Things you aren't good enough to say

"You know, they say we sold our souls, but to who? The devil? Last I checked, the Lord was the only one giving out record contracts these days"

-Valient Himself

I have noticed an unsettling trend in the last few years that by no means arose de novo from what I can only assume is the mind of the same autistic kid responsible for ‘St. Elsewhere’, but it seems to have made itself much more ubiquitous lately. I’m talking of course about the chimera effect of defunct popular bands, the mash-up that inevitably occurs when the less talented halfof one split band gangs up with the less motivated half of another and churns out this:

Velvet Revolver: Irrelevant people
making stupid redundant crap

The reason I comment on it now is that we are facing a unique time in this horrible tradition’s history. With the reinvigoration of the L.A. sex rock that made the Sunset Strip and the Roxy places of note, not to mention drove truckloads of money directly to the doorsteps of idiots who had an otherwise bright future of figuring out a more efficient way to make a birth control system from the catalytic converter they snaked from work, the contemporary bands that claim Guns n Roses and Motley Crue as influences are in the same ecological niche as the bands formed from their idols’ members. Avenged Sevenfold must now compete for the same dollars and vaginas as Velvet Revolver.

As a thesis statement, or more accurately a mantra, I follow this last example with a simple sentence; Fuck Velvet Revolver. This band is the misguided sexual will of a 14 year old violently colliding with a geriatric ability to get an erection. If you combined all the campy, unsuccessful elements of both GnR and Stone Temple Pilots, shoveled enough coal to get the rock engine to just above ‘Aerosmith Asteroid Song’, then convinced every teenager without back pockets on their jeans that their new favorite band had just materialized from the dimension of heroine scabs, you’d be getting close to the level of god-fucking-awful that this band achieves.

I will leave you now with a link to their new assuredly hit single ‘She Builds Quick Machines’, but not before relaying to you what one special young person has to say about these arbiters of rock. While viewing the video, please try not to focus on the fact that Slash most likely provided wardrobe for the entire cast from his own closet or the startling image of one band member who looks like Skeletor dressing up as the cowboy from the Village People for Halloween. Instead keep in mind this quote from a ‘dracorona’ thoughtfully scribed in the hallowed halls on t3h internetz, “thanks god for VR. it´s the best band in the world. in this moment the music is bore and bad, but velvet is here to save us. they are the best!!!” I think that sums up my case far more eloquently than this poor wordsmith ever could.

The promised rocking

Now far be it from me to undermine the staunch edifice of unadulterated hatred for everything that scene legends are required by law to tote at all times, but I consider the young man who penned this comic (and many others) a slice above some. His name is Mitch Clem and you should visit his website mitchclem.com if only to learn how to move to Texas with no money and only the virtue of your cynicism and love of Henry Rollins (I mean did you see Bad Boys II for fuck's sake?) to pull you through.

If You're Reading This:

If you're reading this, you've doubtless been scouring some pretty dark internet corners. As far as I know, nobody looks at this thing.

But, if you are reading this, and you haven't read The Bad Plus' very excellent blog Do The Math,
well, you're some kind of fool.

Don't Start a Band

While I hate to reference Reel Big Fish lyrics, I think they really hit the nail on the head when they warned us "Don't Start a Band". Rock and roll is bullshit.

I'm in a rock band. I know from experience.

First of all, we're quitting. It's probably for the best, though I'll miss some things about it, mostly collaborating with good friends.

There are surely some things I won't miss about it, like "getting the privilege" to entertain people for free and getting upstaged by bands that can't play their instruments but make up for it by sounding like a more popular band and having super cool hair. ======================================>

For example, most people think that rock bands go on tour, and its all booze, delicious tour rider food, rocking out, and making a boatload of cash.

Most people are, unfortunately, wrong.

Case in point: Do you see that fat wad of cash in the prosperous rock and roller's hand? Good for you. I'll bet you don't know that he never saw a dime (well, one time the band went to Wendy's on "the band's" dime, so to speak). It all went back in the gas tank.

Also, that night, he and his lucky compatriots "rocked out" by getting upstaged by an awful local frat-boy reggae band. Then they "totally f'ing partied" by eating said reggae band's left-over pizza (thanks mom of band members) and sleeping on the concrete floor of the venue. The next morning they got up at 7am and drove for 4 hours through the desert (without air-conditioning) to play another show. They probably get compensated to the tune of $20 each night (if that). 4 or 5 people may have bought something, half of whom probably tried to haggle for a lower price on CDs or shirts. So that's something like $60 dollars in two days. KICK ASS!!!

