Today's featured shit

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A recent deodorant commercial points out to us that the sense of smell is the sense most tied to memory. I certainly won’t dispute that. Deodorant commercials are quite informative, and why would one ever lie? As an aside, why do they never show people putting it on in the commercial? Do other people actually put deodorant on their forearms on a daily basis? Maybe that’s why no one will shake my hand.

So yes. Smell is important. The ads never say what is second-most important, and why should they? They’ve got the lead, baby. Microsoft doesn’t give a shit about Apple, and deodorant doesn’t care about No. 2 (well, maybe that No. 2…).

I’m here to save the day, and not in a crappy band way. The second-most-important sense tied to memory is hearing. There’s an easy way to point this out. If you hear certain songs for the first time in a long time, you’re bound to simultaneously dredge up some memory while you’re at it.

We don’t intentionally do it. Maybe we were a temp somewhere that played really bad rap music, so when that formerly famous song is used in a deodorant commercial (and we come full circle), the first thing you think of is some guy telling everyone the taco truck is here but don’t forget to punch out before you go out there because you aren’t getting paid for lunch.

It’s not always bad. The most obvious examples for me are Grab Bag and Tricia Concepcion. When I had a tape deck in my car, I would listen to Grab Bag’s demo every day when I drove home from work. It was a 10-minute demo, and it was a 10-minute drive. You can’t top that. I could use the tape to pace myself. Those fancy downhill skiing Olympians have the numbers at the bottom of the screen to let the viewer know how they’re doing so far. Well, I don’t have that. But I do know that when “I Want to Be Your Girlfriend” ends, I better be at least at Highway 50 and Pioneer Trail or I am not going to make it in time. The degree of difficulty was pretty high once you fell behind, too, because those damn lights were not very helpful. And despite the skiing comparison, all bets were off if the road had snow on it. I was just lucky to get home, then.

Then one day I upgraded to a CD player in my car, and that was right around the time when I got the then-new CD from Tricia Concepcion. This CD is still in my car today. And when I play it, I can close my eyes and picture myself driving to Reno or driving down Highway 50 in my big ol’ Saturn car. I try not to do this too often though, because it is hard to drive with my eyes closed.

Other ways to remember songs depend on other types of rote memory. When I was in high school, a friend of mine took R.E.M.’s “Belong” and spoke over it, telling a story about a time he went to a drug store. He needed to buy some chips because he was going to a party, and as he said, it’s not nice to go to a party and not bring anything. Incidentally, these words have stuck with me for 12 years, and I still hold them true to my heart. And when I go somewhere, I usually bring something.

He also bought a pack of condoms, and then he went to the party. I am sad to say that I don’t remember the whole story anymore. He has long since forgotten all of it, the joys of marijuana in action, but I used to be able to recite the entire thing, in step with the song. To this day, I can still hear the backing vocals of the track, and if I see the album Out of Time on a jukebox, this is one of the few songs I will pay to listen to.

I remember now jokes about how a lot of the diseases had initials for their names, but I can’t remember how it goes. Maybe I have to listen to the song again. “Let me tell you a story… about the time I went to the drugstore. Let me tell you, let me tell you, let me tell you….”

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Building a successful venue isn’t easy, although so many people try. You can’t just build something, stick a bar in it and say you’re ready for business. First, you have to struggle to be recognized in the scene, and you have to kiss bands’ asses to play at your hole in the wall. Then you have to get the media to cover events at your place (real media, such as Agouti, not a bunch of hacks, such as West Coast Performer).

People read the reviews, and then, eventually, you can do like Bottom of the Hill and make things cost more and more, and pretty soon even the food at the Sunday barbecues — when they happen — won’t be free anymore. Now you can either spend the profits on cocaine or sell the place and start over.

Getting the average joe and josephine music fans in your venue isn’t too hard, but getting their friends into your place is another story. You have to look at what they want, and then obviously you have to provide it. This is where most operators fail miserably.

Two major groups of people go to places that have live music: people there to see the band, and people there to hang out and drink. The first group is a snap. You don’t really have to worry about their attendance. They would see the band play in a BART station, if they had to.

The second group is a bit trickier. They get really disinterested about five minutes into each set. They even will ask their more-interested friend, “Is it supposed to be this loud?” You know this type. They stand out because they call shows “concerts.” Shoreline Amphitheater has concerts. The Starry Plough has shows.

This second group is the type that gets drunk at the bar, shoots pool at the pool table and never buys any merch. The entire concept of merch makes no sense to these people. But they are the backbone of the venue’s positive cash flow, so they are tolerated. Bored people are more likely to drink more, and because such people are generally so insecure, they tend not to ask their friends that do care whether they want to leave early.

