It's called satire.
And there you have it. Upsetting for some--fun for all.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
When Memes Cry
Getting graphic, but then again, I am a full-service blogger. These memes just didn't make the cut on BookFace.
Guaranteed to "offend" almost all. Am I referring to any of my readers on a personal basis? No way! This is somewhat of a lost concept.
It's called satire.
It's called satire.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Summer Nuptial Etiquette
It's the most wonderful time of the year. For caterers, florists, tux rentors—the whole lot of them.
Having attended a few weddings in my day—two of them my own in fact, and having played at a slew of others, I have gleaned quite a bit of knowledge in this area. So in the true May Days Essays spirit of spreading sweetness, light, AND knowledge (along with Oxford commas) to my throng of illuminated readers, I offer these hints and tips ...
Guys, your sig oth will probably need (or better-put, want) a dress. But it is inevitable that new shoes will be involved. If she drags you out for such a shopping trip, make sure there is a bar conveniently located in the mall or shopping area. That's your best bet.
And gals, if you're thinking about tucking that price tag back inside the dress and returning it after the bash, this is really bad form.
Guys, find your tie and make sure it doesn't have any sour cream stains from the last wedding. You might want to iron it. Or hit up Goodwill for a new one—without the knights' heads on it. Bear in mind that the pockets and pleats of your new suit will be basted shut. Don't use your Buck knife. And if you think those old, clunky Frye boots are also dress shoes, think again.
A church is a place where people go to worship God, sing songs, smell incense and toss money in the basket. In case you've forgotten.
At the reception, attend to the most important matter first: the open bar. Find out if they shut down the bar during dinner, and be prepared to stock up. Stand near the kitchen during passed hors d'oeuvres so as to get first dibs on the shrimp ... or else you're stuck with the teeny weenies.
Don't count on decent wine; the barkeep probably lost his corkscrew during The Miracle on Ice at Lake Placid. Bring a flask, if you must. PLUS, find out if there's a cutoff time for said bar. At one steamy summer wedding, I saw the father of the bride ixnay the bar just as the band finished a dance set. On top of this, the venue had no accommodations for a cash bar, so you had plenty of sweaty, parched, irate guests. Not pretty. Nor was the weeping bride when folks fled the site with a good two hours left in the shindig.
Yes, expect the Chicken Football in the Foil Boat for your scrumptious entrée. Along with a soggy spud and the mandatory green beans amandine. That neon-orange stuff is Catalina dressing. Your best bet: Disentomb the pullet surprise from its vessel and pour out the fowl effluvia that lies festering in its bottom. When tablemates are not looking, dot the tub o' I Can't Believe That People Call This Butter with your almonds.
If there's a band, cool. If it's the Tony Sciavacci Accordionnaires, not so cool. Do not request "Big Wheels" when you mean "Proud Mary." If there's a sax player, do NOT say, "Hey man, you sound like Clarence Clemons." If you're the Frye-boot guy, rest assured you will not hear anything by MetalVöid. And if you're the hairy-legged, paisley-skirted, Birkenstocked bride's cousin from Vermont who does Venusian pottery, no Phish for you.
But DO make friends with the band. Then you can hang with them out by their cars during the breaks. Tell them how much you like Steely Dan or John Coltrane, and they're likely to pass you that Jack or blunt, to be blunt. Prime time for this is during Aunt Phyllis' speech or when cousin Dullard gets up with his acoustic guitar for a trenchant Cat Stevens medley.
If you're stuck with DJs, let them brag about how they have every song known to humankind. Then request King Crimson's "Return of the Fire Witch and Dance of the Wooden Puppets."
I'm not saying there isn't fun to be had. When I was a kid, I knew grown-ups had a happy-time signal, when all women removed their footgear. This still holds true. Time to play Hide (or Mismatch) the Shoes. But not your date's.
Eventually, the execrable line dances will occur. I know my readers are loathe to participate in such constricted and conscripted movement, so try this: Get up and do your own dance, which is slightly different that the expected steps. People, like lemmings, will eventually follow you. When you've totally scotched up said dance, repair hastily to the bar for another tangy whiskey sour and watch the mayhem ensue. Women of a certain age get really pissed about this.
