All posts by Derek Phillips

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Back to Some Old Bull Shit

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The Death of Cool and Grand Royal

By Phil Wise

Why does everything suck? You may ask yourself that question as you stop into your local Starbucks and pick up a Grande Latte, but you know the answer. Because cool doesn’t sell and this is the United Statistics of Americorp. Last week’s closing of Grand Royal is the latest casualty in this corporate-dominated, zip-locked world where it’s hip to be square.

Founded in 1992 by arbiters of hip, The Beastie Boys, Grand Royal records set out to be the modern day equivalent of the Beatles’ Apple Records—a safe haven for artists to create and market their work. The B-Boys are insanely successful and have truly earned the crown of cool with their impact on music, fashion and progressive politics in the early- and mid-90s. The excitement surrounding 1992’s Check Your Head was genuine and deserved. It was a slight departure from their classic Paul’s Boutique, yet in line with their appreciation of old school hip-hop and funk, 80s hard rock and their burgeoning talents for “world music.” Released at the dawn of the alternative age, Check Your Head was the ever-present soundtrack for millions of B-Boy wannabes who would do almost anything to emulate their Brooklyn heroes.

Real B-Boy, Mike D., started out just designing some phat gear. His subsequent clothing line was an immediate sensation with skater kids and New York hipsters, but it was never gonna hit the malls. Combine that stunted promise with the creation of Grand Royal Magazine in 1993 and you’ve got the seeds sown for world domination.

Over the past nine years Grand Royal has grown to be a magazine, clothing designer and outlet and, of course, record label. As a label it stood out in its almost pathological sense of diversity among acts. Not to be pigeonholed, Grand Royal signed some of the 90s most unique, fresh and sometimes downright unmarketable bands around. Their roster posted such acts as Scapegoat Wax, Astounded, Nullset, Sean Lennon, Ben Lee and their top selling groups: Luscious Jackson and At the Drive-in. All but the last two groups were marginal sellers at best and that may be where the crack in the glass began.

The breakup of their two top selling acts (the latter, ATDI, on the eve of their tour to promote the million selling Relationship of Command) can’t have been good for business. As a label, I think Grand Royal was doomed from the get go. Why? Because cool doesn’t sell, dumbass. Niche groups are just that and appeal to select audiences, which despite the flood of alternia in the 90s, remains relatively small.

But I think Grand Royal could have been saved if, in the 90s when the Beasties and their Mothership were at their height, they could have established Grand Royal as a brand. A concerted effort to parlay the Beastie Boys authority on hipness to a full line of clothing and related accessories could have given Grand Royal a brand promise, to use marketing-speak, that would rival McDonalds or Coca-Cola. Then, those legions of B-Boys and B-Girls may have accepted these fringe groups that GR, the record label, was promoting. But that would have spoiled Grand Royal and reduced it to the same level of celebrity vanity labels as Bad Boy, Maverick, or Fred Durst’s new day job, Interscope (all relatively successful, by the way).

Grand Royal was original and promoted groups that displayed the same sense of originality and diversity that makes its founders’ music so influential and vital in this pop-washed world. The fate of its acts is yet to be determined but I would say there’s little chance of picking up the Buffalo Daughter or Sukpatch singles at your local Best Buy. Better get to Grand Royal now while you still can pick these gems up—Better late than never.

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Cult of Personality: Jeff Tweedy vs. Alt-Country

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Cult of Personality

Jeff Tweedy’s family feud with alt.country

By Phil Wise

Obsession is a funny thing. It can be as powerful as a smoking habit and as enveloping as the priesthood. It often elicits behavior as extreme as the lifetime smoker stuffing cigarette butts into his tracheal hole or a monk protesting injustice by dousing himself with gas and setting himself ablaze. Obsession can show you the way to enlightenment through discipline or mask you with blinders that block out your mania. When that obsession turns on its muse, you’ve got the makings of a stalker and they are a dangerous breed.