So the smart places have distractions. Bottom of the Hill has those free postcards. Most places have at least one pool table. Thee Parkside has a ping pong table. Other places have pinball machines, but herein lies a problem.

Most places that have pinball machines do so as an afterthought. It’s often either far off in the corner or, oddly enough, close to the stage. The old Voodoo Lounge in San Francisco had theirs right next to the employee entrance to the bar. It’s impossible not to be in their way, and they’ll remember you should you come to the bar later for something. Bartenders are whores, but they don’t like being classified as such, so even a five-dollar tip isn’t going to change their perception of you, the degenerate pinball player.

Pinball is a fading industry. It’s been 30 years since Tommy was released, and video games are much easier to maintain. The 10-year transformation from five balls for a quarter to three balls for 50 cents also did not help. It’s not like the country’s tax base, where raising taxes actually does generate more revenue for the government.

Pinball at a venue is usually a good play. Lots of drunks play it, and generally the score required to get a free game is based on the scores of the other players, so the more lushes that play, the lower required score for getting free games.

But those drunks. It’s not all guns and roses. They spill their drinks on the game, whose wiring is directly below the playfield, so trouble is most definitely being asked for there. And when you used to be able to smoke in California bars, people would often use the glass as an ashtray. When you’re drunk and stupid, the logic makes perfect sense.

The worst is that the owners of the venue don’t usually “get” pinball when they have a machine. And truthfully, maybe they do not need to. Drunks will play anyway, and that’s a significant source of income for the machine. The sharps that exploit the machine are generally not welcome because they get free games and play for longer. It’s not cost-effective for the owner.

The owners fight back. They do things like taking all the lights out of the playfield. At the aforementioned Voodoo Lounge, they had The X-Files. This game has a lot of green lights, but not if you play it there. When a band is playing, all the lights in the joint are obviously out, and it makes the playfield very hard to see. Well, who would go to a show just to play pinball? Maybe a bored music reviewer who is covering the show but can’t stand the bands? But again, they have the pinball machine for the drunks, so that’s just the way it will be. I would like to say the reason Voodoo Lounge closed and reopened was because of the poor management of the pinball machine, but really it was just because of poor management.

The other thing that’s great about pinball is the sound. Funny sound effects and a soundtrack often make or break a machine, but when a band is playing, you can’t hear it. That’s not really anyone’s fault. I don’t think a band would like to play if the pinball machine was louder than they were, but oftentimes, it would be an improvement.

The biggest problem with pinball machines in a club is that if something is wrong, nobody cares. If a flipper is dead or part of the playfield is breaking down, so what? You won’t get your money back, and they won’t get it fixed. Drunks don’t notice these things, and it does cause said drunks to finish playing sooner, resulting in higher turnover, should people be waiting to play the machine.

Really, a venue would stand to make the most money by turning all the switches off, so the ball just goes straight down every time. Then they can focus on increasing other revenue streams. Perhaps they will start charging for water.

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I’ve recently relocated to San Jose, the town in which I grew up, and long-held suspicions are accurate: San Jose is the weirdest large city that I have ever seen.

For starters, there is no local music scene here. Well, I mean there is, but after spending numerous evenings in Oakland, Berkeley and San Francisco, it’s quite a drop-off coming to the South Bay.

San Jose isn’t a cultural wasteland by any means, but as far as music goes, it’s no leader, either. So what is it about here that keeps people from wanting to see live performances of independent artists? The answer is quite simple.

Growing up in San Jose, I figured that the whole world was like it was there. But after enrolling at Cal State Hayward in 1993 at the tender age of 17, I was in for a rude awakening. There were mean, pissed-off people everywhere! And I don’t just mean Jerry Falwell. People didn’t trust each other. They never smiled. Any word that ended in “s” suddenly ended in “z.” However, local music prospered.

Turns out that Hayward is the other extreme in a lot of ways, but the point was clear: You can’t have a scene without angst. And you can’t have a scene without insecure 20-somethings that are just searching and crying out for an excuse to get drunk.

It makes sense if you think about it. When you see a show, look how many people aren’t even there to see the band. They’re there so they can say the next day that they were there. The band doesn’t care as much as you think, because they paid a $6 cover for the pleasure of being there, and the band gets their cut regardless of how much attention these over-stimulated barflies pay.

So what does this have to do with San Jose and why they suck? Well, that’s just it. They don’t suck, and that’s the problem, from an indie-lover’s point of view. You see, San Jose is such a positive place, with low crime and great social services (see, there is a connection after all — stupid Libertarians), that everyone is happier there than in the rest of the Bay Area. I didn’t realize it until I left and came back, but San Jose has a lot of small-town charm for a large city. It comes across as subtle initially, but it eventually beats you over the head when you realize it.

