HEAVEN KNOWS I’M MISERABLE

Cover Band Lovin’ in the Land of the Dollar Bill

Johnny Loftus

The Midwest is famous for street festivals. Three months of block parties, pig roasts, and town fairs are inextricably linked by traveling bands of rogue Carneys, setting up and tearing down their rickety mush of rusting amusement rides, kewpie dolls, and Iron Maiden bar mirrors. And while one city or other may feature a better loose meat sandwich than the next, each Ribfest or Taste of Downtown is pretty much indistinguishable from the next when the lights go down and the Jell-O shots seem like a better idea. Whodini said it best: The freaks come out at night. And when they do, they drink Bud Light and listen to cover bands.

I stood inside the portajohn, breathing through my mouth as the bassline to Fine Young Cannibals’ “Good Thing” reverberated through the plastic. No, it wasn’t a house party in 1989, though the amount of Members Onlys in the crowd might make you think otherwise. And it wasn’t even David Steele playing the bass. It was the Calcutta Rugs, and they made it through two verses before the drummer fucked up. After a quick, embarrassed “How you doin’?” from the frontman, The Rugs launched right back into FYC as if nothing had happened. And it still sucked. The singer with the Bobby Flay style issues just didn’t have the presence or the range to fire up his band’s waterlogged takes on Gin Blossoms, Foo Fighters, or Roland Gift, et al. But at least one woman in the beer tent was taking their name to heart, whirling and spinning in Sufi-istic splendor to the backbeat of a bland “Black Magic Woman.” That’s the thing about cover bands and street fairs. The target market is looking for cheap drinks, greasy food, and maybe some tail. In the Summertime, in the Midwest, spending a Saturday night watching a local group murder familiar pop songs while eating ribs without a fork and washing them down with lukewarm domestic swag in a plastic cup is high art.

The cover band experience does not end when you go inside. Street fairs are tolerated by proprietors because they know everyone has to cool off eventually. And when they do, The Office’ll have the AC cranked while Skinny Mulligan revs their engines in the back room. Because their constituency has come into The Office by choice, and is not passing by on the way to the petting zoo, Skinny Mulligan knows it can play it’s “harder set.” This will undoubtedly feature AC/DC and Three Doors Down, and as long as their versions are close (and the beer tub girls keep that Busch Light flowin’), Skinny Mulligan will be better than the jukebox. For the cover band only has to offer the illusion of its muse. It’s not necessary to learn every note. Playing a flawless version of SRV’s solo in “Crossfire” only proves that the guitar man has a lot of time on his hands. Everyone in The Office is keeping their eyes and ears on each others’ midriff shirts and sunburns. Unless you are Skinny Mulligan’s manager, or the drummer’s girlfriend, your relationship with Skinny Mulligan extends only as far as your second beer. After that and a few cigarettes, it’s time to head back out to the street fest, talk to an old friend from high school, and maybe buy an elephant ear.

Of course, cover bands exist year-round, in every city all over the world. Years ago I walked into a bar in Paris, looking for a little local flavor. I was greeted by a 5-piece group of Moroccans lurching through a surprisingly soulful version of “Hard to Handle.” But Summertime street fairs are ground zero for the genre. The volume of banality that exists within one street fair is matched only by another lineup of cut-rate musicians in another town, on another stage, milking the same AOR favorites and trying (badly) to harmonize like Mark and Tom from Blink-182. And if they decide to “slow it down a bit,” or trot out some of their originals, it’s time to check out the comedy tent. Because any band that spends its time crapping out old Petty riffs probably has a chip on its shoulder concerning its own music. When a cover band makes the mistake of playing its own number (ranging in influence from Pantera to Dream Theater), it is deaf to the incongruity their decision creates for the crowd. Suddenly, your relationship with The Barflyz has gone from mildly irritating line-waiting music to head scratching and anger. Sure, their attempt at “All the Small Things” was a real laugher; but at least you can hum along. Suddenly, your street fair experience is the aural equivalent of eating bad cole slaw. And when the lead singer ends the torture by announcing The Barflyz’ upcoming opening gig for Slaughter, you can only shake your head in amazement.