No Depression fans, as the group of people who love all things “alt.country” (from out of tune fiddles to overalls) are commonly called, are a rabid bunch and not to be taken lightly. They take sides. They’re more polarized than Cubs and Sox fans, Democrats and Republicans, or Sammy and Diamond Dave disciples. The most ardent of them are a proud group who revel in their cult status and the fact that they’re the only people in the world who know who Gillian Welch is. They’re not exclusionary though and welcome newbies with a zeal that rivals that of a born again Christian or Amway distributor. To join their ranks is a warm experience shared over tasty beers and homespun music. But eventually you’ll be called upon to state your allegiance and your answer will forever mark you in their yellow eyes.

It may come up at a hip party in Chicago’s Logan Square, Wicker Park having fallen from grace with the invasion of Starbucks and MTV. Or perhaps at the fantastic Hideout on Wabansia, the scene of some of the best alt.country shows in the city and host to the Bloodshot Records 5th Anniversary Block Party. You may see someone wearing a Whiskeytown shirt and strike up a conversation. You’ll both agree that former Whiskeytown front man Ryan Adams’ solo debut Heartbreaker is genius. You’ll affably debate the merits of Lucinda William’s recently released Essence, but agree that Car Wheels on a Dirt Road was your favorite. You’ll dazzle him with your fervent love of the Outlaws and agree that Gram Parsons was not only “the shit,” but also the architect of the modern alternative country movement, with ex-Monkee Mike Nesmith garnering an honorable mention.

You’re getting along famously and promising to burn stacks of Doug Sahm and Will Oldham boots for each other when the question comes: What do you think of Summer Teeth?

This is it. The alt.country equivalent of the pro-life/pro-choice question. The division in the alt.country world is wide, insipid and sometimes violent. I’ve seen No Depressioners come to blows more than once over this album and its creators Wilco.

Hard-liners are vehement in their rejection of Wilco singer/songwriter Jeff Tweedy’s departure from the alt.country ranks and often heckle him at solo shows, trying to incite the diminutive singer to react. He sometimes does with biting humor that always finds its way to No Depression magazine and various Wilco/Uncle Tupelo chat rooms. The verbal fencing sometimes gets ugly and often just serves to further alienate Tweedy’s wayward flock.

It wasn’t always this way

Tweedy’s first group, Uncle Tupelo, had a deeply committed fan base who reeled in disbelief upon the group’s breakup in 1994. But they took the release of Wilco’s debut A.M. (and former Uncle Tupelo co-songwriter Jay Farrar’s Trace under the Son Volt moniker) as confirmation that Tweedy would stay the course and promote their rallying cry against modern “Nashville” country and the despised pop music clogging the airwaves. They even tolerated Tweedy’s experimentation on the group’s follow-up Being There, mainly because of the soft pedal steel touches like those found on the heartbreaking “Far Far Away” or the raucous roadhouse stomp like “Dreamer of my Dreams.” But they sent warnings through bulletin boards and listservs that any more diversion would not be tolerated.

The warnings seemed to be heeded with Wilco’s work on the Mermaid Avenue collaborations with British folky and protest singer Billy Bragg. There was a return to folk arrangements and the back porch, beer-drinking gaiety Wilco perfected on A.M. It was most notably found on the breakout single from the first Mermaid Avenue with the lilting “California Stars.” The defiant Tweedy still dabbled in pop with “Hoodoo Voodoo” and “Secret of the Sea,” but for the most part followed Bragg’s lead. This may be due to the fact that Wilco was called in on the project some time after Bragg had initiated it.

Push comes to shove

Then came the release of 1998’s Summer Teeth, which cast aside all but the subtlest country influences. Awash in keyboards, kettledrums and Brian Wilson-esque arrangements, Summer Teeth stood in stark contrast to what had become the “Wilco sound,” or rather that of the insurgent country stalwarts.

Tweedy’s solo shows, which had grown considerably on the success of the Mermaid Avenue projects and Wilco’s increasing profile, also started to attract boisterous heckles from the disenchanted. The most ardent No Depressioners turned on Tweedy with shouts of “Judas!” just as Bob Dylan’s fans had with his turn to electric guitars some 30 years before. In chatrooms, bulletin boards, listservs and fans sites, Tweedy was put on trial for crimes against God and alt.country.