Point is, most of the time, being on tour is more like this: (image: brainfuel.tv)









Don't get me wrong, I'm not just "in it for the money", its just that the whole rock/pop music scene is a giant snow-job (or load of bullshit, which every suits your fancy) that gets pulled on artists and consumers. The best band in the world is out there and, no, you will never hear them. Really.


Record companies are interested only in the bottom line, they are not evil. It is just the nature of business to be interested money. Despite what MTV would have you believe, hip youngsters are not the taste makers. The real taste makers are shrewd old business men. I mean how hip does this guy look (image: USA Today)

Anyway I'd rather play "old people" music and be treated well than "fight the motherfuckin' power xXpunkXrawkXx!!!" and get treated like a fucking bum.

I'm going to play jazz and other esoteric stuff and snicker with my pretentious friends when people "don't get it". Its really a lot more fun than begging people to let you sleep on their floors every night for a month, and it pays better too.

Anyway, buy shit from independent artists. Don't buy music that sucks, even as a gift for your tasteless friends.

Also, go ahead and post incoherent rants on your blog about music and the music industry. Make sure to let the Internet know why you're an embittered 20-something former rock and roller. Nobody reads this shit anyhow.

With Vitriol,
Worthless Pseudonym

Gordo, you fool

Well, its official; the public at large can now stroll down to the local Target with fifteen dollars in their pocket and purchase what that guy from Good Charlotte bought years ago with a dinner at Chili's and a six pack of Mike's Hard Raspberry -




Hilary Duff's Dignity

Faux Pas Witnessed at a Ratatat Concert

1. Arythmic dancing - Yes, I realize that Ratatat (and opening band 120 Days) are dance bands. I get it. You're all on spring break, you've got your best white sportcoat and fashion mullet on, and you just want to cut loose. I sympathize, although being stereotypically white (ie: lame) and overweight, I politely choose to stand off to the side and perform the traditional concert head-nod. No big deal. I do however have one request: If you must dance, at least dance to the music. Every single person there took it upon themselves to do the same hippie-dance-sway bullshit for every song, regardless of tempo or breaks in the music. It was like watching a movie where the sound doesn't line up with the actor's mouth. Except this wasn't a movie, this was about 300 kids who wish the 80s never ended trying to dance to an 18 minute Phish song playing in their head.

2. Mosh-Humping - This term might be misleading, because there's no real moshing that goes on at a Ratatat concert, but no matter where you go, you will always see the normally socially-awkward couple trying like hell to make a baby right there in front of everybody. I'm not really a prude, but come on man, you don't want to blow your wad too quick, what are you going to do after the show? Grab some Chalupas and watch Will and Grace? Plan ahead. Although I will say this much: this is the exception that proves the rule of my previous comment. This couple were the only ones who did anything in time with the music, so good for them I guess. At one point I saw him put his hand up the back of her skirt when he thought no one was looking, and fingerbang her to the bass line of the song "Crips." I politely excused myself and grabbed another Coors Light.

3. Sucking - This is perhaps the greatest of all faux pas. 120 Days sucked, a lot. But having never listened to them before I didn't really hold that against them. I held out hope that Ratatat would bring the noise to compliment the already copious amounts of funk in the room. And when they finally took the stage (35 minutes late) they sounded good. "Wow," I thought, "they managed to pull off a great live sound. Why it sounds just like their CD! Wait a minute..." I had witnessed what was essentially the Guitar-Heroization of music, where all the loops, drops, and other goodies that make a Ratatat album sound really cool were being performed by the push of a button and a lot of standing around, while dueling guitars played (poorly) over the top of the preset tracklist. It was a disappointment to be sure, especially considering that other electronic bands (ex: the Album Leaf, and Grizzly Bear) were able to fully recreate the studio sound on stage without simply pushing a button for a prerecorded karaoke track. I'm glad I didn't pay for this show. Scene Legends don't pay for shows.

