Live and Alive

The ongoing saga of the struggling artist:
Always on a stage where everybody doesn't know your name.

Great music has always made me feel more alive, especially when I hear it live.

However, you won't catch me at any stadium-filled concerts featuring choreographed dance numbers, cookie cutter song choruses and musicians whose acts are as ostentatious as their lyrics are superficial.

And don't even get me started on the sky-high ticket prices which proportionately reflect the number of hit songs and the overall cool factor involved in associating with an eye-candy-coated celebrity who oozes sex and mass marketing appeal. I don't buy into that (figuratively and literally). I've never been cool enough and I don't intend to start now.

Instead, I gravitate towards the overlooked geniuses that nobody has discovered yet... or at least, not nearly enough people appreciate. Perhaps I can relate to them more because they exemplify the struggle of the perennial underdog, or perhaps they actually generate songs that speak to a deep-down part of me that is mired in silence too much of the time. It's probably a little of both.

These hidden gems can most often be found in intimate and more comfortable settings where their tickets are inexpensive and easy to come by. It's actually quite awesome. It's like having the entire movie theater, restaurant or mall all to yourself.

Ah, but that is also the rub.

As Neil Young once said, "the same thing that makes you live can kill you in the end." Becoming a fan of these artists can certainly lead to countless hours of unmitigated pleasure, but it often leads to heartbreak, as well, precisely because their tickets are inexpensive and easy to come by.

It kills me — absolutely kills me — every time I go to watch a gifted performer, full of passion, creativity and talent, play to a small venue with only a handful of people in the room.

Matt the Electrician sports what I like to call the
"polite lumberjack" look.

It happened again recently for the umpteenth time. Downtown, the hottest Billboard-topping group may have been playing to tens of thousands of screaming fans while singing about their "humps" or "how they got it goin' on like Donkey Kong." In a small back room at the Uptown Arts Bar, however, my wife and I joined nine other people to watch Matt the Electrician (left).

In this modest-sized gathering we all were absolutely mesmerized as we listened to a stirring, melodic narrative about how this particular singer/songwriter (whose unhip fashion sense and facial hair could best be described as the "polite lumberjack" look) tried to help his wife find strength after her father passed away. The song was startling beautiful. Its sentiment was heartbreaking, to be sure, but more so because there were so few hearts present to be broken by it.

Just to make matters worse, shortly after finishing the profoundly touching tune, the troubadour admitted that the last time he was in the city (about ten years ago), he simply played on a stool at the bar because there was only one person there to hear him play. The weird thing was, he wasn't complaining. He genuinely appreciated the Hell out of the one person being there that night and the 11 people on this night because he actually has something he really wants to say... something that goes way beyond overplayed epiphanies such as "My vibe is too vibelicious for you, babe."

Without a set-in-stone song list, without another band member or instrument to share the stage, this type of pure, bare-bones artist has no choice but to sing with all of his heart (no matter the size of the crowd) because the alternative would be to die inside. He might be unknown to the world at large, but he is appreciated by his modest body of fans on a level that goes way beyond pop culture popularity and a flavor-of-the-month fan base that wants the same overproduced drivel everybody else has on their iPhones and iPods.

It depresses me to no end that many big teen stars likely make more money in one night's sold out extravaganza show than what some of these hard-working nomads make all year touring night after night after night, playing every song request, playing various small back-alleyed clubs and even in people's homes, just to keep their careers one step above life support.

What can a true music fan do? Show up every time they play within 100 miles, of course. I also try to buy the t-shirts, the CDs and the other merch for sale. When it's possible, I attempt to do the latter in person. I believe the musicians make more money this way and I'm happy to oblige. But then, they are, too. They will stay late and talk with everybody who showed up, look them in the eye and have a real conversation, sign anything that needs to be signed, etc.

Basically, I try to let them know they are appreciated because it might not be something that is painfully obvious to them day after day on that long and winding road they perpetually find themselves on. The other small pockets of fans who show up do the same. We all understand how important it is that this unique and unusual artist keeps producing original music, even if it will likely never see the inside of a Top 40 chart.

It's kind of crazy, though, when you think about it. You can take in a show, buy a CD and talk to an artist and pay about $20 to $35 altogether. That won't even get you the nosebleed seats in the cordoned-off general public section of an arena show. Not even close.