If you're on a solo mission, inspect the wedding party for hotties. A few whiskey sours often do the trick. Even with the Earth Biscuit from Vermont, in a pinch. Tell her you're a born-again vegan.
Do not laugh when Uncle Bumps tries to dance to "Brown Sugar." Instead, give him plenty of room, due to the indelible laws of Issac Newton.
If they do that ridiculous garter-bouquet business, steer clear. I saw a woman hike up her dress for the garter... AND SHE WAS WEARING KNEE-HIGHS. Sausage-casing-colored ones. The chicken-football began to return. The scene looked like the starboard beam of the Pequod.
Give money.
Have fun, within limits.
More useful drivel to come. Write to the author at webectomy@gmail.com .
Having attended a few weddings in my day—two of them my own in fact, and having played at a slew of others, I have gleaned quite a bit of knowledge in this area. So in the true May Days Essays spirit of spreading sweetness, light, AND knowledge (along with Oxford commas) to my throng of illuminated readers, I offer these hints and tips ...
Guys, your sig oth will probably need (or better-put, want) a dress. But it is inevitable that new shoes will be involved. If she drags you out for such a shopping trip, make sure there is a bar conveniently located in the mall or shopping area. That's your best bet.
And gals, if you're thinking about tucking that price tag back inside the dress and returning it after the bash, this is really bad form.
Guys, find your tie and make sure it doesn't have any sour cream stains from the last wedding. You might want to iron it. Or hit up Goodwill for a new one—without the knights' heads on it. Bear in mind that the pockets and pleats of your new suit will be basted shut. Don't use your Buck knife. And if you think those old, clunky Frye boots are also dress shoes, think again.
A church is a place where people go to worship God, sing songs, smell incense and toss money in the basket. In case you've forgotten.
At the reception, attend to the most important matter first: the open bar. Find out if they shut down the bar during dinner, and be prepared to stock up. Stand near the kitchen during passed hors d'oeuvres so as to get first dibs on the shrimp ... or else you're stuck with the teeny weenies.
Don't count on decent wine; the barkeep probably lost his corkscrew during The Miracle on Ice at Lake Placid. Bring a flask, if you must. PLUS, find out if there's a cutoff time for said bar. At one steamy summer wedding, I saw the father of the bride ixnay the bar just as the band finished a dance set. On top of this, the venue had no accommodations for a cash bar, so you had plenty of sweaty, parched, irate guests. Not pretty. Nor was the weeping bride when folks fled the site with a good two hours left in the shindig.
Yes, expect the Chicken Football in the Foil Boat for your scrumptious entrée. Along with a soggy spud and the mandatory green beans amandine. That neon-orange stuff is Catalina dressing. Your best bet: Disentomb the pullet surprise from its vessel and pour out the fowl effluvia that lies festering in its bottom. When tablemates are not looking, dot the tub o' I Can't Believe That People Call This Butter with your almonds.
If there's a band, cool. If it's the Tony Sciavacci Accordionnaires, not so cool. Do not request "Big Wheels" when you mean "Proud Mary." If there's a sax player, do NOT say, "Hey man, you sound like Clarence Clemons." If you're the Frye-boot guy, rest assured you will not hear anything by MetalVöid. And if you're the hairy-legged, paisley-skirted, Birkenstocked bride's cousin from Vermont who does Venusian pottery, no Phish for you.
But DO make friends with the band. Then you can hang with them out by their cars during the breaks. Tell them how much you like Steely Dan or John Coltrane, and they're likely to pass you that Jack or blunt, to be blunt. Prime time for this is during Aunt Phyllis' speech or when cousin Dullard gets up with his acoustic guitar for a trenchant Cat Stevens medley.
If you're stuck with DJs, let them brag about how they have every song known to humankind. Then request King Crimson's "Return of the Fire Witch and Dance of the Wooden Puppets."
I'm not saying there isn't fun to be had. When I was a kid, I knew grown-ups had a happy-time signal, when all women removed their footgear. This still holds true. Time to play Hide (or Mismatch) the Shoes. But not your date's.