At a recent outdoor affair, The No Brand Band launched into a strong set, anchored by Boston, Clapton, and the strong pipes of their burly lead singer. They were older fellows who reminded me of the blues-loving family men in Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing,” saving it up for a Friday night. While their set featured the same tired old radio hits, The No Brand Band was able to bring something to their set that carried “Wonderful Tonight” beyond the annoying sappiness of the original. It’s a difficult trait to pin down, and one that only the fewest of cover bands possess. But occasionally, out there at a street fair somewhere in the Midwest, a band will hit it, and suddenly that pulled pork sandwich from Rosty’s House of Meat tastes a whole lot better than it probably should.

JTL

A real good time

MTV sucks. We all know that. Shows like the Real World keep music videos from being played, and even though MTV rarely ever played good music videos, hey, at least they were showing music videos.

So for that, I hate the Real World. But I have to admit that there’s a side of me that loves it. The darker side. It’s probably actually the same side of me that likes Britney Spears and Hot ‘n Now. Nevertheless, I have spent more than one weekend watching Real World marathons for at least six hours straight. That’s the best way to watch them — all at once. No time to think about how ridiculous and manipulative and evil the show’s producers are. I don’t use words like “evil” lightly either. Evil.

And while the current season of the Real World (back to New York!) is airing on MTV, next year’s season is being taped in Chicago right now. This is the first time the Real World has been taped in Chicago. And it looks like it might just be the last.

The seven strangers are living in a building at 1931 W. North Avenue (aerial photo). That’s in the Wicker Park neighborhood which has a history of artists, noisy bars, serial rapists, and drug-related crime. As with any area that’s rapidly being gentrified, last year’s scenesters don’t want any new scenesters moving in a raising their rents and shutting down their loud clubs. That’s fair. Unfortunately, it’s also unavoidable.

People are protesting. Getting arrested. Going to jail. MTV is threatening journalists. It’s all pretty fucking great, really.

I was in the neighborhood Friday night to see the Blue Ribbon Brothers at Phyllis’ Musical Inn, and afterwards I convinced my friends to try to find the house. I couldn’t remember the address at that point in the evening, so we wandered around for a few blocks until we got bored with the idea and thirsty. Probably a good thing. I don’t need any trouble with the Law.

For more detail into the madness, read Greg Gillam’s article about his brush with the real world. And for all the latest silliness, check out ReadWorldBlows.com. Start getting real.

Dollar Gets the Ax

Remember Lounge Ax in Chicago? It was closed down in January of last year so that the new yuppie owner could put in a more upscale bar. “At night the bars and restaurants around us,” said Lounge Ax co-owner Julia Adams, “are overrun by baseball-cap guys and yahoos and they’re not particularly fond of the kids with piercings and tattoos that come to Lounge Ax.”

Well, the pierced and tattooed in Detroit hang at the Gold Dollar. And now it’s closing too. Damn.

Sad, but true, and at least it’s not happening for the same reason that Lounge Ax did, but it’s still a damn shame. For those of us that support local clubs and local music, it hurts when we see that our scene is shrinking. For those of you that don’t get it, or think you wouldn’t care, I highly recommend you check out this wonderful Detroit club. Yeah, it’s in a bad area. Yeah, it’ll be smelly and hot. But that’s the point: It ain’t another McVenue full of corporate-purchased tickets and people who are concerned with getting home to go to work the next day.

So go catch a show there before the end on 8/18—any gig is bound to be at least worth the few bucks they charge. You won’t regret it, especially if you go see one of the bands that’s more representative of the Detroit punk rock and roll scene, like the Gore Gore Girls on 8/11.

I’ll be there; I’m the guy with a tear in his eye.

Thinking Makes It So

Imagine a famous painting. For the sake of simplicity, think the “Mona Lisa.” Now consider an artist. Exceedingly talented. Adept with brush and paint. A mastery at manipulating the latter with the former. A steady hand. A keen eye. And she paints, stroke for stroke, brush for brush, what is, visibly, the “Mona Lisa.”

The point of her doing so is not forgery. At least not in the sense of trying to dupe anyone. Rather, she simply has created a version of a masterpiece, a version that even a practiced eye would have a difficult time debunking.

So say you go to a gallery or an art museum in a city you’re visiting. Say San Francisco. And you see what you think is the “Mona Lisa.” As you don’t keep up much with the comings and goings in the art world, you think to yourself, “Hey, the ‘Mona Lisa’ is here at SFMOMA. And there aren’t any crowds.” This scenario, of course, would have to be abetted by a curator. But just take all of this as a given.