Compatriots in a Yankee Hotel

The alienation of Tweedy’s original fan base has done little to dissuade him from further experimentation. The heckles and attempts to pigeonhole hole him have actually done nothing to bring him back into the insurgent country fold. In fact, it may have driven him over the edge and into the arms of noise-pop vanguard Jim O’Rourke, who produced mixed Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Wilco’s anxiously anticipated fourth album. A partnership like this likely sends chills down the spine of No Depressioners as they imagine an album devoid of song structure and brimming with buzzes, whistles and pops.

But they might be surprised when (and if) they hear the album when it (and if) finally comes out. While it’s by no means a return to Wilco’s simple country-rock beginnings, it does have more of the elements that put Tweedy and Co. on the map: beautiful violins, subtle pedal steel and stark acoustic accompaniment. It remains to be seen whether this new album will win back those O.T.’s (Original Tweedy-heads), but they’d be doing themselves a favor by dropping their criteria and listening to the music. It beats a restraining order and 200 hours of community service.

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Not a Music-Related Post, but an important one just the same

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Not a Music-Related Post, but an important one just the same

By Phil Wise

The right to protect sources is second only to the right to free speech in the media. It is essential that investigative reporters protect their sources in order to provide information that people would otherwise keep to themselves out of fear. This is standard practice and accepted in the United States. Why then is this reporter in jail for refusing to hand over notes to the FBI about a case she’s been following? If you care about truth in reporting and free speech then you need to read this article.

http://www.msnbc.com/news/619488.asp

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Cheap Trick at the Double Door: We’re All Alright

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Cheap Trick at the Double Door, Chicago

By Phil Wise

In the past year I’ve seen the two groups most associated with power pop. One developed the archetype in the 60s with songs like “Can’t Explain” and “Glow Girl” and the other perfected it in the 70s with “Surrender” and “The Dream Police.” Now, I saw both of these groups well after what would be considered their prime, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they were still viable performing an art form so tied to youth in their 50s and 60s. Is power pop only the domain of the young?

Cheap Trick played an unannounced, invitation-only show last night at the Double Door in Chicago to a crowd of around 300. I, along with GLONO founder Jake Brown, was on that guest list and we made our way to Wicker Park expecting rehashed old tunes from the 70s from face-lifted has-beens in their 50s. Perhaps a spotting of the nefarious Real World cast would inject a bit of youth into this most perplexing of oldies tours.

But what we found was a group at its best; rocking and sweating, not to the oldies, but to an entire set of new material, fresh with power chords and youthful lyrics that would make Dave Grohl cry.

Cheap Trick took the stage at 8:30 sharp and rocked for over two hours, showcasing new material that would officially debut in their upcoming tour. Despite the fact that drummer Bun E. Carlos was enjoying his first show back with the band after back surgery, the group pushed comfortably through a set of original material that spanned a range of sounds from their proto-punk beginnings to their sappy “Flame” sound of the mid-80s. To see a 50-something Rick Nielsen hopping around and slashing out riffs like a 19-year old Rivers Cuomo was truly inspiring. The energy and enthusiasm was apparent in ¾ of the band, if not in lead singer Robin Zander himself, who seemed a bit nervous at times struggling with lyrics he hasn’t yet memorized and looking eerily like Kurt Cobain.

Cheap Trick perfected the sound that has stood as the blue print to current pretenders like Blink 182, Green Day, Jimmy Eat World and Foo Fighters. And tonight they reclaimed their rights to Raise Hell in a sweaty club on a Monday night like thousands of bands mimicking their sound across the country.

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White Stripes: Painting the World WHITE

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Detroit’s White Stripes embark on world domination

By Phil Wise

It wasn’t so long ago that Detroit was the butt of all jokes. Everyone from Jay Leno and David Letterman to the writers of Kentucky Fried Movie were taking whacks at the Motor City. But it seems times have changed and Jack and Meg White of Motown’s own White Stripes are laughing now.

Not in recent memory has an indie band commanded so much attention as the White Stripes. With mentions in Entertainment Weekly, Time and twice in Rolling Stone, the White Stripes seem to be America’s sweethearts—or peppermint lollypops. Now the Stripes are taking their red and white fleet to the UK and finding the fickle British music press more than willing to sign on for a ride.