Admittedly, it sounds like a relatively cheap hobby until you realize just how many artists there are out there who deserve to be heard but aren't even noticed. Once you like one of these artists, that exposure inevitably leads to another discovery of somebody else nobody has ever heard of who plays songs that actually enable you to stop thinking about all the day-to-day trivial minutae in the world for three-and-a-half minutes of unencumbered bliss.

Perhaps popular or casual music fans might see five concerts a year or less, which can be quite expensive if you're wanting to see the Justin Beibers and Shakiras of the world. I probably spend the same amount of money, though I certainly make up for it in quantity. Hell, February isn't over yet and I've already seen over 30 acts this year for about the same price it would cost to buy a lower level ticket at the Sprint Center for Miley Cyrus (granted it's been a busy two months thanks to a local Folk Alliance Conference, but you get the point).

Of course, I've also bought a ton of new music, as well. The money is well spent, though. I harbor no doubts that I am the one who benefits more in this relationship. Nothing breaks up the drudgery of a long drive or work day quite like singing along to one of your favorite tunes. Quite simply, it makes me feel happy. It infuses me with an extra dose of energy. Even the sad and angry songs are cathartic whenever I feel the need to unleash those negative pent-up emotions.

Music, when it's done right, has the amazing ability to help people gain perspective. It can refresh a person's diminishing optimism. It can bring you back to life. It really can.

Even as I write this, I find myself laughing with a sense of irony. I am listening to Matt the Electrician sing about being in Denmark, reading a novel by Junichiro Tanizaki and feeling homesick. His writing is detailed and evocative, much like the accompanying guitar work. It's exactly the type of unique and audacious song that so rarely makes it to the radio playlist.

One lyric in particular echoes the sentiments of that endless sea of struggling artists who sometimes sink into despair when they see more empty chairs than full ones in the audience: "The radio is playing a song by Shakira. I've heard it twice already. I'm going to hear it again..."

Well, for this moment anyway, one person is not listening to what everybody else has on their stereos. One person is enjoying those original voices that are too often overlooked... waiting for the next unappreciated artist to announce a tour date close to his general vicinity so he can feel more alive again.

Why Do We Enjoy Movies So Damn Much? (Part Two)

German director Werner Herzog (Grizzly Man) once said that “Film is not the art of scholars, but illiterates.” Not much of a punch puller, that guy.

I don’t agree. Films can, occasionally, be complex and, personally, I believe the best ones can be a reliable source for some of the greater truths of existence, which is another reason to love movies so damn much. (For more reasons, go back to Part One of this series.) 

For example, if you want to know the meaning of life, a good place to start is to watch Monty Python's film of the same name. At the end, we are told: "Well, it's nothing special. Try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in and try to live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations."

Well, there you go. That was easy.

Actually, life does indeed get a lot easier if you watch more movies. There are a lot of nuggets of wisdom to be found. I’m not just talking about the importance of shouting witty catch-phrases and keeping your shoes on when you fight a skyscraper full of terrorists. I’m talking about really important life lessons. I’ll sum up a few.

Be careful what you eat. It might be people. (Thanks for that phobia, Solyent Green!)

Most people tend to fall in love while participating in several random humorous activities accompanied by catchy music. But, before that can happen, shy and nerdy women must undergo a full makeover that involves removing their glasses and taking out their hair barrettes to reveal that they are absolute bombshells. Meanwhile, men are relatively perfect save for one pesky character flaw (usually a fear of commitment) that they must overcome about the same time the object of their affection is preparing to leave the city forever on a last-second airline flight.

Singing makes almost everything better, especially if it's a catchy tune that somebody can instantly perform perfect choreographed dance moves to in perfect rhythm with complete strangers.

If you are followed by a six-foot tall bunny rabbit, you are probably mentally compromised (Donnie Darko and Harvey, I'm looking at you!). But, hey, at least you're interesting.

Always avoid basements especially in cabins in the woods. Nothing good will be found there. Unless you think an agonizing death is good, then I suggest having sex down there. That should seal your fate. Also, on the way to that cabin in the woods, be sure to stop at a gas station in the middle of nowhere that looks like a derelict automobile graveyard and is run by an incoherent hillbilly with horrible customer service skills who likes to say ominous warnings that you can ignore at your own peril.

Leading men are quite capable of handling intense pain and even torture, unless a female happens to be cleaning his superficial wounds. Then, they wince and gripe like nobody's business.

