more efficient? There are fewer limitations.

All texting has done is given us a way to chicken out of confronting one of the more awkward but important parts of life: speaking to each other. Unless you’re kidnapped and you can’t make a sound or you’re up past your bedtime, there’s no reason why you should have to text someone.

When I walk around this university’s campus, I’m sometimes taken aback by how gorgeous everything is. The way the like glistens and sparkles, the way the trains glide by and chime their bells in an optimistic greeting and the way the birds are chirping their songs happy as a clam. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one.

It’s disheartening to say this but most people are too busy staring down at their phones to take a glance at the beauty that surrounds the classes their parents worked so hard to pay for. One could say that texting is a disease that infects our world to an alarming degree… but is it really a disease or is it just a symptom?

Ever since the mid 90s, the rate at which we’ve accumulated info has grown with alarming speed. Whereas before, news took days to spread now all it takes is a coffee break for the world to know what country Miley Cyrus accidentally flashed her panties to.

Twitter and Google News and the like feed the globe’s obsession with living in the now.  But they also help its appetite that will never be satiated. The world has submerged so far into the now that the past became meaningless and the future is what’s for lunch, barring television and music releases.

“Remember when you were a kid” Noel Gallagher, guitarist and songwriter of Oasis asked an interviewer in 2002, “And your favourite band, for instance let’s say it’s The Smiths right, had put out “The Queen Is Dead”. And you hadn’t heard anything for two or three years, and then you think, ‘I wonder if they split up?’ or ‘I wonder of they’re back in the studio’. Fast-forward to now and there’s a fuckin’ web cam in the Radiohead studio while they’re recording their album. And they write a diary. Like, ‘Well today, we got a fuckin’ fantastic hi-hat sound for a track that’s yet to be named, and Thom laid down his vocals’.”

This statement perfectly sums up just what makes this topic so interesting to examine. Now that bands can inundate us with info about their albums before they come out, the period between albums has changed tremendously. The excitement and confusion over what your favorite band is up to has diminished thanks to in-studio updates and so many extensive interviews being available for fans to look at for free. It’s not a negative thing really but it’s not overwhelmingly positive either. Then again, maybe I’m speaking bollocks as Noel would say. Maybe I’m romanticizing what was once a shitty time for music fans in the album release cycle.

Our technologies can blind us in a far less expansive sense as well. The most popular example of this is the mini-van that comes with a monitor so children can watch Spongebob while driving past beautiful scenery. It’s a pretty sad statement about parents today that they would rather deprive their children of the natural world if it mans they don’t have to listen to them squawk for a while. It teaches them to isolate instead of commiserate and that can’t be good for one’s mental health. It’s enough to make you glamorize the at-times useful information hysteria of the internet.

After all, there is some good that comes with Twitter and the like. Thanks to its networking capabilities, Twitter has helped many abducted children and convicted criminals get sent where they belong (back home and to prison, respectively). And being a fan of a musician is more fulfilling than ever now that we have the ability to stream concerts and interact directly with our favorite artists. There’s limitless options unfolding in front of us and we’re a part of an exciting and important revolution.

And if you actually listen to the world around you, you’ll hear how this revolution has shaped our lives. I’ve noticed that every day of the last, oh, I’d say six months or so, a day has never gone by where I didn’t hear people discussing Facebook. And I guess this is all right if you tune it out. It’s only natural to talk about something that is changing the perspective of everything around us.

I guess what I’m saying is, there’s nothing wrong with using this instant information glut to further your knowledge of the world around you or even of your favorite band… but do our interactions with other people have to suffer because of it? The next time you want to ask your friend something, perhaps you could call them instead. It’ll be a lot quicker and maybe you’ve missed the sound of their voice.

Most of this entry was written in my room on a hot summer’s day and was edited on a car ride with my mother. Make sure to check out my twitter at http://www.twitter.com/michaeldermot

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In Defense of The Critic*

Posted on September 3, 2010 | Leave a comment

*This entry has nothing to do with the animated series of the same name.