Eventually, the execrable line dances will occur. I know my readers are loathe to participate in such constricted and conscripted movement, so try this: Get up and do your own dance, which is slightly different that the expected steps. People, like lemmings, will eventually follow you. When you've totally scotched up said dance, repair hastily to the bar for another tangy whiskey sour and watch the mayhem ensue. Women of a certain age get really pissed about this.
If you're on a solo mission, inspect the wedding party for hotties. A few whiskey sours often do the trick. Even with the Earth Biscuit from Vermont, in a pinch. Tell her you're a born-again vegan.
Do not laugh when Uncle Bumps tries to dance to "Brown Sugar." Instead, give him plenty of room, due to the indelible laws of Issac Newton.
If they do that ridiculous garter-bouquet business, steer clear. I saw a woman hike up her dress for the garter... AND SHE WAS WEARING KNEE-HIGHS. Sausage-casing-colored ones. The chicken-football began to return. The scene looked like the starboard beam of the Pequod.
Give money.
Have fun, within limits.
More useful drivel to come. Write to the author at webectomy@gmail.com .
Monday, May 2, 2016
Don't Do It--I Don't
In beginning this effort (yes, a day late), I thought that some true, snarky negativity would be just the ticket. Ergo, this lid-lifter.
People in these modern times often ask, "What do you do?" as a conversation opener. Natch, I see little use for telling the truth. When one says "drummer" or "writer," it leads to a boatload of questions for which I usually have no time. On occasion, I have been an aesthetic optician, occult macramé guru ... and, one night amongst college pseudointellectuals, a brain surgeon. No one challenges these things. "You should see the dramatic achievements in freezing Wernicke's Area sections at Peter Bent Brigham in Boston" receives no retort, for instance.
Nope. Today, it's what I don't do.
Disclaimer: Now, I am not telling you what you should or shouldn't do. Have a ball. Go see Neil Diamond. Eat a Domino's. I mean it.
I don't stand, salute or remove my hat when the national anthem is played on TV. It's television, fer cripes' sake. Call me whatever name you wish. I don't own an American flag. Nor would I burn one. I think patriotism can be the most shallow, knee-jerk emotion.
I don't sing along. Especially not on "American Pie," even though I know the words. If people cajole me to do so, I will sing the wrong lyrics, sometimes making them bawdy.
I don't eat mint, excepting candy or gum. Put that green goo next to my rack o' lamb, and I will ignore it. Abhor it in iced tea, to boot.
I don't mispronounce words or use dodgy grammar, even when everyone else around me does so. I cannot say "crick" (sulfurous body of water) here, even though virtually everyone here in Pennsylvania does so. I might even say, "I have a creek in my neck." I don't have a "juggler" vein.
I don't dance. This brings me no enjoyment. Perhaps a slow one, with a woman who truly appreciates me. Then, it has to be body-weldingly close. Then again, this hasn't happened to me since sometime during the Carter administration. I don't watch people dance. Especially Caucasians. And while I'm drumming? Forget it. Drummers all over the world have lost the beat (and sometimes their gigs) while watching white folks dance when playing.
I don't eat chain-store pizza. This is almost a sacred issue with me. In my book, pizza should be made, one at a time, by Popeye-armed Italian women, preferably with mustaches. And discs of sausage on top? Heresy.
I don't pay money to experience non-medical fright, sickness or pain. So, no roller coasters, Concentric Wheel of Terror or tattoos for me. You do this while I get a funnel cake.
I don't drink the persimmon-boysenberry-merlot shit the peeps at Fisher-Price Winery pour into a glass. I can't believe how many people enjoy this red dreck. Or how so many "vintners" have bamboozled the general public into imbibing this Kool-Aid posing as wine.
I don't do Halloween. It's for kids, isn't it? But you have your adults, who are not one scoche funny the other 364, to dress up and announce, "LOOK AT ME!"
I don't watch reality TV. Especially America's Got No Voice Talent and its offspring. And no zombie-undead-alien crap, either.
I don't twirl my drumsticks. No one has shown me how this display of uselessness has ever helped one song sound better. Not even by Pink Floyd. Can I do it? Sure. Back when I dressed for Halloween.
