Month of May , 2006

I have a spot in my heart for Asbury Lanes. They have bowling, sushi, tater tots, PBR on tap, and lots of loud rock and roll. I don't really give a damn about the cars, but the nipple tassles don't bother me. The Lanes is one of the places that put its stake in the ground before Asbury became a rather hot place to rock in the last year (with attendance up at The Saint, and the opening of the new competitor, Deep, just across from the tired old Stone Poney), and they probably deserve a good amount of credit for making Asbury another necessary stop for acts beyond Warped Tour.

Just about every week for the last year, I've gotten an e-mail from King Rat, and nowadays Juicy Jenn, regarding who's playing and what's going down in Asbury Park. As time goes on, the folks at the Lanes appear to be more and more concerned about threats to their business and to art and culture in the City of Asbury Park in general, as the City finally begins to realize its redevelopment plans.

Take the latest message from their weekly announcement, for example (and I apologize that I wasn't very timely with this, I should have posted it before the 17th, but I never got around to reading it):

okay..here is your chance..

Time to play the game...Eminant domain is the name of the game..and we need you all to play..Its time to tell the city how important it is to you to have a place to see great shows..to see great art...to see hot rods and bikes..to see a great film..to see girls spin around nipple tassles
To hear great deejays...to sit and chat at our charming and cozy bar with the cutiest and friendliest bartenders around...to be able to buy your buddy a drink..
to meet the most creative and interesting people that this town and other cities far and wide have to offer..

All of this here, under one roof..in our own backyard, and we humbly refer to it as " the Lanes.."

I guess that I should pose the question to all of you, our loyal patrons..what would we do if we didn't have the Lanes?
I, forone, don't want to see what the answer to that is. So, i ask you all..speak up, be seen, be heard..let the town know that we don't want our choices to be taken away from us...We dont to have to live in a city that plans to provide a mutitude if condos that we will not be able to afford...and to leave us with no place to go..
Play the game..Wednesday night, May 17th @ 7:00 in city council chambers..Please come and show your love for what we have..and what we don;t want taken away from us....

thank you all so much for listening..

Love,
the Asbury Lanes crew

Now, it's never really been clear exactly what is at stake down in Asbury Park in the eyes of the folks running the Lanes, but I have received messages from King Rat that the folks have loads of dirt to tell, if only they had the time. So I'm going to reach out to them again and see if I can't get them to give us their side of the story.

As always, the comments are open if you'd like to add your own two cents.

It was 6pm a few nights back when, in a delerium of fever and diarrhea, I made up my mind to go around the corner to Bloomfield Ave in an attempt at promoting my own band's show this coming Friday, and to see one of the bands playing, The Feverfew. I figured I'd put up some flyers (which are usually useless), and give out some free CDs which have a little flyer for the show in each of them. I figure that's probably the only useful way you can market yourself as a band/musician - give people your music to take home and listen, and in a non-intrusive way, at that. I had pondered the idea of handing out CDs to folks, but I realized while my digestive system was again collapsing that I'm not a dog who is begging for meals, and that sort of thing can go very badly, so I'd just maybe see if the cats up front running the show would like a few, and maybe they'd be so kind as to let me leave some for grabs at their table where they were collecting tickets.

As soon as I walked in, the ticekting girl jumped on me about the $10 to get in, not much chance to say, "hello," or anything fun, no room for smiles. I was surprised, because things weren't crowded or busy, but I paid it, as I expected to, I did want to see the show. I told her I was there to see the headliner, The Feverfew, and when I looked down at the yellow legal pad she had doodled all over, I noticed just a few checks next to The Feverfew and a big pile next to a band called [Lecherous Emo Band, see note below]. I'm glad I was one more check for the underdog, and maybe they'd get lucky, more heads would come in, as it was still early.

"There's a one-dollar re-entry fee if you want to go outside and come back in." I was kind of shocked, since right behind me, and in her line of site, is the well known and much hated placard that reads (to wit), "No Re-Entry, Fuck You And Your Music, Montclair Police." Incredulousness turned to amusement at such lechery and I laughed and declined, asking for the person organizing the s -- "Oh, you want him," she cut me off, pointing to the sour looking fellow with the lip ring behind her.

"Thanks for coming out," he said less-than-enthusiastically. Recognition of my name from the MySpace message I sent him, but his general reaction is one of ambivalence, and why not? He knows I'm here to promote my own event. No, he doesn't give a rats ass if I put up flyers, which suits me. He seems annoyed by my politeness. He goes away, I put up flyers on the front window, lots of them at eye-level, surrounding his, with no shame whatsoever. Marketing is the work of Satan, and is to be done with hate.