Last week’s NME had a one-page, full-color spread of Jack and Meg soaked in their Detroit sweat and signature red trousers. The headline screamed “White Noise, White Heat” as a double nod to Detroit’s only political/musical movement of worth, The White Panthers, and to the White Stripes’ Velvet Underground-influenced affinity for stripped-down jams. By reading the gushing write up you’d think Jack White was the second coming of Wayne Kramer, not the snotty little brother of John Spencer. But that was just a shot over the bow.

The coup de grace has this week’s NME features our heroes on the cover and declares them the “Sound of NOW!” How do they do it? I’m a fan of the Stripes and wish them all the best, but how have they seduced the media to the point of turning mild-mannered Arts & Entertainment editors into multi-national spinmasters?

The White Stripes have pulled off a major marketing coup with this media assault and the rewards could be great, but dancing with the British media can also be dangerous. If you thought the American media’s treatment of Milli Vanilla was bad, you should have seen what the NME and now defunct Melody Maker did to Johnny Marr when he left the Smiths. You’d have thought he killed Paul Weller!

So forge on, White Stripes, and find your fortune on the high seas. But beware the English congeniality, for even the great Spanish Armada met its brutal match at the hands of a British gentleman.

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Deaf American

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There’s a low grumble across America and it seems only Salon.com can hear it.

By Phil Wise

Since the passage of the Telecommunications Act of 1995, there has been a steady consolidation of media in this country that threatens to choke our already anemic music business. The decisions for A&R, radio programming and concert promotion are falling into fewer and fewer hands. There’s a reason you only hear the same 12 songs on any Top 40-radio station (what happens to the other 28 songs you might ask). Intriguing stories of corporate bullying, backroom payoffs and political manipulation used to be the stuff of good reporting and would make an editor-in-chief dizzy with thoughts of Peabodies and other self-congratulating industry awards. But it seems nobody’s interested…well, almost nobody.

It’s long been popular to blame the failures of deregulation on Republican policies. I mean, it is their philosophy to let the market place set the rules and concerns of safety and anti-trust be damned. But Bill Clinton, no friend to the GOP, signed the Telecommunications act into law. And Clinton left the liberal base of the Democratic party behind long ago, contrary to what Rush Limbaugh and other rightwing blowhards would have you think. So if this failing policy that so blatantly spits in the face of liberal market controls is such an easy target, then where is the supposed liberal media? Now’s their chance to make fools of those stalwarts of free enterprise and they’re dropping the ball.

Enter Salon.com. Salon has been running a series of articles covering the disturbing consolidation of media. From the FCC chairman, Michael Powell’s (Bush buddy and son of Collin) revealing slip of the tongue in front of congress, to the heavy-handed market manipulation by Clear Channel Media and a certain good time pop-punk band. Salon seems to be the only high profile media source that smells a story.

It’s not to say that other left-leaning media sites haven’t also reported on these troubling trends, but none have Salon’s profile. And you can forget any reports from corporate hacks like Peter Jennings or GOP apologists like Fox News’ Bill O-Reilly. The rightwinger’s conspiracy theory of liberal media manipulation seems to fall flat when you consider that the parent companies of NBC, ABC, FOX, CBS, AOL/TIME WARNER and other “mainstream” media outlets stand to make loads of money from these consolidations.

So, as the summer heat takes its toll on your good mood you can rest assured knowing that Clear Channel and Sumner Redstone know what’s best for you. Just flip on your radio to “the morning zoo” and listen to the banal sounds of Britney, Mandy, Christina or Mariah and hope to win tickets to see Lance, AJ, Joey, Mickey or Minnie. They all have homes in Orlando to pay for and we all need to do our part.

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Ringo Starr: It Don’t Come Easy

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Ringo Starr and his All Starr Band

By Phil Wise

The Today show has a summer-long concert series in which artists perform outdoors at ungodly hours in the early morning. It seems like a nightmare to me, but the series has featured an eclectic mix of acts from ‘NSYNC to Tim McGraw. Not a particularly hip or cutting edge line-up, but this is morning TV.