Now the question becomes this: Is the reaction that you have to that painting any different than the reaction if you saw the real thing? Assuming that you had no extraneous knowledge of the masterful painting abilities of Jane Doe and her rendering of the DaVinci, presumably whatever reaction that you have would necessarily be the same (perhaps heightened a bit, knowing that you didn’t have to cross the Atlantic and then stand in a long line to see the object under glass).

Let’s switch the mimicry to music. Let’s say there is a band that has thoroughly dedicated itself to performing the music of the Jimi Hendrix Experience such that every lick that Hendrix played is accurate; every throb of the bass is rendered as Noel Redding would; every snap of the snare resonates of Mitch Mitchell.

Let’s further suppose that you didn’t see the performers playing, but actually, in some sort of audio rendering of a Turing Test, the music was piped in to a room where you were sitting. What would your reaction to this imitation be?

Admittedly, the Hendrix example isn’t good inasmuch as everyone pretty much knows that he’s dead. But I use it for a reason. Last month, there was a charity auction held of some of Hendrix’s memorabilia. And as part of promoting the event, a band was performed that played Experience music. And one of the members of that band was Noel Redding. Which led me to start wondering about precisely what it is that makes something authentic. After all, wasn’t Redding part of the Experience? Wouldn’t the audio experience in that case be Experiential?

There are always situations in music wherein performers come and go from any given grouping. Think only of an orchestra: What are the odds that the same people are playing in, say, the Berlin Philharmonic today as did 10 years ago? Long after band leader Glenn Miller died, an orchestra with his name continued to swing. Rock bands tend to be significantly smaller than either of these types of ensembles and so the individuals would seem to have more of an effect on the outcome of the music. What’s more, there seems to be a legal jealousy that exists in rock, where a few band members of a seemingly defunct group go out on a reunion tour with the original name intact. . .until they have to morph it into something similar but different (e.g., “Creedence Clearwater Revisited.”). While this may be seemingly like the calculation of the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin, what I am trying to figure out is the number of people necessary in a band to make the band continue to be the band. Near as I can tell, no one said The Who was something other after Keith Moon died. Or the Stones after Brian Jones. Would the Grateful Dead have been unalterably changed after Garcia was dead? Is R.E.M. today something less than it was a few years ago. (OK. That’s a bad example.)

But what I am wondering about is the effect of the near-perfect clone, be it visual or aural: What is it that makes the artistic experience? Is it something that we know independent of the painting or song itself that makes it valuable? Without the validation of a name performer is what we see or hear less striking? Does this mean that our reactions are not immediate but actually mediated by information?

Does rock and roll change our lives, or does what we know about it really do the trick?

The Majors Must Die

According to an article on ZD Net News, some major labels have begun to add “digital distortion” onto newly released CDs in order to prevent piracy. They claim that it’s “all but inaudible when a CD is played through an ordinary CD player, but when a song is copied into digital format on a PC’s hard drive, the distortion shows up as annoying ‘clicks and pops’ in the music.”

ALL BUT inaudible? That means it’s somewhat audible, right? Well, fuck that. That just won’t do. I’m not that much of an audiophile — I found my receiver in someone’s trash — but you can’t just go making CDs sound worse. I don’t want to get started on the old digital vs. analog debate in which analog ALWAYS wins in the category of sound quality (digital usually wins the convenience category), but CDs are already a “lossy” medium. They do not reproduce a true, full sound wave. Maybe the record companies think that the majority of consumers who are satisfied with the sub-par fidelity of 128kbs MP3 files just won’t notice and won’t care.

They’re probably right.

But I wonder if the artists know that their work is being distorted for the sake of piracy protection. It sounds like the labels are being pretty secretive about this whole thing. Are they required by law to inform the artists that they’re messing with the sound of their music? Have any of you had any trouble with “pops and clicks” when you’re ripping your CDs? Let us know.

White Stripes on Kilbourn: Is There Stroh’s In This Green Room?