I don't listen to jam bands. I used to be polite and say, "This music doesn't reach my ears." That was a lie. It does reach my ears. And, truth be told, this out-of-tune, droning, mind-numbing, noodling, monotonous, musicless pile of putrescence just plain sucks.
I don't drive fast.
I don't eat as most Americans do. A German guy talked me into just keeping my fork in my left hand and knife in my right. I don't do this to be fancy or snobby. It just makes sense.
I don't laugh at jokes that aren't funny. I've tried, with many bruised shins from significant others as a result. But when someone says, "Hold me closer, Tony Danza"—nothing.
And yes, clapping on 1 and 3, never.
More psychodrivel, every day in May. Please feel free to sling arrows at webectomy@gmail.com .
People in these modern times often ask, "What do you do?" as a conversation opener. Natch, I see little use for telling the truth. When one says "drummer" or "writer," it leads to a boatload of questions for which I usually have no time. On occasion, I have been an aesthetic optician, occult macramé guru ... and, one night amongst college pseudointellectuals, a brain surgeon. No one challenges these things. "You should see the dramatic achievements in freezing Wernicke's Area sections at Peter Bent Brigham in Boston" receives no retort, for instance.
Nope. Today, it's what I don't do.
Disclaimer: Now, I am not telling you what you should or shouldn't do. Have a ball. Go see Neil Diamond. Eat a Domino's. I mean it.
I don't stand, salute or remove my hat when the national anthem is played on TV. It's television, fer cripes' sake. Call me whatever name you wish. I don't own an American flag. Nor would I burn one. I think patriotism can be the most shallow, knee-jerk emotion.
I don't sing along. Especially not on "American Pie," even though I know the words. If people cajole me to do so, I will sing the wrong lyrics, sometimes making them bawdy.
I don't eat mint, excepting candy or gum. Put that green goo next to my rack o' lamb, and I will ignore it. Abhor it in iced tea, to boot.
I don't mispronounce words or use dodgy grammar, even when everyone else around me does so. I cannot say "crick" (sulfurous body of water) here, even though virtually everyone here in Pennsylvania does so. I might even say, "I have a creek in my neck." I don't have a "juggler" vein.
I don't dance. This brings me no enjoyment. Perhaps a slow one, with a woman who truly appreciates me. Then, it has to be body-weldingly close. Then again, this hasn't happened to me since sometime during the Carter administration. I don't watch people dance. Especially Caucasians. And while I'm drumming? Forget it. Drummers all over the world have lost the beat (and sometimes their gigs) while watching white folks dance when playing.
I don't eat chain-store pizza. This is almost a sacred issue with me. In my book, pizza should be made, one at a time, by Popeye-armed Italian women, preferably with mustaches. And discs of sausage on top? Heresy.
I don't pay money to experience non-medical fright, sickness or pain. So, no roller coasters, Concentric Wheel of Terror or tattoos for me. You do this while I get a funnel cake.
I don't drink the persimmon-boysenberry-merlot shit the peeps at Fisher-Price Winery pour into a glass. I can't believe how many people enjoy this red dreck. Or how so many "vintners" have bamboozled the general public into imbibing this Kool-Aid posing as wine.
I don't do Halloween. It's for kids, isn't it? But you have your adults, who are not one scoche funny the other 364, to dress up and announce, "LOOK AT ME!"
I don't watch reality TV. Especially America's Got No Voice Talent and its offspring. And no zombie-undead-alien crap, either.
I don't twirl my drumsticks. No one has shown me how this display of uselessness has ever helped one song sound better. Not even by Pink Floyd. Can I do it? Sure. Back when I dressed for Halloween.
I don't listen to jam bands. I used to be polite and say, "This music doesn't reach my ears." That was a lie. It does reach my ears. And, truth be told, this out-of-tune, droning, mind-numbing, noodling, monotonous, musicless pile of putrescence just plain sucks.
I don't drive fast.
I don't eat as most Americans do. A German guy talked me into just keeping my fork in my left hand and knife in my right. I don't do this to be fancy or snobby. It just makes sense.