Today’s featured act was none other than Ringo Starr and his All Starr Band. This year’s band features an equally perplexing mix of artists including Sheila E. Ringo’s been touring with a different line-up in his All Starr band for about a decade and the roster reads like a roll call of Ringo’s AA meeting: Joe Walsh, John Entwhistle, Jack Bruce, Levon Helm, Rick Danko, Todd Rundgren, Nils Lofgren, Dave Edmunds and many more. Now, no doubt this is a stellar line up of seasoned (sometimes seasoned and sautéed) veterans. No doubt they have some war stories to tell that I’d love to be privy to. Hell, some of these guys are bona fide legends. But, how do they play together some 30–plus years after some of them have made an impact on the musical landscape?

The Today show appearance started off with an interview with Ringo by Katie Couric. Despite Ringo always being presented as the affable, cheeky Beatle, he usually comes across in interviews as a bit sour and arrogant. Today was no different. Ringo seemed put-off that he had to appear on TV before noon and even after 35 years of press conferences, junkets and interviews, he still gets miffed when answering the same old questions about the Beatles and when or if the surviving three will reunite. Get with it Ringo, without the Beatles you’re painting houses—Ask Pete Best.

But let’s forgive Ringo his lack of nuance with the media. After all he was never the mouthpiece for the Beatles. He was the drummer and content in that role. So, let’s just look at the band.

Ringo took the mic for a few songs, including a Mattel-like karoke version of Yellow Submarine, and then handed vocal duties over to former Supertramp front man Roger Hodgson. Ringo’s taken plenty of heat for his “vocal stylings” over the years and I’m not going to throw another log onto that fire. Let’s just say that age has not turned a bottle of sour grapes into wine. Hodgson, on the other hand, still has that clear muppet-like voice he had on 70s hits like “The Logical Song” and “Give a Little Bit.” I hate those songs and always have, but if you like them then you wouldn’t be disappointed in their rendition today. But the accompaniment on all of those songs left a bad taste in my mouth. I had immediate flashbacks to a bowling alley “play room” and the smell of diapers and disinfectant-and-cigarette-smoke-smelling shag carpet. The combination of songs I’ve hated since I was three years old and the sweltering Chicago heat sent me into an immediate toxic shock.

But all things must pass and as Katie and Matt led us into a commercial I thought about poor old Ringo and his All Starr band. These are guys who at some point in their careers were at the topper most of the popper most only to end up in a two-bit cover band fronted by a short, angry half-legend. Do they miss the madness of their earlier careers? Are they content in life? And was it better to have been at the top and fallen than to have never seen the view?

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This is a Modern World

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On the eve of Quadrophenia’s release, the Who’s most articulate message finds a new audience

Quadrophenia

Rhino Records is releasing the Who’s Quadrophenia on DVD in September and the film is enjoying a limited theater release to celebrate. After countless viewings of the film on an old VHS bootleg, I recently saw the film for the first time on the big screen last week and was again taken back to my own days of teenage angst and Anglophilia.

Originally released in 1979, Quadrophenia was slated to be the last word on England’s Mod scene of the mid-60s from the pretenders to the throne of Modfatherhood, the Who. Loosely based on the album of the same name, the film stands on its own and succeeds where other rock movies failed. It’s not an extended music video like the Who’s earlier venture Tommy. It’s not a vanity plate like Prince’s Purple Rain. It’s not a vehicle to promote the career of a singer-turned-bad-actress like any one of Madonna’s embarrassing films. And it’s not an art film like those produced by many of the Who’s brethren of the 60s, including the Rolling Stones (the simultaneously exhilarating and disappointingly tedious Sympathy for the Devil). In fact, the movie may have suffered for its affiliation with the Who. Its producers’ audience couldn’t possibly take it seriously as a movie because of the above-mentioned attempts.

Quadrophenia follows Mod Jimmy Cooper (Phil Daniels) through the trials of teendom where young adolescent males discover some of the hardest truths of life: working sucks, you don’t always get the girl (even when you DO!), and your heroes have day jobs.

Excellent performances by Daniels and exquisite Mod Girl Steph (Leslie Ash) bring to the screen the complex rules and disappointments of young love. The story unfolds as Jimmy struggles to find his own identity in a peer group rigid with conformity. His affiliation with the Mods is strengthened in a weekend trip to the resort town of Brighton where he falls in love; fights for his gang; and meets his hero, played with utmost restraint by Glono’s own favorite corporate hack Sting in his pre-Jaguar days (the scenes of him on a Vespa GS could just as easily act as a commercial for the ultimate Modmobile, but that’s for another day). Everything he believes about being a Mod is confirmed in that quick, violent weekend.