For example, let’s take the men’s locker room at my gym. It’s like being locked in an AM radio tuned to the sports talk station. No one cares that everyone’s naked. They’re just talking about how the Miami Heat will do with Shaquille O’Neal or the San Francisco 49ers are screwed with Tim Rattay or whatever. It’s never-ending and entertaining.

Let’s contrast this as I reminisce of my gym in Hayward (the same gym, just a different location). The first thing you will notice is that all eyes are on the floor. No one says a word unless they are on their cellular phone, which is about as bad as it could get anywhere. The only thing worse than an inane conversation is half of an inane conversation. The vibe is completely different. I hesitate to use the word urban. Instead I will just say that it sucks.

But, you say, there are lots of bars in San Jose, and there must be at least some places for bands to play. Well, yes, that’s true. Let’s discuss venues first. I can name seven places in the South Bay that I have seen shows, but two of them are The Tin Can (that’s the San Jose Arena to you, or even the HP Pavilion to Carly Fiorina) and Shoreline Amphitheater, brought to you by the San Francisco Chronicle, or whatever it’s called. The Agenda Lounge no longer does live music, and The Cactus Club has been closed for years. That leaves The Quarter Note, The Gaslighter and The Blank Club. There’s no support for potential alcoholic 20-somethings because there just aren’t many of them. They are too busy being productive members of society. Imagine that.

No, that’s not nothing, but it is seven. Considering more than 900,000 people live in San Jose alone, that’s pathetic. I’ve been to at least 30 places in San Francisco, a city with a smaller population, but also a city with a lot of troubled individuals with personality problems. Yeah, that’s politically correct enough.

But it’s not San Jose’s fault. They (I can’t say “we” — only half of my life has been lived there) are well-adjusted and friendly. What’s up with that?

So how do these other bars stay in business if they don’t have live music? Well that’s easy. They get the clientele that every city has — the white trash. San Jose has some of the least-dramatic and unassuming white trash that I have ever seen. It’s uncanny. Having tended bar at some of these places, I have to say that if Japan had white trash, they would be as polite as San Jose’s. It’s really unfair to refer to them as trash because they give white trash a good name. But they wear the 1992 Smith Family Reunion T-shirts and sport the mullets all the same. There’s no mistaking what they are, but it’s still baffling how congenial they are!

So where does the typical white trash go? They relocate to Contra Costa County. I swear, they have the most insecure citizens I have ever seen. Don’t believe me? Look at how many SUVs and five-bedroom houses there are in Walnut Creek or Pleasant Hill. San Jose is modest enough to have minivans and three-bedroom houses.

I fear for their future because San Jose continues to blow up buildings that once held manufacturing jobs, but maybe the city will enter an age in which tech workers are the new white trash. I guess only time will tell.

So it’s nice to be back in San Jose, the city where being indie means being goth.

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For me, nothing is more exciting than receiving an e-mail reply from a band. When I was a kid, I would save my money and buy a pack of baseball cards. I would open the pack and turn right around and send the cards to the players’ respective teams, hoping for an autograph. Most of the time the cards never came back, but when an envelope from the Houston Astros or whatever team arrived in the mail, well, that was hot shit indeed.

As I got older and started spending my money on more important things, such as candy bars, this practice was discontinued. You can mail a Krackel wrapper to Hershey, but what are they going to do? And who would sign it? There is no Mr. Krackel. On the other hand, I can eat a candy bar, albeit only once. (Wouldn’t that be cool if you could eat the same one multiple times? Hop to it, cloning scientists. I want regenerating chocolate, and I want it now.)

So anyway, like a cocaine user trying to replicate that initial high (it can’t be done — that’s the way the brain works), I have tried to get that same feeling of receiving a signed 1990 Donruss Mark Portugal card. I’ve finally found it, and as it is with many things, it’s the good ol’ Internet here to save the day.

It’s a double-edged-sword-type of time to be in the music biz. Anyone with a penis or vagina (or both) can start a Web site and talk about how fucking great their band is, and here are the next two shows, and here are pictures of their ugly drummer (you know, the one with the bag over his head with the misplaced eyeholes). And of course after the band breaks up, the so-called webmaster will neglect to update the site, resulting in useful information on the main page about the “great show coming up on July 14, 2002!”

But the integral part of these sites is the “Contact Us” button. Yes, that’s right. With a simple click you can tell someone that you think the bassist is hot, or that they suck eggs, or whatever. Let’s go Internet. Praise the lard.

So that’s fun. You can write a band. But it gets better. Sometimes, they write back! I mean, don’t expect meaningful exposes of their personal life, but you will get a nice, typed “thanks for writing.” When this happens, I print out the e-mail, hold it to my heart, and sigh, well, heartily. This must be how a teenage girl feels when thinking of a boy named Corey.

