October 30, 2002

litterbox

Too much

By John O'Neill

AND SO I moved on to classical music – for reasons that in retrospect are somewhat vague, although it was definitely not the case that there was nothing left for me in rock and roll – as if I'd seen it all. It was as if I had absorbed so much rock action in so little time that, if not for the nightly flock of Miller High Lifes to aid in retching it back up, I might have overdosed on the stuff. Normally I wouldn't ride the ragged edge quite so hard, but I didn't have much choice in the matter. Being a fan is as much a duty as a vocation. The whole Budget Rock thing at the Parkside (yeah, yeah, the place where I tend bar once in a blue moon) really had me twisted and pounding the bar top in a declaration of the Bay Area's superior band firepower. I mean, the Rock and Roll Adventure Kids? Where did these guys come from? Why aren't they on the cover of the Bay Guardian? Where's my beer? And this SLA? Are they the best band to ever be unfortunate enough to call Sacramento home? And where's my beer?

By the time the Lyres went on, Sunday evening, making a crowning career statement in the process, the entire room was listless, able to offer up only tattered reverence. And, just as gods don't answer letters, Jeff Conolly doesn't do requests, but he does make you remember why you ever fell in love with such a flaming asshole in the first place. Like everyone else in the room, he just loves the music. After that magnificent set, I fell to my knee and sobbed when nobody was looking. Then I crawled home just in time to wake up drunk and barely hold it together for back-to-back Dirtbombs shows. By the time the Forty-Fives rolled into town a day early for a 72-hour stand, I may as well have been thumping my ears – and liver – with a cinder block. As usual the Forty-Fives were majestic, if misunderstood; I waved them off into the great unknown for another year and promptly slipped into a coma. When I awoke I felt so horrible for rock and roll that I stayed on the sofa and vowed revenge on the world, as soon as I got my equilibrium back. And so began the classical music thing.

What can be said about violin concertos except that when you've heard one, you've heard them all? They're loud in some spots, and much less loud in others, and they all seem to last much longer than they really last. I can spot the difference between a solid guitar solo and an extravagant wank, but what makes a good violinist is as much a mystery to me as what constitutes good soft-serve ice cream. I served time with Rachmaninoff and Berlioz and Schumann. By day three I still couldn't care about the Hemlock's future listings.

Then came Billboard magazine and a half-page article devoted to my main men from Atlanta, the Forty-Fives, extolling their virtues with words like "great" and "year's most satisfying." The effect was immediate. If Billboard can back one of my loser horses, the curse might actually be over. And if the Forty-Fives, why not the Flakes? Why not the Rock and Roll Adventure Kids instead of the White Stripes? And what about the Sermon kicking the Mooney Suzuki's ass in? I mean, Beethoven was deaf! How good could his crap really be? Meanwhile I've still got some low-end left to destroy. Comets on Fire! Now that's talent.