This is not a metaphor for everyone disappointed, angry, or otherwise unhappy with President Obama’s budget. This is a picture of my friends’ car after they were hit by a drunk driver late last year. The drunk driver was in a Land Rover. You can guess who took the brunt of the damage.
Thankfully and amazingly, my friends weren’t hurt in this accident. They were on their way to take someone for emergency shelter and care at a local rescue mission around 3:30 AM. Got hope? Indeed.
Sometimes we talk about Rupert Murdoch, but it’s a Stuart Murdoch Saturday here at The Daily Cocca. Love this song, and always forget to post it on a Saturday: Another Saturday. Beauty curated.
Stuart Murdoch, a musical and lyrical hero of mine, becomes Stuart Murdoch, blogging hero.
A collection of blogs, you say? By a musician? An indie musican? Hmmmm. How interesting is that going to be? Well, quite interesting indeed, it turns out. You may already know Stuart Murdoch as the formerly-publicity-shy frontman of Belle & Sebastian. They were the band who swiftly amassed an army of fans in the late 90s, becoming key players in the indiepop movement in the process. Then they won a Brit award and changed tactics (sort of). If … Read More
Usually they’re tales of (or love letters to) girls lost in the confusion of adolescence or young adulthood, struggling to come to terms with their place in the world. Fumbled, forgettable sex is a repeated theme, as is identity crisis and the same sort of frustrated teenage ennui that Daniel Clowes depicted so well in his Ghost Worldseries. It’s existentialism through fiction, allowing his characters to project his worries and fears that maybe this life isn’t all we want it to be. His blogs, on the other hand, are much more confident. Murdoch still tells stories, of course, varying from taking pictures for Belle & Sebastian album sleeves to his opinions on the Olympics. But this time, he’s the focal point. And he turns out to be much funnier and more confident than you might have imagined. That’s not to say that he’s arrogant; he’s still self-deprecating at times, but it comes from a man much more comfortable with his own sense of self than his lyrics would suggest…
Love this set of pictures from my friend Timothy Michel. Tim is a writer and musician you’ll be hearing a lot about very soon. I think “The Village Presses” is my favorite shot.
Where's your shady-looking likness, Mr. Hudson? It's not a doll! It's an AXTION FIGURE!
Because you demanded it, and because he can deconstruct the the dystopian visions of George Orwell with one half of of his hefty brain and Sheryl Crow with the other, The Daily Cocca is proud to present a new guest post from our good friend, Jay “Mr. Thursday Morning” Trucker! When not singing Journey songs in biker bars, Jay teaches, writes, and composes hilarious Facebook update statuses as if twitter never happened. Please do join me in welcoming him back the program. -Ed.
Axl Rose, Marketing Genius by Jay Trucker, The Daily Cocca
In 1994, Aerosmith and Guns N’ Roses were in the latter stages of their relevance. G N’ R were still releasing videos from the Illusions albums and putting out a record of covers, and Aerosmith continued their late 80s renaissance into a second decade with 7x platinum Get A Grip. Meanwhile, I was a young lad still anxiously awaiting the growth spurt that would forever prove elusive. It wasn’t exactly cool to love these unabashed rock stars while my fellow fourteen-year-olds were mourning the death of Kurt Cobain and pondering the fate of his mopey peers like Eddie Vedder, but I was steadfast.
Here is an exhaustive list of things I was sure of in 1994:
I would never understand women
I would always love Guns ‘n’ Roses
I would always love Aerosmith.
Two out of three ain’t bad, kid. You see, while Aerosmith may have had a more productive couple of decades (if we take the word “productive” to refer to an organism, institution, or collective that produces things), Axl’s sociopathic and often bizarrely reclusive behavior has allowed the Guns name to age in a much more respectable way than has brand Aerosmith.