I don't laugh at jokes that aren't funny. I've tried, with many bruised shins from significant others as a result. But when someone says, "Hold me closer, Tony Danza"—nothing.
And yes, clapping on 1 and 3, never.
More psychodrivel, every day in May. Please feel free to sling arrows at webectomy@gmail.com .
Monday, January 25, 2016
It's a Friggin' Game
I hope your favorite team won yesterday. If not, bad luck.
BUT... the level of bile and hatred I am seeing on the interwebs gnaws at me.
Stephen Gostkowski misses an extra point. It weighed in the game. Do Pats' fans rue? Sure. Like this:
Nice.
Disclaimer: I don't have a dog in any NFL fight. Please understand that pro football is my least favorite major-team sport. To admit this in the Coal Region is like identifying as a transsexual, gun-grabbing Obama zealot. Who hates beer.
I'm seeing very few "yay, Denver" posts. It's all:
BUT... the level of bile and hatred I am seeing on the interwebs gnaws at me.
Stephen Gostkowski misses an extra point. It weighed in the game. Do Pats' fans rue? Sure. Like this:
Nice.
Disclaimer: I don't have a dog in any NFL fight. Please understand that pro football is my least favorite major-team sport. To admit this in the Coal Region is like identifying as a transsexual, gun-grabbing Obama zealot. Who hates beer.
I'm seeing very few "yay, Denver" posts. It's all:
- Pats are cheaters
- Brady is a pussy
- Gostkowski should be drawn and quartered
Much of this comes from Giants' fans. Heck, I went to the Jints' training camp as a youngster at Fairfield University. My dad used to pour drafts for them at the Beachside. To me, there is something inauthentic—wait, cowardly—about supporters of a team that lost ten games this year (and last year, as well). A team that hasn't seen a playoff game lately. But the hate bucket is overflowing.
Oh, by the way ...
A culture of hate? Witness this book. Yes, it's an actual volume, not one of my extra-luxe graphics.
It goes beyond hate. It talks to grown men (and a few women) who buy $300.00 replica jerseys when they have trouble with the rent. It talks to an infant's birthday party that literally stops while a football game is on.
It talks to ridiculous dreck like this:
Enough already. Don't stick your head in the oven when your team loses. Don't gloat over others' losses and misfortune.
Don't forget, it's a game.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Wiped Out
Yes, drummers can be real people. At times. I recently saw a piece on the Interwebs about drummers' dislikes. They were standard fare: the horrors of shlepping drums around, etc.
The following is a handy guide with answers, arcana and other data you might glean from talking to drummers. Now, you don't have to talk to us. Face it, you'd rather spend time with Mr. Fatstrings Multiamp or Ms. Hottie Lungfull. Is this screed full of smartass vitriol? Yepper.
Who's your favorite drummer?
It's gonna be a studio guy—someone you've never heard of. It's not Sluggo Megakit from The Death Vöidz. Here's Hal Blaine. He only has more gold records than anyone, Mr. Megakit included.
What kind of drums do you play?
My favorite kit was made of three (sometimes four) different brands of drums. They were all in varying shades of white, some aged to a dun, nicotine yellow. So I would answer, "White." Truth is: Drums is drums. They're cylinders with a plastic head (NOT a skin) on each end. It's how you tune 'em. And bang 'em. One of my favorite snares had no logo on it all. It cost $70. Truth 2: Players who talk incessantly about their equipment usually suck at playing said gear.
Can you play Wipeout?
Yes, I can. No, I won't. Not without serious financial, food or bourbon blandishment.
What about Neil Peart?
I'm sure he's a swell fellow. But we drummers are sick of hearing about him from civilians. There are plenty of great drummers out there. Mr. Peart can do all this stuff that I can't—nor want—to assay. And I can play shit that would have him scratching his head.
What kind of kit should I buy for my eight-year-old daughter?
None. Get her a rubber pad and a pair of sticks.
My nephew's band made a CD!
That's nice. Anyone with a laptop and some mics can make a CD. I have been given enough of these to top off a Jersey sump. And they're worth even less. One of the biggest pitfalls of today's music is bands who try to record before they know how to play.
