Drum's Not Dead. Yet.

A long time ago (read: really a few years back, but it seems like forever), my mother yelled at me for listening to my music too loudly.

"You're going to go deaf, you know", she said.

"I know--" I replied.

"Oh, you know, do you? Is that what you
want?" she cut me off.

"Well, kinda", I said smugly, under my breath.

She stormed off, as she usually did when she knew that I was going to get the last word in. If you know me at all, you'd know that these kinds of reactions happened A LOT.

Anyways, last week, my coworker Jerry heard me come through the front door of my office. He didn't so much hear me as he heard my music. In the mornings, I leave my lovely girlfriend Karen on the D or N train and turn on my music in my iPod. Now, I don't know anyone who can listen to easygoing tunes to wake themself up, and I am certainly not ever rocking to Belle & Sebastian or Sloan first thing in the morning. So, inevitably, I'm rocking the fuck out to something heavy, maybe something that would make the people standing next to me on the train fear something, if not me.

Anyways, last week, my coworker Jerry heard me come through the front door of my office. He didn't so much hear me as he heard my music. In the mornings, I leave my lovely girlfriend Karen on the D or N train and turn on my music in my iPod. Now, I don't know anyone who can listen to easygoing tunes to wake themself up, and I am certainly not ever rocking to Belle & Sebastian or Sloan first thing in the morning. So, inevitably, I'm rocking the fuck out to something heavy, maybe something that would make the people standing next to me on the train fear something, if not me.

Back to the story. So, Jerry heard me come in the front door and as I went to say "good morning", he looked at me and said, "Dude, your music is soooo loud. I'm surprised you can hear anything at all." I had flashes of those earlier conversations with my mother from so long ago. I said to him, "Yeah well, I'm only listening at optimal volumes."

And that got me thinking. Could I really be going deaf? Is there a way that I might really be losing the ability to enjoy the rock as I actually ENJOY THE ROCK?

I flashed back to every aural experience I could remember feeling like I'd never hear anything again. The Pixies show that my lovely girlfriend Karen and I went to when we had been dating for just a month or so. The innumerable local punk and hardcore shows I attended in high school, standing ever closer to any one of the bands' speaker stacks. Any of the K-Rock concerts I went to in junior college in New York City (the most memorable being my 17th birthday spent rocking the ever-loving shit out to At the Drive-In, Knapsack and Archers of Loaf still the best show I've ever seen). Any ska/punk/indie/hardcore fest I went almost daily in college (I was, admittedly, addicted to saying that I was part of the "scene" in Peoria, Illinois. If you can read that statement without laughing, I'll give you a stick of gum for sure).

And then I thought of the last concert I went to where I really questioned whether or not I could stand to go to any more shows. The Kills at Maxwell's in Hoboken, NJ. A mere 20 minutes from midtown NYC, my lovely girlfriend Karen, my friend Frank and I trekked to Maxwell's for one of my favorite bands. And they fucking destroyed. The three of us decided (well, it was really my fault) to stand up on the side of the smallish venue, right within 8 feet of the speaker system. Bad idea. I still have nightmares of the three days after the show that I heard clicking instead of monosyllabic phrases. Seriously. I felt like I couldn't do it anymore. That was it. I was finished.

Of course, as the story would continue, I'm still going to shows almost once a week more than a year later. But, what's most important in my story is that I understood finally what my mother was talking about all those years ago. I didn't want to lose my hearing. Not now. Not ever.

As a sidenote, I'm still listening to my iPod at "optimal" volumes, which means hellishly loud and hard-as-fuck. Maybe I'll never learn. But at least I'll be a-rocking.

Godspeed!

the culture of me picnic '06

Godspeed!

Rudeboy A Weep & A Wail

Rome was not built in a day
Opposition will come your way
But the harder the battle, you see
Is the sweeter the victory

--- from "You Can Get It if You Really Want"

Desmond Dekker, unknown by many to be the most important figure in 1960s Jamaican music, died last night of an apparent heart attack, according to Reuters. He was 64 years old.