Those beliefs are just as quickly challenged upon Jimmy’s return home to London’s working class Flatbush district. Jimmy attempts to recapture his ideals in a desperate, pill-headed return to Brighton. The trip is introduced by a genius nod to the Beatles’ Hard Days Night train scene with Jimmy riding first class among the very suits and “third class tickets” he hates. Jimmy arrives only to have his dreams further dashed on the rocks of the Brighton shoreline.

Quadrophenia acts as the ultimate guy movie from the ultimate guy band, but not because of the violence, sex and ass kicking rock and roll. It speaks to most guys, American or British, through its portrayal of the confusion and uncertainty of teenage soul searching. In a time when most guys are struggling hard to project an image furthest from their true self, Quadrophenia asks “Can you see the real me?”

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BEASTIE BOYS, OTHER MUSICIANS AND ENVIRONMENTAL ORGANIZATIONS OPPOSE BUSH’S ENERGY PLAN

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MUSIC COMMUNITY MOBILIZES, THOUSANDS OF FANS TAKE ACTION

George W. Bush is a fucking dumbass

Numerous well-known artists have joined Mike Diamond (aka Mike D. of Beastie Boys) in an action with the Save Our Environment Coalition to oppose President George W. Bush’s energy plan. Some of the artists include: Alanis Morissette, Mike Diamond of the Beastie Boys, Jackson Browne, Barenaked Ladies, Dave Matthews Band, Moby, Trey Anastasio of Phish, James Taylor and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

Dubbed the New Power Project, the innovative effort uses the artists’ popular web sites, fan email lists, and concert tours to rally hundreds of thousands of fans and other supporters to sign petitions and to fax their members of Congress and the Bush administration, expressing outrage over the plan’s disregard for environmental protection and failure to support conservation and renewable energy programs.

“President Bush’s energy plan recommends drilling for oil in the biological heart of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, increasing reliance on nuclear power, cutting research spending on alternative energy, and basically causing irreversible damage to the planet, heading us back to a time when humanoids dragged their knuckles on the ground,” says Diamond.

The music community has allied with the Save Our Environment Coalition—a collaborative effort of over a dozen of the nation’s most influential environmental advocacy organizations. Mike D, Dave Matthews Band, Alanis Morissette and others are writing letters to their fans asking them to oppose the Bush plan, and have posted the letters on their web sites and in emails to their fans.

As a result, thousands of fans are visiting the saveourenvironment.org/ live action center where they can make their voices heard by sending a fax to their Members of Congress and Administration officials; over 40,000 faxes have been sent opposing the Energy plan so far. Congress has recently dealt several blows to the plan, with the House voting to oppose the plan’s provision in National Monuments, but Republicans rammed the drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve through committee, and a final showdown is expected on the floor. The Save Our Environment Coalition is also coordinating volunteers to gather opposition to the plan at the artists’ concerts.

Gene Karpinkski, Director of the U.S. PIRGs and a Coalition member says, “These artists are helping people understand that President Bush’s energy plan is dirty, dangerous, and doesn’t deliver for consumers. It’s a recipe for more drilling, spilling, asthma attacks, nuclear waste, and global warming.”

According to the Sierra Club’s Carl Pope, “Mike D and the artists and fans can make a real difference stopping the flawed Bush energy plan and building support for a solution to our energy needs that is cleaner, faster, cheaper and safer.”

The New Power Project artists will further its efforts by engaging environmental activists at their concerts nationwide. Recent shows by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers in Atlanta, James Taylor on Long Island and Trey Anastasio in San Francisco have featured a petition-signing and information component. Alanis Morissette will play an important show for this campaign on July 31st in Anchorage, Alaska, just a short plane ride away from the endangered Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.

In talking to her fans about her involvement in this effort, Ms. Morissette points to a lack of openness on Bush’s part to explore alternative sources of energy: “The sunlight the earth receives in 30 minutes is equivalent to all the power used by humankind in one year. George Bush has chosen to ignore this by cutting renewable energy research by 37% and energy efficient research by 30%.” According to a recent Department of Energy report, 60% of future electricity demand could be met by increasing efficiency and production of clean renewable energy.