And unlike regular mail, responses can be same-day, even minutes later! I was listening to All Girl Summer Fun Band, and was particularly touched by their song, Car Trouble. In it they sing about some asshole guy, and except for the role reversal, I felt a bond with the song. So I wrote the band and said how the lyrics were meaningful, and hey, maybe you guys should come to San Francisco. Not a couple hours later, one of them writes back and says they are playing at Ladyfest San Francisco at the end of July. How cool is that?

Other times, you will hear music and wish that you could grab the guy by the collar and say, “Hey fucker, no one wants to hear that shit!” Like in one of those tense NHL playoff games. It’s tied up, and the guy in the control room is playing some pre-recorded ballpark keyboard ditty that has no place in a hockey game, especially a playoff hockey game. What the hell is that? If I wanted something organic at a hockey game, let it be food from the concession stand, not “Charge!” from an A’s game. Keyboards belong at baseball games and in bands. Period.

My best experience was when Barry Harris of Thunderpuss 2000 wrote me back. When I was in junior high (it’s not middle school — get it through your head), I discovered a synthpop band named Kon Kan. They were from Canada and, like many things from Canada, they were fucking awesome. I went through so many AA batteries listening to their first album on tape that some Duracell executive is set for life, complete with his own tropical island.

Well, the lead singer of Kon Kan was Barry Harris (well, yes, Kevin Wynne also, but he has disappeared off the face of the earth), but in 1989, how could you get ahold of a band, especially one on a major label? Of course I wrote many obsessive letters to the band, as a 13-year-old should do. I wonder whether they ever got them.

Needless to say, when I discovered Thunderpuss 2000’s Web site and saw their e-mail address, I didn’t mention said letters when I e-mailed Harris. And two days later, he wrote back, thanking me for my years of “support.” And again, I printed it out and hugged the letter to my chest. It was going to be a good day.

So write those bands that put their e-mail addresses on their Web sites. That’s why they are there! And who knows — they just might write back.

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American music is as, well, American as baseball and apple pie. But sometimes when these things get interspersed, the end result is not so desirable to pretentious little me.

I like baseball. I like going to baseball games. They have nachos there. Just like Gerald Ford and Homer Simpson, I like nachos (although they seem to like it with football better). And they have great organists at baseball games, or at least recorded renditions of organic classics. They aren’t pre-recorded, mind you. It wasn’t taped before it was taped. It was taped when it was taped.

There are zillions of traditions in baseball that have stood the test of time. My favorite is the seventh-inning stretch. They play Take Me Out to the Ballgame. This is karaoke at its finest. I hate karaoke, but in the middle of the seventh inning, it’s a different story altogether.

And now it’s time for the vegetarian (that’s me) to have a beef (it’s not for dinner).

I will point out that Take Me Out to the Ballgame has not always been played in the seventh-inning stretch. But it’s inoffensive and fun, just like baseball. So the last thing I want is to have something that can offend people to go on at a game. And that’s what has happened in the wake of Sept. 11.

Explain to me the point of playing God Bless America at a baseball game. It makes no sense to me. At best, this makes Christians, who are naturally insecure, feel better about themselves. At worst, it polarizes people at a time when we need to all stick together. Music is the great unifier. Guitar doesn’t speak different languages (unless you count acoustic and electric — I think of them as dialects). But unifying people over something that not everyone agrees with only serves to increase us-vs.-them paradigms. This is bad, people.

Explain to me who benefits from playing God Bless America at a baseball game. No one is going to start going to games because they play this song, which incidentally has some arrogant-ass lyrics. But will people stop going to games because they play this song? Of course!

This is highly rhetorical, but why do Americans insist on doing things that don’t benefit anybody? Do you theists really think playing this song at a ballgame will appease your supreme being? He already has the Yankees winning and the Red Sox losing (albeit not yet this season) — if he wants something else, he’ll make it happen. A supreme being does not need your help! He’s a supreme being! If he can’t do it, then it ain’t worth doing.

At any rate, Americans always absent-mindedly do things that make no sense, and this is a perfect example. Playing God Bless America at ballgames does nothing but make fat white guys happy, and not even cool fat white guys like Fat Mike from Fat Wreck Chords.

Is it harmless? Many would say yes, but I disagree. It’s main purpose is certainly not to promote an agenda, but it is certainly a side effect. The whole thing is just so unnecessary.

To address an earlier point, yes people discontinue going to baseball games because they hear this song being played. With baseball attendance declining and all their scandals and whatnot, they need all the help they can get. Playing God Bless America is not going to make anything better.

Do you want to know someone who won’t attend these games anymore? Well, for one, there’s me. I will, however, go to Oakland A’s games, because they only play one song in the seventh-inning stretch, and that’s Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Quit shooting yourself in the foot, baseball. Unlike what I read on a shirt at the gym last week, God does not “have your back.”