Okay, so that's how every obituary and notification of Dekker's death will begin. And why not this one as well, huh?

Dekker, like his contemporaries/friends Toots & the Maytals, Prince Buster, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff (whose lyrics appear above) and hundreds of other roots reggae or blue beat ska artists, had his heyday in the early 1960s Jamaican cultural movements. Unlike his contemporaries, though, Dekker began his career as a soul-singer of non-revolutionary or social commentative pieces. His first single, "Honor Thy Mother and Father", is a prime example of this.

Dekker is one of those artists that, no matter how he's remembered by pop culture, he'll always have a place in the hearts of a certain cult. Those that came of age in Kingston, Jamaica during the mid-60s, the northern-soul crowd of London in the late 60s and early 70s: mods, skins, punks (thanks in large part to DJ/filmmaker Don Letts), and some of the teddy boys.

And me? I grew up with third-wave ska, the bastard child of the American recording industry and a love affair between yippie pot-smoking Midwestern kids and their penchant for Marley. Most of us learned about reggae and ska, if at all, because of Marley. And wouldn't you know it, Marley learned and began with Dekker. So there you go. We learned backwards what the Wailers learned forwards. Trippy.

I used to think that I should block out my entire past with ska altogether (as most of us have). But, a few months back, I purchased a half-dozen of the Trojan label box sets, all of which feature at least a small handful of Dekker favorites.

So, Des, you will be missed. I assure you of that. And while your impact wasn't felt much at all after the very early 80s, I know that when word of your passing spreads to the lips and hearts of fans like me, you will no doubt dent the shit out of the charts. Here's to that.

Godspeed!

Viva! The Culture of Me!!

Brothers & Sisters,

I bring you news of the most important order.  Your friend, that dude jeff, and his commune of "would-be anarchistic/leftist/commie bastard/artist-freakshow/love-hate-whatever/opinionated asshole-ish/not-really-too-cool-for-school-but-wouldn't-we-all-like-to-be" friends have gathered together a website to be called thecultureofme.com.

So, what on earth is the culture of me? Well, first of all, you already know the answer. It's a lot of things.  The culture of me is what we all live in. The multi-faceted lifestyle attempts we all (well, if by that I mean anyone between the ages of 14 and 30) endure on a daily basis to make ourselves different from each other. But here's the truth of the matter. By attempting to make ourselves stand out from the huddled masses we come across on the subway, train, bus, freeway, mall parking lot, school cafeteria, sidewalk, whatever, what we're really doing is trying to stake a claim that we started something. That we're originators. Trendsetters. Ahead of the curve.

Now, ask yourself. Am I right? Is it true? Do my attempts at standing out really make me fit in? Well, probably. But that's okay. Because we (the staff of thecultureofme.com) are here to help you. I promise. Nothing bad can happen to you when you figure out that you're no more special than that person staring at your shoes on the 7 train. And they are great shoes, by the way. But the culture of "me" is really the culture of "us". We're all in this mud together. Splashing around and trying to make sense of it all. So join in. Join up. Be a part of something without feeling like you're owed a lot just for being there. No one owes you what you think you're due. Not even me.

Art, books, news, music, theater, television, etc.  Check out the message board, too.  Sign up already, you trendsetter you. Tell your friends about us. Be the cool kid. The first. The one they all look up to. Hell, you probably already are that person. Believe me, because I'm one of those people, too. WE ALL ARE. This is our culture. Life is culture. Culture is life. You are culture. Culture is you. thecultureofme.com.

Godspeed!

In the garage where I belong

Aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhh!!!! Okay. Sorry. Had to get that out. I was just on , one of only 10 or so websites I actually log on to day after day (aside from porn, that is). So, as of right now, I've been on a kick of garage-rock, trad-rock, and late 60s psychedelia (read: Beatles' "Rubber Soul", Iggy & the Stooges' "Raw Power", MC5's "Back in the U.S.A.", et al.).