I figured I'd stick my head in the main room to check out the solo guitar act. Not my thing (I overheard the singer say "I just got back from Omaha, and there's like, nothing out there, but it's totally a Mecca for me," and my eyes rolled, causing the fever to pulse), and lots of talking-into-the-mic sent me back to the front, where I sat down next to the girls and started chatting them up, asking how they were involved, what they were up to, all that. The one wants my MySpace address. For the rest of the night, she's tapping texts into her phone, so I'm mostly talking to the girl who is collecting tickets and trying to enforce the Re-Entry Fee. She's the girlfriend of the promoter, and seems pretty involved in putting these shows on with him, a real believer.

She tells me, tapping on the doodles and list of door counts, that it doesn't really matter if you're really good. Pointing at The Feverfew line, I thought, she said that what matters is how many people you bring out, and that's it; with a coda of "it's really expensive to put on these shows." "It doesn't matter how good you are; if you don't bring people in, we're just not going to book you again."

I know what she means, and I wasn't born yesterday. But I find it so repulsive. The depressing dump that place is, the cost of it on Friday night, all for an industry that blindly self-perpetuates itself on the merit of how many aunts, uncles, girlfriends, and boyfriends arms you can twist to come out and see your talentless band, and I've met more than a few of these show-producing folks who see it, rightly, as nothing more than a means for making cash by clever networking. Pragmatism says, "fuck it." Capitalism, or as we like to tell ourselves, "common sense," says this is the way it should be, and if you can do it better, than go ahead, but the person inside me who loves to see and hear unique and creative art and music, who loves to make music, who thrives on being around creativity, has nothing but loathing for what she has to say. These people choke every available venue, stuffing the weekend slots like a whore's orafices with any band they can get ahold of that can get all their cousins out. That person inside me knows that there's really precious little chance of real art thriving in such an industry when there's absolutely no curatorial instinct, no conviction, no senses of appreciation and loathing, willing to be bored night after night with the same load of dreary imitation by talentless hacks. But money? We can do money. You don't want to play ball? Well then you're not playing on a Friday night anywhere around here because those places make their bread and butter off of the various production groups. Death to them all.

I let all of that pass with the blink of my eyelids; truth is that it never quite firmed up in words until tonight when the fever finally passed. I got down to business myself, asking if they'd like some free CD's -- a chorus of "yes" and excitement! They offered me some space on the table to put the rest of them for anybody who cared to take one. Thanking them, I left the girls at the table to see the next band, [band name removed, see below], the Money Maker of the evening, the band fronted by the promoter's little brother.

I've never so badly wanted a set to end sooner. Imitating their favoriate sappy but, you know, "punchy" rockin emo bands, but with no talent for it, the boys on stage were as unexcited about their music as we were, except for the singer who would feign his excitement and his own interest, shaking wildly to grooves that he wrote into the song, but that the drummer never quite grasped. There are few things so painful to witness. Few things as painful as the all-too-typical Lead Guitarist Geek Type with Big Sneakers and Tight Clothing who can't play in rhythm and once in a while seems to realize, "oh yeah, I should probably move around a bit," which means shuffling those big skate kicks that he hasn't quite got the knack of and playing out of key. Nothing like affectionate and sincere love song after love song while the drummer pretends to jerk off a massive member with his sticks while the guitarists tune.

It was like watching somebody fuck and fuck and fuck, unable to come, because he's just not into it. He's got other stuff on his mind. She doesn't care one way or the other, but he's determined to save face and finish with the money shot, but damned if he can get there, he can't stop thinking about what he has to do at work tomorrow, or some other inanity. An insistence in the emotional value of the music, the painful sound of vacant and cliché lyrics that self-contradict, the usual you can hear on WSOU - "I don't need you anymore, I don't care / I've got so much more to say to you." Please, no. I felt like I could relate more to the folks who were standing off on the other side, the bands playing later, without even talking to them, just watching them shuffle back and forth, bored. How depressing it was!