It’s hard to rock when you’re surrounded by faux wood paneling and a studio audience that’s been paid with pizza. But that’s exactly where The White Stripes found themselves on Tuesday night, as the current keepers of Detroit’s rock lamplight got set to perform on CBS’ “Late Late Show With Craig Kilbourn.” Wedged into five minutes at the tail end of the show, Meg and Jack White did their best to tear the cover off of the ball with the same energy displayed on their recent tour. And if it’s possible to convey all of that grit and soul while performing on the decidedly soul-less “Late Late Show,” then the White Stripes hit a home run.

The worst thing about the band’s “Late Late Show” appearance was having to endure the hijinks of Kilbourn, a puffy-skinned worm of a man who is smarmy in ways we have not seen people be smarmy before. Watching him ooze all over Playmate of the Year Brande Roderick on a recent episode was just embarrassing. Yes, she is Playmate of the Year. But at least wait til the afterparty to jump her bones. Watching Kilbourn’s train wreck of a show makes me long for the Wilton-North Report. Nevertheless, whoever’s booking bands on the “Late Late Show” is doing a bang-up job. The performance space/hallway occupied by the White Stripes’ dualistic rock show has held the likes of Supergrass, Duran Duran, and intriguing up-and-comers The Josh Joplin Group. It may be a comedic backwater hosted by a blond-haired horny sloth, but it’s still exposure on national TV.

And into this bad trip of an LA talk-show nightmare came the White Stripes, bringing Detroit rock west under the protecting gaze of their hometown flag.

JTL

Britney Spears: Nothin’ From Nothin’ Leaves Nothin’

I want to do things that people have never seen before. I don’t want to be considered a role model.”

In order to promote her upcoming performance special on HBO, Britney Spears took time out of her virginal schedule last week to speak to a group of television critics. While the above quote was in relation to the stage show (to take place at the MGM Grand in Vegas), it might be a metaphor for where Britney’s going, and how she’ll look and sound getting there.

With a new album due November 6, and her acting debut already in the can and set for release, it’s clear that the next year is crucial for Britney. In a few short years, Spears has morphed from teeny-bopper to sex machine, while still, amazingly, retaining her PG image with parents of small children. But with recent reports of late-night boozing and some very adult activity with (or without) her beau Justin, Britney’s grip on the Zoog-TV crowd is tenuous at best. Details are sketchy about the sound and vibe of her as-yet-untitled new record. If her stable of producers latch onto the latest trend, the new music will likely come out of the blocks employing elements of 2-Step Garage, the same hyperactive proto-R &B style that N*SYNC fleeced from the UK clubs. But it doesn’t really matter. From day one, Spears’ people have carpet-bombed culture with Their Girl. Sure, she sings a little bit here and there, but it’s not like anyone dug on “Oops…I Did It Again” for the heavy lyrics. On November 6, nothing will change. Except maybe Britney’s status as a role model.

”When I’m on television, that’s not really reality. It’s a fantasy world that I’m doing. I don’t go to the store in a red cat suit, and I think it’s up to the parents to explain that to their children.”

According to reports, Britney conducted her interview wearing what was more or less a suggestion of purple cheesecloth. She’s also reportedly hooked up with Cher, that aging mistress of fishnets and lingerie who is slated to duet with Ms Spears during the HBO event. Cher’s also been nice enough to lend her protégé the services of Bob Mackie, the designer responsible for her boatload of flashy trash. With the two of them onstage, yodeling a re-version of “It Takes Two” as their respective record companies light up cigars made of C-notes, parents will have to explain a lot to their children. Like just who the hell Cher is. And all we’ll need are the gypsies to crash the party.

It’s obvious Britney is ready to move on from her, ahem, role model status. As well she should: enormous Summer tours mounted by both N*SYNC and the Backstreet Boys have suffered, and new material by Jessica Simpson hasn’t exactly caused a revolution in the pages of Teen People. And when not one but TWO siblings of Nick Carter, not to mention Joey Fatone’s father, are touring on the strength of their respective Boys’ fading stars, it’s time to re-tool your image. Why Britney decided on Cher to help her do that is puzzling, especially when Madonna lobbied for the job. But there’s no question that the latest resurgence of Popstar is dead, and Britney, her retinue, and Jive Records are not going to be caught on that sinking ship. So 2002 is a big year. Our Girl is already too sexy for her shirt. What’s left in her bag of tricks?

Somebody get Hef on the horn…

JTL

The Drapes: Whose Rock Is Right?