Have you ever considered going professional?
I'm not sure what "go professional" means. For me, it's getting paid. I've been doing that since I was fifteen.
Have you seen the video of the kid playing Chicago?
Yes. It's a kid, flailing away on an expensive, factory-tuned drum kit. He is just imitating the drummer on the record. And doing it without subtlety, nuance or feeling. He is developing bad habits that will stick with him as more and more fawning, new-age adults give their approval. By the time he reaches his teens, he will really suck.
Were you ever in a band before?
Somebody actually asked me this about a month ago. Yes. I was.
How fast can you play?
Fast enough. If you think that the best drummers are the fastest, you must like Mariah Carey, because she can sing the highest notes. There are reams of techniques emblematic of master drummers that have nothing to do with speed.
I want more cowbell ...
Cowbells should remain on bovines. Any other use is a felony. Especially by (and I hate to suborn this stereotype) female singers. Would you like someone grabbing the steering wheel as you drive? That's what a cowbell is to drummers.
What's your favorite drum solo?
None. A drum solo is like onanism: Only one person enjoys it. And if you say In-a-Gadda-da-Vida to me, you'd better duck.
What's your favorite song to play on drums?
I can tell you what it is. Gaucho. But I've never really played it, since I don't know any musicians who would want to work hard enough to learn this masterpiece. So I guess I'll have to wait until Steely Dan calls.
Hey, what size sticks do you use? I'll bet you've got a big stick. Can I grab your stick?
I have no words on the inertia I feel when I hear some wiseass make a poorly veiled drumstick/phallic comment. Just stop.
I saw an awesome drummer at a local club last week; it was cool!
That's because he was great. Just because he's playing at P. J. McFuddnuddler's with the The Picking Grinners means nothing. And yes, he is probably better than the guy from The Death Vöidz, whom you paid $125 to see last summer. Drumming isn't like sports. There are stellar, non-famous players everywhere.
Why not support them?
The following is a handy guide with answers, arcana and other data you might glean from talking to drummers. Now, you don't have to talk to us. Face it, you'd rather spend time with Mr. Fatstrings Multiamp or Ms. Hottie Lungfull. Is this screed full of smartass vitriol? Yepper.
Who's your favorite drummer?
It's gonna be a studio guy—someone you've never heard of. It's not Sluggo Megakit from The Death Vöidz. Here's Hal Blaine. He only has more gold records than anyone, Mr. Megakit included.
What kind of drums do you play?
My favorite kit was made of three (sometimes four) different brands of drums. They were all in varying shades of white, some aged to a dun, nicotine yellow. So I would answer, "White." Truth is: Drums is drums. They're cylinders with a plastic head (NOT a skin) on each end. It's how you tune 'em. And bang 'em. One of my favorite snares had no logo on it all. It cost $70. Truth 2: Players who talk incessantly about their equipment usually suck at playing said gear.
Can you play Wipeout?
Yes, I can. No, I won't. Not without serious financial, food or bourbon blandishment.
What about Neil Peart?
I'm sure he's a swell fellow. But we drummers are sick of hearing about him from civilians. There are plenty of great drummers out there. Mr. Peart can do all this stuff that I can't—nor want—to assay. And I can play shit that would have him scratching his head.
What kind of kit should I buy for my eight-year-old daughter?
None. Get her a rubber pad and a pair of sticks.
My nephew's band made a CD!
That's nice. Anyone with a laptop and some mics can make a CD. I have been given enough of these to top off a Jersey sump. And they're worth even less. One of the biggest pitfalls of today's music is bands who try to record before they know how to play.
Have you ever considered going professional?
I'm not sure what "go professional" means. For me, it's getting paid. I've been doing that since I was fifteen.
Have you seen the video of the kid playing Chicago?
Yes. It's a kid, flailing away on an expensive, factory-tuned drum kit. He is just imitating the drummer on the record. And doing it without subtlety, nuance or feeling. He is developing bad habits that will stick with him as more and more fawning, new-age adults give their approval. By the time he reaches his teens, he will really suck.
Were you ever in a band before?
Somebody actually asked me this about a month ago. Yes. I was.