After it was over, I was approached by one of two fellows who were oddly out of place. While I was collapsed against the side wall, these guys were standing in the middle of the space, the band's young friends (i wouldn't say fans) before them, these two were clearly older fellows out of place. I had thought to myself, "they couldn't possibly be digging this," every time they clapped. Maybe it was sickness, but I've never been more happy to keep my hands to myself and give a band the tired gaze of loathing that I am normally disdainful towards. So this guy approaches me, like, almost sneaks around behind me, and starts running a spiel without really saying hello, right in my face, halitosis and everything -- it's like rotting food has vaporized and engulfed my face. He wanted me to know that he's here to see the show and "support the scene" and to promote his show here in a couple of weeks. How could you support this? It all sounds so rehearsed and empty and I politely ask him what his band is called (insert metal band name here), and if his band has any music on that website I can check out. He seems embarassed for a second. I'm so glad I decided I wouldn't go 'round handing my disc out to people. But still, it wouldn't be this bad.

My escape is to offer him a free CD, as they are up front, so we go back up front, I give him one, and take a seat next to the cats again, and he kind of runs back into the main room (a fear of women?) I watch another couple of rounds of conflict between the ticketing girl and people coming in and out who don't want to pay the $1 Re-Entry Fee. Ticketing girl is really put off by one person's reaction, which is to give up arguing with her and to just walk on past, irritated. She's quite upset that someone would give her an "attitude, I understand that you don't want to pay it, okay whatever, but it's fucked up to give me an attitude about it."

I can't help myself, I tell her I'm surprised since the sign says re-entry isn't allowed. She waves it off, "oh the cops don't really bother us," some excuses, clearly she's not going to "get it." Actually, she's got it. Capitalism rules, after all. It's just business, so please be polite, would you?

I really wanted to stay and see Feverfew, but I felt like I was going to die of my own fever so I took my leave and walked home. Outside it wasn't so damp and chilly as inside, despite the cold shakes. I looked up at the stars and took a deep breath of relief, glad it was over. It doesn't have to be like that. I won't believe it.

I'm doing a show in the same place this friday with some bands I actually like, people I really like. We Are The Seahorses draw so many people that the success of the event in terms of breaking even will likely happen, but the balance is a bit skewed. My band has far fewer people to sell tickets to; we're still trying to make a name for ourselves, so it's going to be some hard work before we can actually say that we do the bringing-people-out-thing very well. We've gotten a lot better over the last few gigs, that's for sure. But we knew that going in, knew that we might be in the negative and have to front cash. I think it's worth doing there at least once to see what happens when you mix Darren's attitude and this group of people with the Montclair venue that is so popular with the kids.

But what really needs to happen? Somebody crazy like Darren needs to find a cheap and half-decent space where he can put on shows unmolested, with as much a curatorial motive as an economic one. I think he's already proven that when given the chance, he's able to generate a buzz and a crowd totally outside The Production Industry. Tris McCall is constantly on the watch for such a place/thing in the Jersey City area in his columns (good columns, too), but I generally get the sense that there's still a willingness to acknowledge The Production Industry, where the primary concern must be money. We need a Christiania, a Permanent Autonomous Zone, an abandoned barracks some place that no one wants anymore. A place free from The Production Industry. Note that I'm not saying that we can't make a living making and promoting what we ourselves feel is "good" art, I'm just saying it's an ugly way of life for an artist to be primarily concerned with money, his next meal. Which will always be the case, but someone needs to say it once in a while, lament it, throw feces at it, because it is cruel. Give us what we need. Yes, give it to us.

I came back and updated this article for typos, grammar mistakes, and because some things didn't quite make sense the way they did in my head at the time, but the article is not significantly altered. Also added some hyperlinks. Groovy with the internets. Lastly, I removed the name of the band I ridiculed above because their name isn't really what's important and I'm not looking to start a fight. If you really must know you can always ask me sometime.

I recently wrote a gushing little entry about Frog Eyes on another blog, so I figured I ought to reproduce it here with a link to a free MP3 of theirs. The song below is from 2004's The Folded Palm, which I have yet to hear in its entirety (it's coming in the mail).

Download - The Oscillator's Hum (from The Folded Palm) [mp3]

Frog Eyes’ The Golden River has been on repeat lately in my headphones at work. It’s a brain-defying album of absolutely maddening genius. Carey Mercer groans and howls like some terrifying monster, spitting venomous stories of cities and civilizations in decline. The music veers from jagged rock bombasticism to death carnival jaunts, all pounding keyboards, stuttering percussion, and dry, spastic guitars. It’s an odd thing to be listening to while at work - doing system administration tasks, reading emails, and log files - but it sure puts a fire under my ass.

Trivial Knowledge: Spencer Krug of Wolf Parade and Sunset Rubdown once played keys for Frog Eyes. Sunset Rubdown's first long player Shut Up I Am Dreaming is coming out May 2 on Absolutely Kosher. Give all your money to Absolutely Kosher. This post was not sponsored by Absolutely Kosher.