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I haven’t had much time for my blog in a while because it’s been a crazy couple of weeks with Porte Parole. Sexy béton II: Justice, opened yesterday to a near-packed house. Here’s a great photo from the play: it’s from one of the key scenes, in which the families bereaved / injured by the collapse of the Concorde overpass meet to discuss possible legal action.
Paul Stewart and France Rolland. Photo: Kirk Wight
I blogged at Porte Parole today about how the play sheds light on the absurdity and cruelty of the law. Read it here.
Anyone who has ever loved a band has surely also fallen out of love with a band. The once-adored musical heroes got tired, repetitive, overplayed, or a dozen more bands jumped on the bandwagon and now EVERYONE sounds like the band that used to be special. Yawn! But there is surely a particularly miserable and stinky pee-smelling corner of rock n’ roll hell reserved for bands who did the harm to themselves. They bastardized their own past and turned themselves into bed-wetting embarrassments.
Metallica
James Hetfield will tickle you to death if you don't buy his band's new album!
I came late to this party and I didn’t stay particularly long. But while it lasted, I did watch the longest concert of my life. It was a frigid Edmonton winter night in 1992 during the tour for the black album. I lived near Heritage Mall and Metallica played at Northlands, so along the way I had one of my infrequent exposures to working class and outright poor people. Adventure! People were smoking dope openly while waiting in twenty below to get into the coliseum. To my sixteen year-old, sheltered self, this was totally amazing. Inside the concert, my friend Alastair and I slightly feared for our lives. People were going crazy, thrashing about like squids that had electrocuted themselves. Four hours. Three encores!
Metallica, oh what sonic savagery. For a good year, I listened to Master of Puppets, Ride the Lightning, and Justice for All whilst trying to make my pubescent muscles grow by lifting weights in the basement. Metallica made me strong! They made made me angry! More importantly, they made me question the MTV model of success… because they defied it (by not making any music videos) – oh, until I discovered they had started making videos! Initially they said it would be just one video – you know, the one for One. Then the monster sell-out black album came along and they discovered they could make more money than a small arms manufacturer. That was the beginning of the end. Flash forward over a decade and I watched Some Kind of Monster, the documentary about the sad-sack money-grubbing losers they had become. I laughed so hard about Kirk Hammett having discovered his zen side. His line about him trying to make his ego as small as possible will bring a smile to my face forever.
A smile of scorn, that is.
Another highlight is Lars Ulrich confronting ex-Metallica-head what’s-his-face from Megadeth (can’t be arsed to look up his name) and both of them wallowing in their self-pity about the horrible, oh horrible feelings of hurt when aforementioned Megadeth-thingo got kicked out of the band. Group hugs anyone? Or a cup of warm milk? Maybe another bazillion dollars will help you feel better!
Bed-wetting score: Soaked
Explanation of ratings
The ratings go from, Woops! to Damp to Very Wet to Soaked.
Where’s the logic?
Woops! indicates a minor nocturnal release; a tiny accident in an otherwise unblemished career.
Damp suggests a significant amount of embarrassment but you can still just about live with it.
Very Wet means you totally can’t be trusted anymore. Not in the bed, and definitely not with any adoring fans in there with you.
Soaked means the bed overfloweth; you’re going to rot the floorboards below you and threaten the structural integrity of the entire building. Uh, that’s my cunning metaphor for saying you’re pissing over the entire concept of rock n’ roll.
Next up: U2
Bands that have become bed-wetting embarrassments
Anyone who has ever loved a band has surely also fallen out of love with a band. The musical heroes got tired, repetitive, overplayed, or everyone jumped on the bandwagon and now EVERYONE sounds like the band that used to be special. But there is surely a blazing corner of rock n’ roll hell reserved for bands who did the harm to themselves. They bastardized their own past and turned themselves into bed-wetting embarrassments. My top two nominees in this category are Metallica and U2.
Metallica
I came late to this party and I didn’t stay particularly long. But I did watch the longest concert of my life one frigid Edmonton winter night in 1992 during the tour for the black album. I lived near Heritage Mall and Metallica played at Northlands so along the way I had one of my infrequent exposures to working class and outright poor people. People were smoking dope openly while we waited to get in. Wow! To my sixteen year-old, sheltered self, this was totally amazing. Inside the concert, my friend Alistair and I slightly feared for our lives. People were going crazy, thrashing about like electrocuted squids! For four hours! Three encores!
Oh, Metallica, oh sonic savagery. For a good year, I listened to Master of Puppets, Ride the Lightning, and Justice for All whilst trying to make my pubescent muscles grow by lifting weights in the basement. Metallica made me strong! More importantly, they made me question the MTV model of success… because they defied it (by not making any videos) – oh, until I discovered they had started making videos! Initially they said it would be just one video – you know, the one for One. Then the monster sell-out black album came along and they discovered they could make more money than a small arms manufacturer. And that was it. That was the beginning of the end. Flash forward about a decade and I watched Some Kind of Monster, the documentary about the sad-sack money-grubbing losers they had become. I literally expected them to wet the bed in that film. I laughed so hard about Kirk Hammett having discovered his zen side. The line about him trying to make his ego as small as possible will bring a smile to my face forever.
A smile of scorn. For you, Metallica!
Another highlight is Lars Ulrich confronting ex-Metallica-head what’s-his-face from Megadeth (can’t be arsed to look up his name) and both of them wallowing in their self-pity about the horrible, oh horrible break-up. Group hugs anyone? A band in collective counselling? Maybe another bazillion dollars will help you feel better!
Bed-wetting score: Soaked
Explanation of ratings
The ratings go from, Woops! to Damp to Very Wet to Soaked. Where’s the logic?
Woops! Indicates a minor nocturnal release; a tiny accident in an otherwise unblemished career.
Damp suggests a significant amount of embarrassment but you can still about just live with it.
Very Wet means you can’t be trusted anymore.
Soaked means the bed overfloweth; you’re going to rot the floorboards below you and threaten the structural integrity of the building; i.e. a cunning metaphor for the whole music industry!)
A frustrating weekend working on a story that did not work out. It had an OK beginning but I could not give it a satisfactory ending… What exactly is the point of writing? Montreal just had an election and the mayor was re-elected despite obviously having awarded millions in contracts to crooked Mafia companies. That is more important than writing. World leaders will convene in Copenhagen to try and hammer out a deal on climate change. That seems more important than writing. The war in Afghanistan is not going well. That’s more important than writing.
Writing is navel-gazing and time-wasting.
But I did at least have an epiphany. I keep reverting to writing about the same type. To be blunt, a loser. The plot-line revolves around this person wrestling with / acknowledging / suffering as a result of his insecurity.
I need to stop writing about this type. He has outlived his usefulness.
Instead, I need to write about somebody who confidently speaks in a booming voice, finds a missing cat, saves the girl who fell down the well, learns to shoot a gun, confronts a gangster, can raise his leg over his head. Somebody a bit more heroic. Somebody who would not sit around second-guessing the utility of writing.
