Greg Wood to Open for Coldplay... Maybe

As this article explains, Coldplay are auditioning unknown artists to open for them on their upcoming American tour, and Greg has entered himself into the running. I realize this isn't much of a post, but I felt more people needed to see this, and besides, Greg could probably use all the help he can get.



That's his real phone number. Give him a call, even if you're not Chris Martin. Tell him I told you to do so. He'll appreciate it.

Daniel Johnston at Mercy Lounge

Most people with crippling mental disorders don't get out much. We like to think this is for their own protection. We tell ourselves that keeping these people closed off from the outside world, under the care of trained professionals is for their own good. We believe that were they left to their own devices, free to wander among the rest of society, it would only do them harm. Were they to go without the supervision of mentally stable college-educated individuals they would somehow hurt themselves. All of that may, in fact, be true (and it may, in fact, not), but who are we kidding? We keep these people out of the general populous because they don't fit in. They make us uncomfortable. They disrupt the status quo. They have the potential to challenge our fragile concepts of normalcy and threaten to disrupt our daily routines. At least, that's what we're afraid of. We're afraid of what we might see if we get too close to them, or they to us.

Yet, we are fascinated by what they are capable of. Beethoven was bipolar. Syd Barrett was schizophrenic. Van Gogh was schizophrenic and bipolar. Bono thinks he's the new Jesus, and Chris Martin thinks he's the new Bono. Hell, Dan Rather hosted the CBS Evening News for 24 years!

A third of the time we just like watching the unstable behaving in an unnatural representation of their natural environment, like animals at the zoo. This is why people obsess over those who are generally just ordinary and talentless like Britney Spears or Sting. Another third of the time they're serial killers, but the other third of the time we are astounded by those who have a unique ability to create art that is more pure and real than anything the rest of us are capable of. These are the people who, like Van Gogh, are the most tortured by the things in their own mind. This is the case with Daniel Johnston.

For those of you unfamiliar, Johnston suffers from manic depression, more commonly known (outside of the Jimi Hendrix catalog) as bipolar disorder. While they are separate mental disorders, recent studies have shown there to be links between schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

Daniel Johnston is a tortured individual. His music (and artwork) clearly come from a place deeper and darker than any of us could ever hope to reach within ourselves. It is unfiltered and real, straight from his heart to your ears (and eyes). It's not always easy to listen to, and not just because of the incredibly poor quality of many of Johnston's recordings, but because he writes from a place that most of us keep locked away. Johnston's darkest secrets and deepest loves are his source material. That's not to say that Daniel's songs are all dark and disturbing. Often the case is quite to the contrary. It's just that part of his genius comes from the fact that he is not afraid to write (or draw or paint) about what scares him.



As a performer Johnston is more engaging than you'd expect. With his two liter of Mountain Dew sitting next to him on a music stand, Johnston first took the stage by himself. Alone, Johnston's stage presence was captivating and moving, even as he struggled to remember the chords to his own song. After a brief acoustic set, including a cover of the Beatles' "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" (introduced by Johnston as "a John Lennon song"), and a brief accompaniment by a second guitarist, whom Johnston referred to as his friend from college, he announced that he was taking a short break.

Less than 15 minutes later, he returned, this time backed by openers, Hymns. Hymns, who on their own felt more like an enjoyable but unnecessary bridge between Supergrass and the Thrills, now proved to be an excellent supporting group, especially during "I Saw Her Standing There," Johnston's second Beatles cover of the evening. Other highlights included "Rock This Town," "Walking the Cow," and "Speeding Motorcycle." This time Johnston, who pretty much stood in the same place for the entirety of the show, for lack of a better word, rocked. He rocked hard. It's important that I make it abundantly clear that Daniel Johnston litterally just stood there through out his performance, and yet he was somehow electrifying. I honestly can't explain it any better than that. For the better part of 30 minutes, Daniel Johnston was punk rock. This surprisingly had nothing to do with Hymns, who as I mentioned before, were a fantastic backing band. This was 1oo% Daniel Johnston.

As Johnston left the stage after his previously announced encore a guy next to me began singing Johnston's "Devil Town" at the top of his lungs. In no time the entire audience, including myself, had joined in. Johnston never returned to the stage, but it didn't matter. The message was clear. Everyone in that audience loved Daniel Johnston, in much the same way that Daniel Johnston loves the Beatles. More over, there was an energy that lingered and refused to die. Johnston's hold on the audience would not let go easily.

With that I went home, my status quo having been thoroughly disrupted.

GayBomb

Two nights ago I discovered my new favorite hole in the wall. Villager you have now been replaced by Betty's. It's less than 2 miles from my house, tucked away around the corner from Charlotte Pike, full of unusually interesting characters, they make a decent burger, and they have $1.50 PBRs. Basically I'm in love, but that's not what I wanted to talk about. However instead of talking, I thought I'd show you a video of what I saw on my first trip to Betty's. Lady's and gentlemen I give you GayBomb.



