Nine Pearls-Blogging for Fun and Cash Prizes

Musical Opinions

Proof that I am totally uncool, by all methods of measuring such things:

1.) I think the church of Tom Jones may be just what the world needs right now. I mean, there’s a dude that moved women like my Grandma Betty to fits of panty-tossing. Hell, I can’t even imagine panty-less Betties, and this dude conjured them with the power of cheesy pop songs. Admit it—that’s power that should be harnessed for the good of humanity.

2.) I love me some Muse. Seriously. And, it’s not ironic love. It’s “Spirit of Freddie Mercury,” unapologetic, over-the-top, needless crescendo love. And, my friends, that’s not pretty love. That’s glittery love. With lots of neon pink.

3.) My initial reaction to the Snow Patrol was “Gosh, if I wanted to listen to Gin Blossoms, I’d pull out my old CD.” That means that I can’t even successfully like music that’s trying it’s very best to not offend me. I had a similar problem with the Arctic Monkeys, which made me gasp, “The love child of 3-11 and the Strokes!” And, then all the kidlins said, “Who’s 3-11?” And, I said, “Shit, I’m old.” And, then I realized, you fall into the generation gap when you start laughing at high school boys for having the same haircut your dad had in high school.

4.) For reasons unknown to me, I can listen to Pearl Jam, or Nine Inch Nails, or even Nirvana and not feel like some sort of wierd mid-90’s artifact, but when I catch a few seconds of anything by Marilyn Manson I feel like a sociological specimen. And, I didn’t even like Manson that much; he was just inescapable if you were 16 in 1995. I think it’s because Manson couldn’t exist in this decade. The schtick wouldn’t work. He was way too of the moment. Of course, in 2015, when he’s doing the 20 year Anti-Christ Superstar Reunion Tour, complete with rubber boobies and bloody pope hat and mid-life crisis and moment of cocaine and silence for the long-dead kids at Columbine, I’ll be eating my words.

5.) Were I to tally up concert attendance… I’ve seen Pantera more than any other major act. Pantera, y’all. Pantera. How lame is that? I mean, to be less cool, I would have had to follow Phish around for a couple of months, or something. Of course, I’m from Dallas, so really I can’t really be held responsible for it. It may have been inevitable.

6.) I’ve been in a mosh pit, once. At a Kittie show. Which makes me the single lamest mosher EVER. That level of lameness is only slightly adjusted by the fact that I was nearly killed once by a human torpedo at an Anthrax show. Unfortunately, even the human torpedo incident is dampened by the fact that it happened in Lubbock, and if you wanna rock, you sure as shit don’t want to rock in Lubbock. The single scariest pit I’ve ever seen was at a Sepultura show as Deep Ellum Live. In general, the mid-sized venues were much more likely to result in a broken neck for some dude with long brown hair. And, it seems that for a solid 5 years or so, my life was full of dudes with long brown hair.

7.) Despite all that… I was never really a metalhead. It was a social thing, I guess. Which probably renders me lamer still. I’d come home from a White Zombie show and listen to Juliana Hatfield.

8.) And, after the gothy-metal phase, which I spent dressing like Trent Reznor’s dorky, hanger-on, third cousin who has a rather impressive collection of boots and shit that’s been duct taped (I have pictures around here somewhere. Let me just say, we spent a lot of time at Hobby Lobby, because Hot Topic wasn’t in Dallas at that point, and that I had my family fully convinced I was a lesbian just by virtue of my wardrobe. I once had a kid at the mall point at me and say, “Look, Mommy! A pirate!” The only saving grace is that I wasn’t the only one, and I’m really fucking good with liquid eyeliner.), I took it into uncharted lameness—I turned raver. Yeah. Basically, there’s nothing sadder than being a candy kid. It’s fun while it’s happening, but there’s this phrase… “Cracked-out Sundays.” Anyway, there’s this part of my frontal lobe that’s been altered in some way by really loud Trance anthems. All I have to do is hear the intro to “Better Off Alone,” “Sandstorm,” or “Zombie Nation,” and certain seratonin receptors start shooting off in anticipation. I’m like Pavlov’s brain-damaged dog. It doesn’t work quite as well with Jungle which I actually still like.

9.) You may have noticed a certain lack of hip-hop and rap. I have a whole 2 hip-hop albums. Outkast’s Speakerboxx / The Love Below and the new Gnarls Barkley. I dunno if TV on the Radio counts, but I really adore them. I actually developed a bit of Indie snob-dom about them, because in 2004 they were my band, and all of a sudden now they’re David Bowie’s band. Damn it. Anyway, I am a hip-hop ignoramus. Unless it somehow ended up a party thing (DJ Shadow, RJD2, J5 etc.) I don’t know it, or I was the absolute last one to hear it. And, Nelly makes me want to punch someone. He can shove his Eagle On right up his own ass.

10.) I hated country music as a teenager. Absolutely hated it. Then ClearChannel bought out half of the radio stations in Dallas, and unless I wanted to hear Evanescence and Good Charlotte on a regular basis, mixed in with stuff that reminded me of a recently deceased friend, I needed to broaden my radio-only commute horizons. Country is where I ended up, mostly because I hadn’t bothered with it before, so it couldn’t remind me of anything too terribly traumatizing. Now, I’m one of those sad, sad people that listens to like, Calexico and Magnolia Electric Co. and Jolie Holland—the “Alt-Country” people. People that will never be famous. And, ya don’t know if they’ll just throw in the towel, because eating is more important than making another album that no one will buy. It’s slightly quieter than pretending at metal head.

11.) It’s a shame that Christina Aguilera was a teen pop star, ‘cause that voice probably deserved better. And, while I don’t know anything about her, I approve of Missy Elliot just on principal. And, I once had a dirty dream about Britney Spears, which to this day confuses me, ‘cause my subconscious gave her some very un-Britney piercings. And, I almost wish that Whitney Houston would stage a comeback, until I remember that she will always love you, at which point I realize that Whitney and Celine Dion should get together and take Vegas by storm, baby! And, then they could invite Tom Jones for special guest appearances at the Luxor, creating the vocal vortex needed to turn fame whoring and crap music into a religious force to rival Scientology—which might just rid us of Tom Cruise and John Travolta once and for all. A girl can dream, right?

My lameness in it’s full glory can be seen here.