Meanwhile, Diamond suggests harnessing power of a political kind. “This is our world. If each person goes to the saveourenvironment.org/ live web site right now and sends a message, we can stop this.”

Members of the Save Our Environment Coalition are:

American Oceans Campaign, American Rivers, Defenders of Wildlife, Earthjustice Legal Defense Fund, Environmental Defense, Greenpeace, League of Conservation Voters, National Audubon Society, National Environmental Trust, National Parks Conservation Association, National Wildlife Federation, Natural Resources Defense Council, The Ocean Conservancy, Physicians for Social Responsibility, Sierra Club, The State PIRGs, Union of Concerned Scientists, The Wilderness Society, World Wildlife Fund.

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What about me? It isn’t fair, I’ve had enough now I want my share: Open mic night

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Open mic nights are a pisser. The talent ranges from three-chord Lisa Loebs to MFAs trying to impress their hippy girlfriends with Phish covers. It’s a funny scene and most bars that host open mics foster a certain group of regulars. Tonight I hit the open mic night at Quenchers on Western and Fullerton here in Chicago. It was standard fare.

A friend of mine called and left a message that he’d be down at the open mic at Quenchers and that I should meet him there. Well, I had some other business to attend to so I wasn’t sure if I’d make it. After some wrangling with the guy at the video store over my WAY overdue late fees for Bring it On and Citizen Cane, I made my way to Quenchers.

At first, things were slow. The hosts of the night were still trying to get the P.A. to work and weren’t having much luck. Rule #1 of open mic night is a crap P.A. Bar owners feel that if you’re willing to play for free, unannounced and without a bar tab, then you probably don’t deserve a P.A. Tonight at Quenchers was no different, but with enough spilled beer and cursing they got the damned thing in order and opened the night up.

The hosts of tonight’s free-for-all didn’t do it for nothing. They were a two-piece acoustic group with a CD to hawk, and man did they. They opened the night with a short set and then promised to return for a midnight reprise. It was a girl singer who mentioned Lucinda Williams as an influence but wrote and sang more like any other college girl with an eighth grade break up on her mind.

Just the same, they were better than act two. The second group to perform was a “blues” group (this is Chicago, after all) fronted by a late twenty-ish guy decked out from head to toe in pristine Nike gear. Our boy Damien did his damnedest to bring us down to the delta but only managed to bring us to Bone Daddy’s Rib Joint on Armitage. The first song of his set was some rambling number in a standard blues progression that had something to do with leaving his girl alone. The only vibe I got from this cat was a sense that his shoes were too white, his golf shirt too pressed and that he was probably singing something along the lines of the Mutual Funds Blues— a tune my unemployed ass can’t even hum!

Act two fared worse. Candy took the stage with her ornately decorated guitar. It was a hodge podge of catalog pictures and Precious Moments scenes all laminated on the soundboard of her $35 guitar. To make matters worse, her songs gave me the distinct feeling that she was a charter member of the First Wives Club. Egad, would this torture never end?

Yes it would. As soon as we came back to our hosts.

They came back on stage for an early staging of their midnight set to calm the brewing frustration in the bar. The original numbers were well rehearsed, tightly written and easy on the ears. But their triumph did not come without a price. In the middle of the second song of the set someone from the audience decided to join in, This isn’t necessarily unusual and is often encouraged at open mic nights, but this character took over the set. A regular, who plays the conga, set up right next to the stage and proceeded to pound away at his native beats while our heroine poured her heart out. Now, not only was the interloper too loud, but his African ballyhoo was entirely out of place in the middle of Plain Jane’s honky laments. Evil eyes were cast upon Conga Jim, but to no avail. He played on and nodded appreciatively between songs. Nobody knew what to do, so they played with their uninvited guest. The essence of the songs was lost and we all kind of clapped dully when the set was finally over.

As another brokenhearted stockbroker strapped on his Ovation guitar for a round of health club sorrow, I ordered another $1.75 Pabst and scratched my name on the board. Who am I but another out of work dotcomer with three chords and a story to tell?