Call it what you will, you cannot deny this guy is doing something totally original. Honestly it was really hard to stay for the whole thing (as he definitely did this for a good 20 minutes), but it was also hard not to be astounded by what he was doing. The concept is simple enough. If you can record music to magnetic tape, and you can record information to magnetic strips on pieces of paper, ergo you must then be able to record music to those same magnetic strips. Now, granted I'm using the term "music" quite loosely when referring to GayBomb's performance, but my point is this guy is definitely on to something. Regardless, GayBomb was easily the most refreshing thing I've seen in a Nashville bar in a long time. I really wish I had more commentary than that, but I honestly still can't completely wrap my brain around it all. That's probably a good sign.

I'm Not Dead

I just took a month off. In that time I saw the Sword and Torche at the Exit/In, drove to Cincinnati to see Mates of State at the Southgate House (which is actually in Newport, Ky), bought a lot of really sweet vinyl for practically dirt, had a noise rock party at my house, and started a band. I could've posted about all of those things, but I just needed a break. Well, my unannounced hiatus is officially over and I will have a real post up tomorrow. Until then, please enjoy this.

Foreplay/Long Time

Yes, I know. It's been almost two weeks since I last posted, and that is completely unacceptable. No amount of excuses can possibly justify this ridiculous absence. It's simply easier for me to say that I've been lazy. So let me try and make it up to you right now. I now present you with something I like to call

MORE THAN A FEELING

Boston are easily the most frustrating band I have ever heard. Now, I realize that's a bold claim to make in a world where Rolling Stone Magazine listed Linkin Park's Minutes to Midnight as the 25th best album of 2007, Weezer sill exist, and people actually find Devendra Banhart intriguing, but really admitting that these artists got under my skin the way a band like Boston does would be giving them all far to much credit. While I cannot fathom how anyone managed to convince Geffen to launch such a massive marketing campaign for Weezer's third album, I can generally ignore them. As for Linkin Park and Rolling Stone I need merely point out that same list also included Maroon 5, Down, The most recent Smashing Pumpkins album, Fall Out Boy, and Britney Spears. It also listed Devendra Banhart, who is (in the Farm Team's opinion) not only vacuous and boring, but also the poorest excuse for a poet since Jim Morrison posthumously defecated in a Paris bathtub.

All of these things are merely trivial issues that are barely worth mentioning save for the purposes of comparison. My problem with Boston is infinitely deeper and more troubling than one might first suspect. It calls into question everything I hold true about Rock n' Roll and thus threatens to shake lose the firm grip I believe to have on anything remotely resembling a reality. The problem is I actually like Boston. Now, to the unassuming reader that might seem like nothing more than a mere guilty pleasure. Let me assure you it is anything but.

However, in order to go further I must now take a few steps back. First, I need to put some things into context. I grew up in southeast Tennessee, right on to boarders of Alabama, Georgia, and North Carolina. This is what I would like to affectionately refer to as "Skynyrd Country." The only radio stations within a 200 mile radius were Classic Rock and Country. Clearly the classic rock station would be the lesser of two evils. Of course at the time that's not at all how I looked at it. Classic Rock was the greatest music I had ever heard and KZ106 was the only radio station I ever wanted to listen to. This is how I discovered Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, The Band, Neil Young, The Who, ZZ Top, Foghat, Foreigner, Journey, REO Speedwagon, Styx, Van Halen, Guns N Roses, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jethro Tull, Yes, Kansas, Grand Funk Railroad, The Eagles, The James Gang (and thus Joe Walsh), Peter Frampton, Santana, Rush, Steppenwolf, the Guess Who, Thin Lizzy, AC/DC, The Doors, Deep Purple, Blue Oyster Cult, Aerosmith, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, The Allman Brothers, and of course Boston. The funny thing is now I can't stand 75% of those bands, but from about 1988 (the first year I actually remember being aware of what year it was) until about 1999 I believed in the power of classic rock. Incidentally, I purposely left out three incredibly important artists, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and Black Sabbath because I discovered the Beatles through my parents and wasn't introduced to Dylan or Sabbath until I got to college.

Having said all that, It's important to note that I was never a huge fan of Boston. I liked them, but never have I owned any of their albums, including their self-titled debut (except for one highly scratch vinyl copy of said debut that once ordained the wall of my kitchen). I mention this record because it single-handedly embodies everything that I love and hate about Boston, and therefore represents in physical form that which may in fact prove that Descartes was totally wrong and we cannot, in fact, prove our own existence or really know anything ever. Of the eight songs on Boston's first album, three of them were top 40 hits and six of them still maintain moderate rotation on any given Classic rock station in the United States. Never mind the fact that guitarist Tom Scholz had (and I suppose still does) a Masters Degree in Mechanical Engineering from MIT, and with that knowledge built his own equipment, including his own distortion pedal which gave Boston their easily definable guitar tone, and thus influenced the sound of nearly every hair metal guitarist throughout the 1980s.

