Bone Thugs ‘N Harmony- Crossroads: It was death, personified for the first time before my six year old eyes. Never mind how great the actual song is- and how it’d become one of my all time favorites ten years later- all my mind was concerned with the first time my cousin sat me down in front of a then-music-playing MTV on a warm summer afternoon 14 years ago were those dark, hollow eyes of souls departed, their entire lives disappearing in a flash. Along with that remorseless killer in all black, steadfast on his methodical death march, this was the stuff nightmares were made of back then.

How fuckin' cool is that cover?

Pearl Jam is at it again.

If you’ve seen the Target commercial already, you probably don’t need me telling you this, but that surprisingly infectious jam (never though I’d see myself write that in regards to a PJ song) you heard Eddie and the boys belting out over your airwaves is, in fact, new ground for the last standing warriors from the officially-old-enough-to-vote grunge invasion. Actually, as of four days ago, the album’s already been stockin’ the shelves- and considering the initial reviews, probably flyin’ off ‘em, too.

Me, however? I’m a slow cat. I’ll get my hands on the latest gem soon enough, but in the meantime, I’m pretty content to just sit here (ok, with The Fixer blaring) and wallow in awe at the legacy this band has carved.

Seattle as a revolution went and flew its coop a long, long time ago. Times have changed. Reverted, if you will. The musical horizon is, once again, a flopping mess of overproduced, insipid tween pop. Flannel has been banished to Goodwill (I would know), Doc Martens are nowhere to be found, and Teen Spirit is back to serving as a deodorant.

And, yet, those boys in Mother Love Bone Mookie Blaylock…they STILL know what’s right for you.

The legend that was Nirvana, all respect to it, is a boiling supernova long since cleared from our skies. Alice in Chains has also, in its original incarnation, gone the way of the tragic hero. Soundgarden, well…they just couldn’t get along (and Chris decided he should be a rockstar instead of an idol). These days, when you stop and take a look around the proverbial room that was the Pacific Northwest’s day in the sun, only one ray continues to illuminate the darkened spaces left behind by Kurt’s untimely passing.

And to have risen from a heart that, really, only beat at a healthy pulse for four short years, more reason to stand in wonder. Not many bands, featuring most of the initial cast (and at this point, Cameron easily outdoes Abruzzesse), go into their 19th year of existence still putting out critically acclaimed works with the same masterfully woven blend of virtuosic care and whimsical energy that first carried them onto their present-day pedestal. The Chili Peppers? The Rolling Stones? Iron Maiden? Off my head, that seems to be about it, time-wise.

So is it better to burn out than fade away? Well, all things considered, neither. So long as the fire refuses to be put out.

To Twenty More...

The internet’s done a whole lot to dampen the spirits of a local scene. With the globalization, and democratization, of independent music, no longer do we have the need for a burgeoning scene. A great artists can be found online now. But is that necessarily for the best?

Remember the good times, man! Remember the good times.

So, in that spirit, I give you, the best of the best my high school graduating class had to offer- and, honestly, some of the best Miami, as a whole, has to offer.

Acid City Line

http://www.myspace.com/acidcityline

Lynyrd Skynyrd sang that. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve found myself in the mood to jam to their stuff, but no lyric in modern popular music (for semantics’ sake let’s make that mid 1950s-onwards) sums up my relationship with the art form any better.

I’m attached by the hip to music. I write through it, think through it, navigate my highs through it, and partially judge potential partners in reproductive crime through it. Seriously, a girl who responds to the ever-important inquiry of “so, what do you like?” with “oh, I like everything” (which really means “my broad, but god awful tastes are a crime upon humanity and I probably only listen to downloaded singles”) is as good as HIV-positive in my eyes. If I can’t hand you a mixtape loaded with Beatles/Echo & The Bunnymen classics without you staring at me like I’ve crucified Jesus and sprouted a penis from my forehead or get the approval necessary to make my way over to Churchill’s every once in a while, then, well, marry someone else. It’s my Rob Gordon syndrome, and it isn’t going away anytime soon (unless, like, you happen to simultaneously think both Joe Strummer and Sarah Palin are alright people…and would actually vote for the far lesser of the two in an election; ’cause that might cause a dilemma I’d just rather avoid).

All that pseudo E-minor-Harmony stuff aside, however, I’m fairly certain that on a totem pole of musical virtuosity, my actual skills lie rather comfortably between that Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana/T-1000ScreamingSchoolgirls bubblegum machine and old swiss cheese. For some perspective, my sophomore year in high school I took a band class in which I played bass guitar. I spent most of that semester screwing up other peoples’ solos and causing my teacher to grimace in ways that would suggest gruesomely homicidal activities on my part. And my parents, ever so terrified of me actually, y’know, practicing on their free time, spent the entirety of that period conveniently “forgetting” to buy me anything that even came with strings.

Nightmarish failure notwithstanding, my once-proud rockstar dreams died harder than, well, that movie series. In fact, just a few short years following the initial debacle, I managed to find, deep in the throes of many a bong hit, that I could actually maintain a very basic beat on drums. Naturally, a new hope swelled- one which culminated in me scouring the MySpace music classifieds for any on-the-cusps in dire need of a Ringo. That never progressed any further, though, so to date, my only actual band experience is the 48 hours I spent playing guitar (which I, might add, I also suck at) in a 14 year old Cobain dreamer’s (no, really, homeboy dipped his hair in strawberry Kool-Aid to look like In Utero era Kurdt) neo-grunge concoction named, quite tastefully, The Fecal Occult.

…We would’ve conquered the world, man. If it weren’t for you meddling kids.

And this, folks, is why I write about it. Because it’s all I can do.

So whether I’m forcing you to read this from now (meaning this initial post, yes) or you actually stumble upon it somewhere down the line in some future I shouldn’t even be predicting so soon, stick around. If a laptop is the closest I’ll ever come to The Dream, then I promise to keep the place tidy.

At least here I can sort of stay on tune…and limit those horrid “jokes.”

– Chris