The most appropriate way to react to somebody you love dying in your arms is to look up at the sky and scream "No!" or "Why?" or, failing that, the name of the villain responsible for killing them. Anything short of this reaction means you are not suffering appropriately.

If you ever go back in time, it's best to avoid having sex with the younger version of your mother or trying to change your strongest regret in life. Or, conversely, if you travel to the future, it's not a good idea to bring back a sports almanac containing all of the future winners of sports events for years to come because you will inevitably let it fall into the hands of your worst enemy. Just to be safe, it is probably better to shoot yourself if you do time travel. That should end the space-time continuum chaos you have accidentally engineered. Or, accidentally destroy all of existence. It could go either way.

Most psychotic bombers are actually very thoughtful. After all, why else would they design their explosive devices to contain helpful digital clock readouts that show EXACTLY how much time is left before they explode? These same bombers also like to supply bomb squad experts with a quick and easy deactivation method, i.e. cutting the red wire. 

During all police investigations, it eventually becomes necessary to visit a strip club at least once. Also, most of the strippers there are unfortunate victims of circumstance, they are usually single mothers and, almost always, they possess hearts made of gold and the looks of an A-list or B-List celebrity. As a side note, most policemen cannot solve a crime until they've been yelled at repeatedly by their superior or have had to turn in their gun and badge.

Machine guns are horribly, horribly inaccurate (for bad guys). It is far easier for one person with a handgun to shoot 25 people with machine guns than the other way around. I am sure there is a mathematical equation that explains how this is so, but I don't need it because Bruce Willis, Chuck Norris, Arnold Schwarzenegger and others have demonstrated this notion time and time again. 

If I go to see a movie, finding a parking spot usually takes almost as long as the film's running time. However, everybody in that film will immediately find close parking spaces even when they are in a busy downtown location.

Bad guys like to label the damning files on their computer with titles like "Top Secret" or "Master Plan" or "Schematics for Doomsday Device" right on the desktop. Also, somebody working on the side of the good guys always uses a flash drive that copies those files exactly one second faster than it takes for the aforementioned bad guy to come back to his or her office.

Be careful online. Or, don't be: Almost 90% of all anonymous online chat buddies are stalkers. Those who are an exception to this rule, however, are usually your soulmate.

Adoption is a crapshoot. About half of all orphans grow up to be a superhero, chosen one or some sort of savior for all mankind. The other half tend to have evil parents, either the Devil himself or a demented individual who will one day return, with various sharp cutlery on hand, to take back their child by any means possible.

Your life may be riddled with unanswered questions and seemingly impossible problems, but eventually someone who looks or sounds like Morgan Freeman or J.K. Simmons or Linda Hunt will explain to you EXACTLY what you NEED to know PRECISELY WHEN you NEED to know it. In the rare cases that these people do not show up in a timely manner, simply turn on a television set and you will likely find a news story conveying the helpful exposition you need to advance in your journey.

The surest way to ultimate success, be it in a sporting event or even in other aspects of life, is to surround yourself with misfits, underachievers, social outcasts and anybody else who has been written off by the world at large. For some reason, the weaker components of each individual will pale in contrast to the insurmountable collective strength of their combined positive attributes. Then, the same society that has previously rejected the band of losers will suddenly be encouraged to root for them and celebrate them achieving their end goal.

Alien invaders are stupid. I mean, really, really stupid. Sure, some such civilizations are capable of inventing technology capable of spanning mind-blowing distances in relatively short times, but they are ill-prepared for the most basic of wrinkles in their plans of grand conquest. If they aren't stopped almost immediately by catching a bird flu (The War of the Worlds), then their entire armada can be crippled by a simple computer virus (Independence Day). Worse, if their biggest weakness is exposure to water, why on Earth would they attack Earth since it is comprised 70% of water on its surface (Signs)? 

And, finally, though we now have about 2 MIILLION cell towers and antennas in the U.S., cell reception is unreliable 100% of the time if you are being chased and/or hunted by a homicidal maniac wielding a sharp weapon or a power tool. Also, it is highly likely for the person being pursued in this scenario to trip and fall, or if they reach their car, it will not start immediately. Chances are, a cat will jump from out of nowhere at this time and hiss for no reason, as well.

Those are just some of the more common and obvious examples. Sometimes it feels like we keep watching the same movies over and over again, albeit with different titles. That's only because that is exactly what is happening. In my next blog, I'll examine the repetitive nature of movies and the finite number of basic plots and why we love them despite this aspect.