For the unitiated, here is a brief timeline for the original lineups of both bands since ’94:
Guns N’ Roses
Aerosmith
1994: Release “Sympathy for the Devil” single; Slash calls this “the sound of a band breaking up”
1994: Release greatest hits album Big Ones, make boatloads of cash
1996: Break up
1997: Release Nine Lives, which includes lame double entrende single “Pink”
1998: Release “Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing” on Armageddon soundtrack [rock credibility exits stage left]
2001: Perform at Superbowl XXXV with Britney Spears, N’Sync
2001: Release Just Push Play, world shrugs
2002: Release Oh, Yeah, greatest hits double disc, make boatloads of cash
2004: Release blues cover album Honkin’ On Bobo. Global reaction: “eh”
2006: Release aptly titled greatest hits album Devil’s Got a New Disguise, make boatloads of cash
2010: Egyptian President Mubarak: “I will step down if Aerosmith threatens to release another album”
While Aerosmith has toured nearly every year during the last fifteen years, Axl’s bizarro Guns has only executed a single successful tour of the U.S., in 2006. While touring, Aerosmith has enthusiastically shilled for the latest repackaging of their greatest hits album. As the above list indicates, Aerosmith has released more greatest hits records than records of new material during this period, which is probably at least in part due to their recognizing that no one needs to hear a new Glenn Ballard-written Aerosmith record. Unfortunately, as the recent regime change in Egypt would indicate, Aerosmith is, in fact, planning to release their first record of new material in a decade sometime this year.
Later, Jay would wonder if the relationship between his love of G N' R and his inablity to understand women wasn't, in fact, causual.
Chinese Democracy was released four and a half years after the suit.
Who ever thought Eddie Vedder would grow up to be Jeff Bridges? Talk about a late bloomer. By the transivite property of Lebowski couture, you're still totally rad, Edward.
Herein lies the Genius of W. Axl Rose, nonmusical edition. Guns N’ Roses is not one of those punk rock bands destined to keep the same sound and tour every couple of years with only their graying hairs and protruding stomachs demarcating the passage of time. I mean, they’re not the Circle Jerks. They’re freaking Guns N’ Roses. They were making videos with dolphins and supermodels set to soaring piano arrangments while the “cool” thing to do was stare at your shoes while whispering verses and shouting choruses.
G N’ R comes from the “bigger is better” rock ideal, not the punk/grunge “less is more” aesthetic. In this way, they are a lot like Aerosmith. Thus, had they remained in the spotlight, they could have easily traded on their hard rock past, put out a few radio friendly shmaltz ballads, retooled a greatest hits package every few years, and made oodles of cash with deteriorating performances at amphitheaters and arenas year-round. In other words, they could have become Aerosmith or, even worse, Motley Crue.
yes, Jay. But you're forgetting that after G N' R broke up, Slash actually ended up with the Steelers for a time via the contraction draft of '96.
In fact, in the hands of lesser, more top-hatted hands, Guns would have no doubt become the same self-parodying pantomime of themselves that Aerosmith and the Crue are today. Slash has sold his likeness to so many lame-rod pop musicians and video games, even he can’t keep count. But when he gutted the last bits of his reputation on stage with the Black Eyed Peas this year, I couldn’t help but think back to Aerosmith’s nauseating 2001 Super Bowl performance, when they shared the stage with rock ‘n’ roll titans Britney Spears and N ‘Sync.
As Slash tried desperately to strike a cool rock pose next to an awkwardly gyrating Fergie, I thought to myself, that could have been all of G N’ R up there wearing Light Bright outfits and standing next to will.i.am, Fergie, and the other two dudes.
That could have been Axl, Duff, and company singing a country song to one of their re-claimed daughters on the soundtrack to one of the worst Ben Affleck moves of all time.
That could have been G N’ R singing goofball pop songs about women’s private parts.
That could have been Axl judging sixteen-year-old singers on a past-its-prime TV karaoke contest.
But for the grace of God.