I realized something during The Drapes’ ear-splitting set at Cal’s Liquor in Chicago Friday night. At that same moment, 30 miles to the south, Bon Jovi was on stage doing their thing. As the group of rockers crowded into Cal’s to down Pabst and revel in The Drapes’ sonic re-assessment of the term “power trio,” a sold-out crowd was gathered on the lawn of the Tweeter Center, lighters aloft and swaying like it was 1986. The realization begged the question: 30,000 nostalgic power-ballad lovers vs. 45 rockers in the know. Who’s Rock is right?

Cal’s Liquor does not feature flash pots on stage. Cal’s liquor does not feature a stage. So obviously, the dynamics of The Drapes’ show were a bit different than those Bon Jovi’s fans experienced at their shed show in Chicago’s south suburbs. And Drapes guitarist/vocalist Kevin Mcdonough didn’t use a talk box even once during his band’s 45 minutes of frenetic punk and stockyard blues. But you can bet that, as Mcdonough chopped at his aging Fender, Richie Sambora stood in Tweeter’s cavernous pavillion, lighting it up with the opening notes of “Livin’ on a Prayer.” So pump your fist; raise your glass. It’s all Rock and Roll, whether it’s played for beer money or a down payment on a new mansion in Jersey.

Don’t get me wrong. The conch goes to The Drapes. They’re sweating it out, playing holes-in-the-wall like Cal’s, writing music that references the bootstraps history of Chicago’s South Side while nodding to Detroit City’s chainsaw’d sludge-rock (The Stooges, Laughing Hyenas). Conversely, Bon Jovi was pre-packaged pop-metal from the beginning. Since their mid-80s heyday, the band has cranked out a collection of weak rockers and sleep-inducing ballads that somehow manage to sound amateurish and sad all at once (i.e. their latest LP of tripe, Crush). They know it; their setlist Friday leaned heavily on their anthemic back catalog. But those people out there on the lawn, the ones who (unfortunately) will probably never have their eardrums split open by the electric mud of The Drapes – what about their needs? If nostalgia and power chords combine with Jon Bon Jovi’s looks and showmanship to provide them with a little bit of Rock and Roll heaven, then is that such a bad thing?

Different strokes for different folks, I guess. While some of us will always have bands like The Drapes, White Stripes, The Immortal Lee County Killers, or The Strokes to keep the Rock alive, some people out there still cry to “Never Say Goodbye,” and believe in their heart of hearts that Jon Bon Jovi is their six-gun lover, their cowboy on a steel horse (he rides). What can you do? We can’t all get in on the bottom floor of the video revolution, hire some professionals to write our songs, and end up marrying Heather Locklear. But if Heather or anyone else not familiar with them had shouldered their way into Cal’s on Friday and listened to The Drapes, chances are Slippery When Wet would become a coaster toot suite.

JTL

Caressing the Corporations

As the number of artists and tours that are sponsored by such asinine things as car companies multiplies, it’s good to remember those great shows you saw back in the day, before going to see a band identified you as a potential customer. For me, it all goes back to two defining shows, my first and my foremost.

My first was Bruce Springsteen at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit, the “Tunnel of Love Tour.” Yes, that’s right, it wasn’t the “Chevy Silverado presents the Snap Into A Slim Jim Tunnel of Love Corona Summer Beach Party on MTV Tour in conjunction with Deloitte and Touche.” It was just a tour, not part of some stupid “festival” (marketing-speak for just another way to cram more salesman into every nook and cranny of available space at your local outdoor amphitheater). Just a single great artist with about the only sponsor being the local Bud distributor. Best of all, the total Ticketmaster service fee was a hell of a lot less than the 50% it seems to run to these days. (In fact, somewhere I still have the ticket stub so I’m going to have to check on that—it could provide some interesting historical proof of the world’s biggest scam.)

Oh yeah, you people will holler about the fact that even back in 1987 there was a commensurate amount of corporate greed that no doubt tainted the Boss’ tour compared to the Glory Days back in Jersey. But it was far less insidious—who can fault the Anheuser-Busch rep for going after a market that’s primed for its product. There are clearly beer sales to be made at the Bruce show; that’s marketing where it makes sense. But pissing away money on image advertising, where there is no potential sales connection, is outright stupid. And it’s an insult to the fans—of both artist and product. To the point of the previous post: Nasty Janet and Wolfie ought to be embarrassed.