On August 14, 2010 the final episode of “At The Movies” aired. This was a show where (in its prime) Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel would discuss the latest blockbusters and expose their flaws and merits to millions. Effectively, it was a show about two movie nerds either agreeing or arguing like children. As you can imagine, it was an amazing show and practically an American institution during the nineties.

But of course, it has ended. The show definitely hit hard times when the endearing Gene Siskel passed away in 1999 due to cancerous brain tumor. The show pressed on the best they could. They had a transitory period in which Ebert would be joined by a guest reviewer week. The proucers deemed this to be the best way to audition replacements for Siskel. They settled on Richard Roeper and the duo became a refined, well-oiled critiquing machine.

But things could never be that simple for the At The Movies crew. In 2006, Roger Ebert lost the ability to speak due to a surgical complication. He and his wife tried many different approaches to finding his voice but after many years of trials and tribulations, Ebert has decided that he would raher not go through any more surgeries due to the inherent risks involved and all the damage they have done to him.

Both of these events were tragedies and they definitely have a lot to do with the show’s cancellation. But neither of those events are the real reason At The Movies can’t continue in our current media climate.

At The Movies’ demise symbolizes something else; something far more discouraging. It symbolizes the death of “The Critic.”

Now I know that critics are still around and newspapers and magazines wouldn’t dream of getting rid of them. But in the information age a critic is worth so very little and “The Critic” is an ember of another time.

“The Critic” was the guy (or girl) that people used to turn to on Friday morning, when they were deciding what to do after they clocked out that evening. Just like a good friend, he would give you the most detail about what to expect from the film without spoiling anything. Just like a friend, he would tell you the good and the bad about each of your choices. With nothing to gain but a sense of satisfaction at recommending a great film, he was what every politician secretly wishes he could be: unbiased.

But he was not infallible. Sometimes you would disagree. The foundation of your relationship would quiver and shake when you saw a movie that you enjoyed and found a review of his in which he trashed the film. You would begin to wonder what else he was wrong about and if you should listen to him anymore.

But you would. Because really who else did you have? That bagger kid at the grocery store? The guy who works across from you; what’s his name? Tom?  Your mother? Definitely not your friends, not after they forced you into seeing that stupid spoof movie. No, he was the appointed expert. And although experts aren’t always right, they try so damn hard to be. They have something to lose if they can’t prove their point. Or at least they used to.

If “At The Movies” was resurrected today, the only big-name critics that would grab America’s attention are Misters Rotten Tomatoes and I.M DeeBee. Lame puns aside, Rotten Tomatoes and IMDB (Internet Movie Database) are absolute giants. These are websites which would give Ayn Rand a rageful heart attack. The concept of the individual reviewer is laid to rest on both sites.

Rotten Tomatoes’ reason for existence is to create a consensus based on every review by ‘real’ critics. Its rating system is 60% – 100%  = Fresh, anything lower than 60 is, of course, rotten. IMDB gives the power to the people. IMDB on the other hand gives the power to the people. Once your account is registered, you can rate any movie any score you want. Of course, the major flaw in this is that people who haven’t seen a movie but have reason to hate the movie can flood the film with 1s (I know I sometimes get this urge when I watch the commercials for the braindead Marmaduke and Yogi Bear CGI adventures). So in the end, its accuracy will always be questionable. I mean The Dark Knight is listed as one of the best movies of all time. The same thing happens to most blockbusters that receive favorable reviews, though they usually only stay in it for a week or so.

In 2005, Sony Pictures took a piss on both film critics and newspapers around the world. They created the critic, David Manning of “The Ridgefield Times.” He would manifest himself into ads for films like “A Knight’s Tale” and “The Animal.” Sony Pictures was only brought to justice when the real Ridgefield Times, a small Conneticut-based newspaper, saw their name mentioned on the ads for films they never reviewed.

That was the last time that anyone in America gave a shit about what a critic said (or in this case, didn’t say). And even though this new way more feel more “safe” or “accurate,” I still find myself missing “The Critic.”

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