So, when I logged onto to AllMusic, I was looking to see about whether or not I should download anything from The Hellacopters or more from the Division of Laura Lee, when I came across this.

Apparently, garage rock had it's heyday in the late 60s and early 70s with bands that breathed the original rock n' roll. They wrote the book on it. Detroit Rock City. The New York Dolls. That was all you had. No Kiss. No stadium rock. No hip hop. Hell. The only alternatives you had were Motown soul and adult contemporary Perry Como and the Rat Pack-type bullshit. AND THEN PUNK HAPPENED. Of course. I'm not telling you anything you probably don't already know. Anyways, here's the thing. Allmusic only notes 1 revival of the sound. Here's what the site had to say about the mid-80s garage rock revival:

"Like the similarly timed rockabilly and surf revivals, garage rock revivalists also appropriated the original music's sense of style, self-consciously playing up their personal favorite qualities."

And yes. They're right. The "revivalists" were copping the originators, but with a different kind of panache; a different attempt at style. The Cramps. The Chesterfield Kings. The Fuzztones. The Lyres. They wrote there own chapter in the book.

So here's where we're at. In 1972, Lenny Kaye (the mixtape guru and soon-to-be instrumentalist for Patti Smith), compiled something called Nuggets. The double-LP album was nothing short of brilliance. Rock music chronicled by a rock fanatic. What more could you ask for? "No one could have possibly satisfied all rabid garage collectors with a mere 118 songs, but that's not really the point here; the object was to provide a wide-ranging box set of '60s garage rock that would entertain, represent the considerable span of garage styles, and be massive -- yet affordable -- for the committed rock fan who nonetheless doesn't want everything." That's what our friends, the critics, said about the records.

More than 30 years later, another box set came out, Children of Nuggets. Now I know right away that a few people will say that there were over a dozen other attempts at the madness and genius of the original Kaye-cullled collection, but they don't hold up at all to the original. This one does. "Far from sounding monotonous, Children of Nuggets has a tremendous variety of sounds, styles, and attitudes. As producer Alec Palao states in his introductory liner notes, the idea was to adhere to Lenny Kaye's idea for the original Nuggets LP, which was to "compile together the good tracks from all those albums that only have one good track," not caring whether the featured songs adhered to a strict definition of what was or was not garage or psych."

Which brings me to right now. I believe that we are a few short years away from another edition of the Nuggets from Nuggets box set. Something to speak volumes about the resurgence of garage rock TODAY. Another posting in AllMusic for the 3rd generation of "revivalists". The Mooney Suzuki. White Stripes. The Hives. The Paybacks. The Fondas. The Bloody Hollies. And, what I believe to be the forebearers of everything that came before them and everything that is about to happen. Be Your Own PET. So, in honor of the shape of things to come, I give you a fully-downloadable playlist of that dude jeff's N-N-N-N-Nuggets.

Godspeed!

Don't Worry 'Bout Me: The Joey Ramone B-day Bash

Last Friday, before the inaugural post of my portion of the culture of me, I went down to Irving Plaza for another edition of the Joey Ramone Birthday Bash. It's a hodge-podge of minor/major punk rock talent and some groups or artists you might feel better never actually seeing. Before I get into that, let me give you some back story as to how I got in (after all, the show sold out VERY quickly.

About three months ago I started volunteering for LIFEbeat, an organization that works hand-in-hand with the music industry to help spread the message of AIDS/HIV prevention and STD awareness. Okay. Now that my pedestal has been removed from under my feet, I'll contine to talk about the show.

I went to Irving to work the show with a few LIFEbeat friends, but we quickly learned that because it was so packed, we wouldn't be able to "table" (meaning hand out condoms and safe-sex literature) the event. But, the lovely staff of Irving Plaza let the three of us stay for the show. And thank God.