-Konrad Adenauer

Konrad Adenauer Endorses a Music Video

Video of the Week - "It's Not Over" by Chris Daughtry

Hey kids! Are you a white male between the ages of 14 and 17? Are you overweight? Would you be kicking ass in Sophomore Metal Shop if it weren't for all those unexcused absences? Is your dream to marry that girl with the pocketless jeans and the XXL Tazmanian Devil sweatshirt and build custom choppers? Then have we got the band for you! His name's Chris Daughtry, and he's a total hardass. If the name sounds familiar, it may be because he was on American Idol last season. But don't worry, this isn't your faggy little sister's (God... Kaytlinn can be so gay sometimes!) American Idol, Chris Daughtry got eliminated by people who just don't understand him, or you. After picking up a band and creativly naming them "Daughtry," he's totally kicking the shit out of that Taylor Hicks and the rest of those California Queers on the billboard charts. So do yourself a favor: when your mom's boyfriend is done drinking and watching Hannity's America, invite your lady over to watch some MTV. When this Daughtry video comes on, she'll get so hot looking at his Scott Stappian leather pants, that you'll totally get to second base. Bonus.

-Konrad Adenauer

Twee Twit

Watch this video by El Perro Del Mar.

I think this maybe the frailest human voice captured on any sound recording device in history. There are octogenarian librarians from Connecticut that stir up more controversy than this music.

Its like being baked inside a loaf of bread. You know your own death is imminent if you linger for too long, but as the doughy merchant of doom envelopes you bit by bit, all you can think is how very warm and inviting it all seems. By the time you come to your senses, though, its too late and you've already suffocated. El Perro Del Mar you crafty bastards.

Soothsayers Conclude, the Music Industry is dead.

They say an image is worth a thousand words. Therefore, I will leave you with this image which I think proves my point.

-Dr. Fortune Esq.

If you have to like a band that makes you less of a person, make it


HELLOGOODBYE

You know those letters you're supposed to write but never send for some assumed therapeutic value. Whether it was intended or not, this is one of those letters because, technically, you cant address an envelope to a particular section of sidewalk.

To whom it may concern -

The smell of cloves gingerly wafting its way towards me means but one thing; I’m entering the realm of that which I cannot stand. Much like Charybdis or the Sarlac pit, your particular band of laughable misfits waits to ensnare me with the accidental stupification that ensues upon me overhearing their indictment of the ‘Big Denim' lobby, or the commercialization of Raffi or some bullshit. My aversion to you utter human trash hanging outside of the organic coffee house is one of self preservation certainly, but more so of contempt.

If you utter, ‘Oh yeah, I know Rain and Karen who own this place. I can put my art up whenever I want cause commercial galleries are afraid of my work’, I swear to whatever malevolent force that put you on this planet I’m going to punch you in the fucking throat. I say this not out of irrational anger or rash reactionary irritation but of simple biological function. If your voicebox no loner is able to utter sound, I can’t hear you theorize about that Chomsky book you don’t understand, yet feel the need to talk about all afternoon. An afternoon you should be at that job your mom got you, but that conformist boss of yours expects you to wash off the black nail polish because ‘customers’ find it off-putting.

You bastards hang outside of a coffee shop all day, no doubt named after a Kerouac book or an Ibsen play, and fight the good fight against the conformist robots that pass you on their way to jobs or class. Much like the first unbeatable level of ‘The Rocketeer’ on NES, your conversations meander around the same general topic of art or literature, but because you boners never took the time to actually learn anything about it, they always end up at the same place – the continue screen. Having no other way to spend your time or – god forbid- your parents’ money, you gleefully press that A button, strike up another American Spirit, and start again with ‘I try to model my watercolor work on the minimalist French neo-realist notion of blah blah blah no one fucking cares.

-Clervius Narcisse

First post, W00t!

Let us begin by extending a very jaded welcome to SceneLegends, a site for people who know music was better in their day, yet are still under 30. If you're literate enough to recognize the above reference while simultaneously harboring a deep resentment for your contemporaries and their insatiable appetite for oversized sunglasses, Diesel Jeans, and swag from Spencer's Gifts, then congratulations: you're a pretentious asshole who has a profound natural ability to instantly pass judgement on those desiring to entertain you. But here, you're among other pretentious assholes, so welcome friend. Perhaps one day we will meet in real life to have a six dollar micro-brew, swap Yo La Tengo bootlegs, and mock those not in attendance.

-Konrad Adenauer