The fave show of my youth was Metallica’s first headliner. The “Justice Tour” of 1989 was an absolutely amazing display of all that is great about rock. It was held at an outdoor venue, Val Du Lakes in Mears, Mich. Still to this day I have never seen a more antisocial crowd than the collection of bikers, stoners, mullet-heads, rebellious kids, and general reprobates that attended this concert. The fans would have sooner burned the place to the ground than been identified as consumers. I saw a guy eat a sheet of acid and then smack his face on one of the hard wood benches in the reserved area. He just licked the blood as it trickled onto his lips and continued cackling, laughing and dancing. Throughout the show, people came running down the hill, throwing themselves at the wooden fence that separated the reserved area from general admission. They fought with security guards with bottles, belts and chains. And then there were the booted thugs who smashed cars after the show, screaming the lyrics to Metallica’s cover of the Misfits’ “Last Caress.” Yeah, “I got something to say. I killed your baby today. Doesn’t matter much to me, as long as it’s dead. I got something to say. I raped your mother today. Doesn’t matter much to me, as long as she’s spread.”

Gee, I wonder where the corporate sponsors were?

Now I’m not saying I necessarily advocate the pointless violence and brutality, the sado-masochism and anarchy of the Metallica crowd. But fuck it, those people are the only hope we’ve got: Rock’s essence is senseless rebellion against corporate AmeriKKKa. More power to them; hopefully they smash a few Jaguars wherever they are now. Wherever it is, it ain’t at Metallica shows. I’ve attended a couple since then and the crowd has become completely different, as has the band. They still play the old favorites, but not to any of the old fans. Good. At least those marginalized people, unlike the rest of us mainstreamers, have the sense not to give the music-industry power structure any more of their hard-earned (or stolen) cash.

Bottom line to all this is I’m glad I went to see a few big shows. I’m glad I pissed away a few bucks to make local radio stations, beer companies, cigarette companies, and the ubiquitous T-shirt companies some jack. But Ford Motor Company can go to hell. So can Barry Diller. So can DTE Energy and everyone else who incorrectly thinks that their wack corporation has any place or should play any role in the music business. I listen to music and I like to see it performed live. I like to think about music and write about it. But I don’t drive music, I don’t wear music, I don’t eat music, and I certainly don’t shop because of music.

“I got something to say. I didn’t buy into your marketing today. Doesn’t matter much to me. . . ”

All For Who?

In our on-going efforts to track the nexus between Big Business and Bigger Business, we’ve discovered still another development. As you may recall, Jaguar had been using rock superslug Sting to promote its cars, demonstrating how the Jag can lull Sting to sweet dreams of rainforests or more song-writing gigs for cartoon movies.

But now we’ve learned that Jag is sponsoring Janet Jackson’s “All For You World Tour 2001.” Well, that may not be exactly right: there is a “partnership,” such that those considering the tour will see Jag in the tour title, advertising, promotion, publicity, and even the ducats. Undoubtedly looking something like a NASCAR race with a single sponsor, there will be X-Type display logos all around the venues.

Says Michelle Cervantez, vp of Marketing for Jaguar North America: “Jaguar’s relationship with Janet Jackson is a powerful statement of our intentions to become more accessible to a new generation of Jaguar owners.” Yep. All those people who buy tour T-shirts are undoubtedly going to make their way to dealers, post-haste.

In addition to all of the aforementioned signage and even a car at the venues, concert goers will be subjected to a “video” featuring Janet and a black X-Type. (I am not making this up.) Presumably said video is more commonly known as a “commercial.”

But this isn’t just any run-of-the-mill spot. It was produced by Spike Lee’s 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks. According to renown Knicks fan Mr. Lee, “Our partnership has assisted Jaguar in communicating to a more diverse audience. This project is a direct result of that strengthening relationship.” The “relationship” he is referring to is a “marketing partnership” between Jaguar North America and 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks, which was established in April. Which presumably means that since Nike spots aren’t what they once were, Lee will be creating ads for Jag. (Ah, what about, oh, making movies?)

So let’s review. Sting. Everclear. Aerosmith. Janet. I’m throwing my vote in for GloNo partnering with some automaker. Any suggestions, Sab?

Rock and roll can change your life.