As far as the bands were concerned, here's the memorable portions: The Star Spangles played a blistering, Stiff Little Fingers-esque 40 minute show, tearing through their incessant garage rock fare. The Threads played a great show for the problems that Mick Stitch was having with his microphone. I felt bad, but after his set, I caught up with him and we spoke for a few about it. It's all good. Watch out for them on the up-and-coming. The Alarm ripped everyone in the crowd's faces off with their throwback streetpunk. They literally destroyed every band that came before and after.

The big news milling around the show was that of the return of the one of the most "famous" people in punk. Glen Matlock, the pre-Sid Vicious bass player for the Sex Pistols (and really the only surviving sane person from that group's reign) and his new band, The Philistines, were playing their first American date. We were all super excited, but Matlock and his bros did not come through. There was a definite reason why Johnny Rotten sang for the Pistols, if you know what I mean. Mindless Self Indulgence. Not just a clever band name. My friend Rachel and I described them as what would happen if we liked Trent Reznor, but he happened to have a learning disability. They were terrible. And what's worse, they ended up playing the longest set out of anyone.

The supposed headliners, NYC golden boys The Strokes, were much anticipated, as this was a great honor (they said that on their website) to be able to headline for Joey Ramone. Twenty minutes after MSI were done, Julian & co. came on stage, rocked out 2 songs from First Impressions of Earth, thanked Joey for everything and left. You could smell the mutiny in the air. I mean, seriously, is there really a need for them to show up at all if they're not going to even play 28 minutes, the average length of one of their LPs? I think not.

So that's it. After the show I went home to my lovely girlfriend Karen. A lot more happened this past weekend, but a whole other post is necessary for that stuff.

Anyways, if you were at the show and have something else to share, hit me up at the message board. I'd like to know what you think. Oh, and if you're one of The Strokes, I want a fucking explanation.

Godspeed!

Inaugural Ball

Hello. My name is that dude jeff. I am a member of team of thecultureofme.com. The staff here welcome you to our website. YOUR WEBSITE. So, what on earth is the culture of me? Well, first of all, you already know the answer. It's a lot of things. First off, it's this lovely website you happen to be cruising in to. Oh yes, it's that kind of a thing. The culture of me is what we all live in. The multi-faceted lifestyle attempts we all (well, if by that I mean anyone between the ages of 14 and 30) endure on a daily basis to make ourselves different from each other. But here's the truth of the matter. By attempting to make ourselves stand out from the huddled masses we come across on subway, train, bus, freeway, mall parking lot, school cafeteria, sidewalk, whatever, what we're really doing is trying to stake a claim that we started something. That we're originators. Trendsetters. Ahead of the curve.

Now, ask yourself. Am I right? Is it true? Do my attempts at standing out really make me fit in? Well, probably. But that's okay. Because we (the staff of thecultureofme.com) are here to help you. I promise. Nothing bad can happen to you when you figure out that you're no more special than that person staring at your shoes on the 7 train. And they are great shoes, by the way. But the culture of "me" is really the culture of "us". We're all in this mud together. Splashing around and trying to make sense of it all. So join in. Join up. Be a part of something without feeling like you're owed a lot just for being there. No one owes you what you think you're due. Not even me. Anyways, I'll be bringing you whatever I can each and every day regarding my vision of the culture of me. Art, books, news, music, theater, television, etc. And maybe, you'll bring me something. That's what the message board is for. Sign up already, you trendsetter you. Tell your friends about us. Be the cool kid. The first. The one they all look up to. Hell, you probably already are that person. Believe me, because I'm one of those people, too. WE ALL ARE. This is our culture. Life is culture. Culture is life. You are culture. Culture is you. thecultureofme.com.

Godspeed!

now i wanna sniff some glue, now i just want something to do...

godspeed!

ready or not bitches!!

godspeed!

creativity for sale

   My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?