Instead, Axl, who long ago bought out the Guns name, has guarded it like a rich guy guarding his mansion from a forest fire. The musicians he has chosen to work with recently have names like Buckethead and Bumblefoot. They may play the same songs as classic Guns, but no one will mistake them for Slash and Duff clones. And with the exception of a 2002 VMA gaffe, in which a bloaty Axl huffed around Radio City while a giddy Jimmy Fallon and the world gasped in horror, Axl has avoided the spotlight like the plague. When he finally put out Chinese Democracy after a seventeen year wait, Axl unilaterally decided his record company wasn’t supporting the album enough. He has subsequently avoided all efforts to promote it himself, including all state-side interview requests and tours. Does that suck for fans? Maybe, but what hurts more, the lack of Axl or the embarrassing omnipresence of Steve Tyler and Slash?
In keeping his and the band’s profile low key and touring only very sporadically with a cast of characters who look like aliens, Axl has accomplished what only former nemesis Kurt Cobain has similarly been able to achieve When most people think of G N’ R today, they think of G N’ R no later than 1994. Axl has divorced himself and his band from Slash, who defaces only himself when he parades around picking up contract work like a poor guy in a Slash costume. Today’s Guns are something different. They are a protooled, faceless entity with an enigmatic lead singer. G N’ R today are to classic G N’ R what the Foo Fighters are to Nirvana. They sprung from Guns N’ Roses, but they cannot damage the iconic stature of classic Guns any more than a Foo Fighters record can hurt the lasting reputation of Nirvana.
And Axl didn’t even have to die to keep his reputation in tact.
Postscript: I thought this blog fitting for my esteemed former co-dj’s domain because of our shared love of all things Axl. I wouldn’t defend his choice in Long Island-bred, Lehigh Valley-loving rock pianists with the same fervor.
Also, in 2001, I wrote an essay about Axl Rose, The American Icon, for my ENGL 200 Advanced Expository Writing class. It was, admittedly, not my best work. So if you’re out there, Prof. Martinez, I would like to resubmit my essay. Sorry it’s 10 years late.
Jay Trucker teaches writing at the Community College of Baltimore County and studies Sociology and Education at the University of Maryland Baltimore County. He occasionally writes about the Baltimore Orioles for WNST.net and nightlife for the Baltimore Sun blogs.
Well they blew up the Chicken Man in Philly last night you know they blew up his house, too. -Bruce Springsteen
I hate seeing things I loved as a kid get torn down or paved over. Green space in Lehigh and Montgomery Counties, PA, for example. The cornfields behind my old neighborhood mowed down for overvalued McMansions that block the fireworks from three cities on the 4th of July. More recently, Veteran’s Stadium. Now, finally, the Spectrum.
America's Showplace
You might not know this, but the Spectrum invented the concept of arena as rock show apogee. Without it, Bruce Springsteen would, quite literally, not have been possible. Opened in 1967, the Spectrum was the first of its kind, “America’s Showplace.” The Sixers and Flyers won championships there. I saw Dr. J play there, and Charles Barkley. I held a Hulk Rules sign and swore the Red and Yellow pointed right at me from the ring in post-win celebration. I saw Shawn Michaels roll Marty Janetty over while the seeds of their inevitable feud were being sewn.
Bruce Springsteen and hundreds (thousands?) of others got their first big-venue gigs at the Spectrum, due in part to Philadelphia’s legendary support of rock radio and working-class talent. Sure, there were old-time concert halls and places like Madison Square Garden, but the Spectrum was the first indoor sports facility to have been specifically built with popular music shows also in mind. It was the first premier arena of the rock era. As such, it was the place to be seen and heard, and like Esther Smith would say, it was right here in my own back yard.
Last night, they finished tearing the last old concrete guts and bones from this historic place. On October 20, 2009, I was lucky enough to be on hand for Bruce Springsteen & The E-Street Band’s last-ever Spectrum show. In case you don’t know, Bruce is a Philly favorite, an adopted son from just across the river, and he and Billy Joel had their own banners in the rafters of the Spectrum for their record-setting streaks of consecutive sellout shows (still counting. The banners have been in the CoreState/First Union/Wachovia/Wells-Fargo Center for years, but Bruce’s was moved back for his last stand at the Showplace.)
