November 27, 2002

litterbox

Tell a friend
By John O'Neill

FRIENDS SHOULD NEVER let friends play in shitty bands. This should be a golden rule, a briefly awkward axiom that everyone concerned with humanity should subscribe to. "Better Living Through Better Bands," that's the ticket. A little tough love early on is, in the end, far better than suffering the indulgences of a misguided pal who is somehow under the impression that not only does the world need another nu-metal band but that also his outfit rocks a lot harder than those other pussies. A true friend should defuse the situation, demanding that the Japanese guitar with the pointy headstock be placed on the floor before anyone else gets hurt. Imagine the ramifications if only we could all put aside our potential embarrassment and give both guns to burgeoning disasters. There would be no more folk rockers experimenting with samplers; pleather pants and shiny shirts would disappear virtually overnight; and those dreaded words – "drum 'n' bass" – would never be used in conjunction again. We would live in a perfect musical world, with perfect club bills nightly. There would be tactful piano recitals from our perfect little children and music television that, while not perfect, would never again delve into programming like The 100 Greatest Power Ballads of Hair Metal.

The reason I mention all of this is because I am a man who has let all of us down. I was once a card-carrying, brass-plated destroyer of bands. That was during the special time, the early 20s, when a person knows everything and is never gonna belong to the Man. Radio was my format of choice, and I hurled thunderbolts of judgment every Wednesday night for nearly 10 years. National bands, local bands, the music press, poets, presidents – pretty much anyone who didn't limp or require special eating utensils was fair game. And while there were threatening phone calls, I had the relative anonymity provided by radio. So while hearing the phrase "that asshole" wasn't uncommon, the physical beatings promised were never delivered.

Everything changed with the first writing gig. Maybe it was actually having to meet these people in person that softened me, or maybe it was the fear of being readily identifiable in a full room. Or maybe it was the mellowing hand of time working its magic. But instead of plunging the sword of musical integrity into all unworthy examples, I found myself either completely ignoring or, worse, going out of my way to find something nice to say about bands who had likable people in them. Since I moved to San Francisco it's gotten worse. As the new guy in town, I actually went all-out to introduce and ingratiate myself to the new scene. The wake-up call came two weeks ago in San Jose when I found a button for a band whose T-shirt I was sporting only the night before lying in a urinal. And the message couldn't have been any clearer: I too have friends in shitty bands.

So lets make a pact together to do the right thing. It won't be easy, but neither is remaining silent. Someday we could be living in a city where the only thing that sucks about Kimo's is the drinks.