This is where problems start to arise. While I legitimately enjoy an occasional listen to the songs on Boston's first album whenever they so happen to be played on a bar jukebox or from the stereo of Greg's old Ford Escort, I also understand that Boston undoubtedly represent everything wrong with commercial music and the bastardization of Rock n' Roll. Not only did they have a profound influence on the worst musical decade of the last century, but they also embodied the very of essence of that which is Corporate Rock. They were gear freaks and thus constructed a perfect sound that was prefabricated for stadiums and arenas. Boston may have played the club circuit, but it wasn't for very long. From the moment "More Than a Feeling" debuted on top 40 stations across America in 1976, Boston were selling out coliseums.

Also, let me point out that Boston's first album came out a year before Punk broke. This is in no way a coincidence as Punk was, at it's core, a rebellion against everything Corporate Rock stood for. It was about bringing music back to the close personal vibe found only in a dirty cramped and crowded club with no AC. It was about not making people pay an outrageous sum to see their favorite band play live. It was about making people get down and dance or bang their head or jump around or whatever they needed to do to express themselves. I mean, I realize I'm idealizing a lot of this, but really isn't that what it was supposed to stand for? It was about bringing Rock n' Roll back down to earth. One look at the cover of that first Boston album and you understand Punk happened because Boston happened.

How can I legitimately enjoy Boston if they represent everything I hate? What does that mean? Are there no absolutes in this world? Is nothing sacred? If I can like something that, on principle alone, I vehemently despise, then does that mean that love and hate are the same thing? How is that possible? How can I love something I hate? How can they be the same? If love and hate are the same then up and down must be the same too. Left and Right. Black and White. East and West. Real and Imaginary. Nothing is as it should be. Everything is the same and different at the same time. I know nothing. I understand nothing. I am nothing.

Fast Forward to the present. There I am, curled up in the fetal position naked, clutching that old copy of Boston I used to own and crying uncontrollably as the cold water from my shower relentlessly pelts me in the face, my tears mixing with the water and swirling helplessly down the drain with all my dreams and hopes for a better future. I don't know anything anymore. Nothing is real to me anymore. The very fabric of my comprehension has been torn a sunder and I am left but the fragile shell of a man who once believed he understood what it meant to love Rock n' Roll.

Chart Watch: Kenny G

It's been a while since I've done one of these so I thought I'd make up for it with something completely ridiculous. For those of you who are new to this blog, you'll find a complete explanation about what you are about to read here. Otherwise, please enjoy one of the dumbest things I've ever read in my life. By the way, the previous owner of this book circled this particular entry, as if to say "yes, I am intrigued about the potential dangers this artist might present to my children." I also would like to preemptively point out that "ultramellow" is not a word.

Title: Breathless (1992)
Label: Arista
Genre: Jazz/Adult contemporary

Pro-Social Content: Only two songs on this mostly instrumental album contain lyrics. Both are romantic ballads, sung by soul artists Peabo Bryson ("By the Time This Night Is Over") and Aaron Neville ("Even If My Heart Would Break"). Neville's tune pledges a deep and everlasting love despite circumstances.

Objectionable Content: Bryson, on the other hand, hopes that "two lovers... will be together in the morning" without explaining whether or not they're married.

Summary/Advisory: Virtuoso saxophonist Kenny G's first album in four years features ultramellow instrumental sounds. A light collection of romantic mood music that is sure to be enjoyed by a wide audience—including some teens.

Holy shit.

Jay Reatard at Mercy Lounge

"Hey man, kill the fuckin' Indian buffet music!" And without waiting for his order to be carried out, Jay Reatard tore into the first of an estimated 13 song set that lasted maybe 20 minutes. While that might seem oddly short, it was actually rather appropriate, especially when you know that Reatard NEVER STOPPED PLAYING. With spit flying and head banging, Reatard played so ferociously that 20 minutes may as well have been two hours.

A high school drop-out, 27-year-old Reatard (born Jay Lindsay), got his start on Goner Records in Memphis, Tenn, and has been making his own brand of dirty garage rock, in one form or another, for the better part of 10 years. It's starting to pay off too, as Reatard made the cover of this month's Memphis Flyer, and Spin Magazine recently called Reatard the "Next Garage-Punk Prodigy."

Reatard's cocky attitude and face-crushing live performances have, in a way, already become legendary. Take the following video of his performance at Silver Dollar in Toronto on April 17 for example.



As gnarly (yes, gnarly) as that looks, it turns out Reatard had his reasons for being so pissed. Here's what he had to say about the whole ordeal.

Having seen and read all of this before the show, I was pretty pumped. As a matter of fact, I was kind of hoping to see someone get kicked in the face. Alas I had to settle for seeing the bass player catch a rogue loogie in the crotch from Reatard himself. That's not to say the show was in any way disappointing. Far to the contrary, Reatard's ball-busting no frills rock n' roll delivered the goods like a steaming hot pizza, in 30 minutes or less. I honestly couldn't tell you a damn song the guy played because for one, I wasn't too terribly familiar with Reatard's most recent album, Blood Visions, and also because I was so close to the stage that I couldn't hear the the PA over the brain-rattling thunder emanating from the amplifiers. This in no way prevented me (or anyone else, for that matter) from joining in the fist-pumping action. After 20 minutes, I was sufficiently rocked.