The 10/20 show was historic by default: the last rock arena, the last rock star, the last time in Philly. The last time in the place where modern concert-going and giving started, the last time in the place where The Boss cut his teeth. Sitting in the Spectrum, you’re right down the street from all other kinds of American history. Throw in the themes of the Born In The USA album, which was played in its entirety, and you’ve got yourself a certain kind of seminar. In the context of the financial crisis, the wars, the Revolution, the loss of dear things, the loss of dear people, the loss of whole places, it was powerful to feel so obviously American and so absolutely not ironic. When the band opened with “The Price You Pay,” which they hadn’t been played live since 1981, the tone was set: recognition, celebration, sincerity, thanks. “Wrecking Ball,” a paean to the lost shrines of our youth, was exuberant even in its decidedly antifatalist fatalism:
Now when all this steel and these stories, they drift away to rust And all our youth and beauty, it’s been given to the dust And your game has been decided, and you’re burning the clock down And all our little victories and glories, have turned into parking lots When your best hopes and desires, are scattered through the wind And hard times come, hard times go Hard times come, hard times go And hard times come, hard times go Hard times come, hard times go Hard times come, hard times go Yeah just to come again
Bring on your wrecking ball Bring on your wrecking ball Come on and take your best shot, let me see what you’ve got Bring on your wrecking ball Bring on your wrecking ball (bring on your wrecking ball) Bring on your wrecking ball (bring on your wrecking ball) Take your best shot, let me see what you’ve got, bring on your wrecking ball
The view form our seats.
That this set would be a once-in-a-lifetime rock and roll moment was never really a question, but there are all kinds of emotional intangibles going on in settings like this. It wasn’t just Bruce’s last show at the Spectrum. It wasn’t just the last time the Spectrum would welcome Bruce or any of us home. It wasn’t just Clarence Clemmons’ last time ever in Philly as part of E-Street (be healthy, Big Man), and it wasn’t just the ghosts of 42 years piled to the ceiling. It was all of these things, but also the kind of joy that comes from impossible defiance and being in the company of thousands of strangers celebrating something immediately collective. That E-Street, the tightest band to ever grace the Earth, and Bruce, the greatest figure not named Elvis, were the evening’s spiritual directors meant the farewell ritual would be orchestrated perfectly. That these fans are passionate and savvy, that these songs are about them, meant something else entirely. This was rock and roll church in a very sacred sense. Afterward I texted one word and one word only: transcendent. There were even random acts of kindness. When Joe Torre and Donnie Baseball casually assumed regular-guy seats in the middle of the Phillies/Dodgers NLDS, Philly fans actually greeted them with warm applause and good-hearted jibes. Call that appreciation for a respected baseball man (Philadelphia knows its baseball and its baseball manners. Remember when we booed Brett Meyers for walking Griffey when Griffey was sitting at #599?), call it Brotherly Love. I call it everyone being in on what the night was all about. Grown men cried. Children laughed. Bruce slow-danced with his 90-year old mom. Quite simply, it was perfect.
Below are two videos from the night of the show. The first is a short clip of “The Price You Pay” taken on my camera phone. The second (not by me) is “Higher and Higher.” Given the angle of the later shot, it’s quite possible that two of the smiling, transfigured faces behind Bruce belong to me and my #1 Bromance respectively. Yep, I got to go to the best rock show ever with my best friend, and he’s also the one who orchestrated the logistics and made the whole thing happen. Seeing the concert of a lifetime with my life-long partner-in-crime, concert-going, and Meg Ryan movies was really the only way to do it. What? We also go see all the Apatow movies. Hmmm? You don’t remember how cute Meg Ryan was in 90s? So what if I cried when she died in City of Angels? You were right, Johnny Rzeznik, the world won’t understand. To Jonny my BFF, thanks again, brother. You’re the Nils Lofgren to my Steven Van Zandt. The Nic to my Cage. The Conan to my Andy Richter. The David Spade to my Chris Farley. The Ramon to my Vic.
There are lots of videos from 10/20 all over the web, but these two are significant to me:
Goodnight, friend. America just lost of piece of itself. Thanks for the memories.
Chris Cocca 
