Dave's punk op-ed-us, part 1
Of the few saving graces of LA, many of them come from the churches of Rock and Roll that remain here. We have the old relics of The Whiskey (straight and the a Go-go), The Rainbow Room and the Roxy, which stand as cathedrals of a bygone era, aging edifices of excess and eardrum shattering delirium. The Capital records building, while now a testament to the system which seems to corrupt rock, still stands iconic of everything Hollywood in both it’s gaudy design and familiarity.
Right now, LA has two outlets which both double as testimonial beacons of the saving grace and power of rock and roll and temples of faith, two outlets which serve as rallying cries to the community of rock and roll.
The first of the two is a literal outlet. Amoeba records LA, one of three Cali stores, is a massive store, a performance theater, and a library of the history of rock and roll music. Of the few remaining stores in the world where the vinyl collection rivals the CD selection, Amoeba is the record store you could only hope for. It has a selection wider than a best buy and the credibility of a college town shop. The workers know their stuff. You can both find what you want and be introduced to new material almost effortlessly. It is intimidating the first few times you go there, simply for the fact that it would take a day to fully explore everything about the store to your full desires. It’s a lot like love at first sight. You know immediately that it is perfect, and that you are able to keep discovering pockets of perfection every time you come back.
The other is Indie 103.1. This is the best radio station in America. It is the only radio station to feature members of Black Flag, Black Zombie, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Jane’s Addiction, and the Sex Pistols, as well as a member of the cast of That 70’s show and to have each one of them host their own show. It’s not only in execution where Indie succeeds, it is in conception, so much so that the broadcast is more akin to a group performing than a collection of DJ’s spinning. 103.1 is probably the only station to ever play love will tear us apart by Joy Division and then to follow it with Bye, Bye Baby by the Bay City Rollers. More amazing than the almagation is the fact that it works in the context that is an act of a larger entity, where the creed dictates the play list. It’s not that those two songs are simply more interesting juxtaposed, but there is a little bit more weight to both songs, certainly not because they compliment each other, but because the station, in it’s dictum that respects the music creates an appreciative environment where you are not only presented a song to listen to, but urged to consider the merits of every song played on the station.
At its essence, radio is simply the long-winded ramblings of a persona representative of the culture of the musical genre. If the radio was a party, you would simply walk between bunches of people exclaiming the self-anointed profundity of their world. This is best seen in the words of modern hip hop and classic rock stations, in which both personas of the radio refuse to acknowledge an outside world in an attempt to convince you of the supremacy of their despotic mantra. In this scenario, not only would Indie be the only person you like, but the one at the party who makes you believe in a greater good.
But of course there is a drawback to this all. Like any church, temple, or mosque, there are those members who attend who tend to miss the message and take everything at face value. Call them hipsters, wanna be thugs, fake cowboys, born again Christians, Creationists or whatever, these people are the ones who taint the experience for those who truly get the faith. For every Dewey Finn, there is a mass of alienated hanger-on followers who would rather look the part than act it. The best way to judge this is to attempt to upsume the actual motives of the follower. If they quote the values, they are real. If they attack others or defend themselves, they are fake.
And so, coming out of Amoeba the other day, I was stuck behind a gaggle of 14-17 year old wannabes who had come to see the Hot Hot Heat who were there for a show and signing. The most notable was a boy who from the waist down, had a jeans clad body that not only could be mistaken for that of a girl of his same age, but intended to be. It was not that he was a causality of unfair gender genetics, but rather it was implicit that his fashion agenda was one of androgyny.
One could argue the main idea/gimmick of the New York Dolls (the flashpoint band at the creation of punk music) was one of transgender mash. It was an idea of crossing the boundaries to make a point. This teenage boy, who was armed with metal clothespins for stitching, is part of this new generation (not era, mind you) of punk (Avril, Simple Plan, Ashlee) that claims to be part of the tradition, but could not possibly misinterpret the mantra any further. The idea of the New York Dolls was to challenge the boundaries, not to blur them.
Right now, LA has two outlets which both double as testimonial beacons of the saving grace and power of rock and roll and temples of faith, two outlets which serve as rallying cries to the community of rock and roll.
The first of the two is a literal outlet. Amoeba records LA, one of three Cali stores, is a massive store, a performance theater, and a library of the history of rock and roll music. Of the few remaining stores in the world where the vinyl collection rivals the CD selection, Amoeba is the record store you could only hope for. It has a selection wider than a best buy and the credibility of a college town shop. The workers know their stuff. You can both find what you want and be introduced to new material almost effortlessly. It is intimidating the first few times you go there, simply for the fact that it would take a day to fully explore everything about the store to your full desires. It’s a lot like love at first sight. You know immediately that it is perfect, and that you are able to keep discovering pockets of perfection every time you come back.
The other is Indie 103.1. This is the best radio station in America. It is the only radio station to feature members of Black Flag, Black Zombie, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Jane’s Addiction, and the Sex Pistols, as well as a member of the cast of That 70’s show and to have each one of them host their own show. It’s not only in execution where Indie succeeds, it is in conception, so much so that the broadcast is more akin to a group performing than a collection of DJ’s spinning. 103.1 is probably the only station to ever play love will tear us apart by Joy Division and then to follow it with Bye, Bye Baby by the Bay City Rollers. More amazing than the almagation is the fact that it works in the context that is an act of a larger entity, where the creed dictates the play list. It’s not that those two songs are simply more interesting juxtaposed, but there is a little bit more weight to both songs, certainly not because they compliment each other, but because the station, in it’s dictum that respects the music creates an appreciative environment where you are not only presented a song to listen to, but urged to consider the merits of every song played on the station.
At its essence, radio is simply the long-winded ramblings of a persona representative of the culture of the musical genre. If the radio was a party, you would simply walk between bunches of people exclaiming the self-anointed profundity of their world. This is best seen in the words of modern hip hop and classic rock stations, in which both personas of the radio refuse to acknowledge an outside world in an attempt to convince you of the supremacy of their despotic mantra. In this scenario, not only would Indie be the only person you like, but the one at the party who makes you believe in a greater good.
But of course there is a drawback to this all. Like any church, temple, or mosque, there are those members who attend who tend to miss the message and take everything at face value. Call them hipsters, wanna be thugs, fake cowboys, born again Christians, Creationists or whatever, these people are the ones who taint the experience for those who truly get the faith. For every Dewey Finn, there is a mass of alienated hanger-on followers who would rather look the part than act it. The best way to judge this is to attempt to upsume the actual motives of the follower. If they quote the values, they are real. If they attack others or defend themselves, they are fake.
And so, coming out of Amoeba the other day, I was stuck behind a gaggle of 14-17 year old wannabes who had come to see the Hot Hot Heat who were there for a show and signing. The most notable was a boy who from the waist down, had a jeans clad body that not only could be mistaken for that of a girl of his same age, but intended to be. It was not that he was a causality of unfair gender genetics, but rather it was implicit that his fashion agenda was one of androgyny.
One could argue the main idea/gimmick of the New York Dolls (the flashpoint band at the creation of punk music) was one of transgender mash. It was an idea of crossing the boundaries to make a point. This teenage boy, who was armed with metal clothespins for stitching, is part of this new generation (not era, mind you) of punk (Avril, Simple Plan, Ashlee) that claims to be part of the tradition, but could not possibly misinterpret the mantra any further. The idea of the New York Dolls was to challenge the boundaries, not to blur them.
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1:42 AM
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