How fast can you play?
Fast enough. If you think that the best drummers are the fastest, you must like Mariah Carey, because she can sing the highest notes. There are reams of techniques emblematic of master drummers that have nothing to do with speed.
I want more cowbell ...
Cowbells should remain on bovines. Any other use is a felony. Especially by (and I hate to suborn this stereotype) female singers. Would you like someone grabbing the steering wheel as you drive? That's what a cowbell is to drummers.
What's your favorite drum solo?
None. A drum solo is like onanism: Only one person enjoys it. And if you say In-a-Gadda-da-Vida to me, you'd better duck.
What's your favorite song to play on drums?
I can tell you what it is. Gaucho. But I've never really played it, since I don't know any musicians who would want to work hard enough to learn this masterpiece. So I guess I'll have to wait until Steely Dan calls.
Hey, what size sticks do you use? I'll bet you've got a big stick. Can I grab your stick?
I have no words on the inertia I feel when I hear some wiseass make a poorly veiled drumstick/phallic comment. Just stop.
I saw an awesome drummer at a local club last week; it was cool!
That's because he was great. Just because he's playing at P. J. McFuddnuddler's with the The Picking Grinners means nothing. And yes, he is probably better than the guy from The Death Vöidz, whom you paid $125 to see last summer. Drumming isn't like sports. There are stellar, non-famous players everywhere.
Why not support them?
Thursday, August 20, 2015
The Best Drum Songs
Blah blah. No drum solos here. Just great tracks by my faves. Sorry, no Neil Peart or Phil Collins. They just don't make the cut. Also, apologies for any shoptalk. You'll figure it out. In no order...
Dave Weckl Band - "Tower '99" - Dave Weckl - A master's master. My favorite "chops" guy. Yes, I am biased because I knew him when he was a student at UB back in the day. I did double drums with him on one tune at a club. I wasn't embarrassed or humiliated. I did attempt to slit my wrists later. Check the song out here.
Lee Michaels - "Do You Know What I mean?" - Bartholomew Eugene Smith-Frost. Yes. Just "Frosty" and Hammond. That's it. And that last fill--one of the best ever. And no toms! Listen here.
The Rascals - "Do You Feel It?" - Dino Danelli - I have written this before, but he was the guy who helped me fall in love with drumming. Check out the snot and swagger. Pundits say Ginger Baker was the first "star" drummer. I say Dino. Period. Nobody played like that back then. Only a handful do now. Listen here
The Fifth Dimension - "Save the Country" - Hal Blaine - Here's the guy who invented the studio drummer. Listen to how he shifts gears (for the whole band) between syncopation and straight time. I know master drummers who can't pull this off. Oh, this tune wasn't a big hit? Try "Bridge over Troubled Waters" or "California Dreamin'". He has more gold records than anybody. Listen here.
Tower of Power - "Squib Cakes" - David Garibaldi - The guy who taught me funk. See the control--how he lariats this big semi and can make it howl or whisper. Plus a great Hammond flight by original ToP member Chester Thompson. Listen here.
Rickie Lee Jones - "Chuck E's in Love" - Steve Gadd - A glorious, swampy half-time shuffle sidles into full-time in the choruses. And that fill after the breakdown? Jaysus. Listen here.
Sting - "Seven Days" - Vinnie Colaiuta - An exquisite foray into 5/4 time. There are many renowned drummers who could never cop this feel. Civilians, get your minds out of the Maidenform; this is music talk. Listen here.
Steely Dan - "Gaucho" - Jeff Porcaro - Just dig the beautiful dovetailing by all players on this track. That breath on the "and" after 1. And the late JP holds it together with consummate technique, style and nuance. Listen here. One of two who are not with us anymore (1992). Yes, and there's also that fabulous half-time shuffle on "Rosanna" by Toto.
Yes - "Roundabout" - Bill Bruford - The pioneer of prog rock drumming ... and still the best. I don't think he hits a tom in the entire song. Tons of bottom-feeding, double-bass, paid-by-the-note drummers couldn't carry his stick bag. A star drummer (who has played on multi-platinum albums) once bragged to me, "I've got a sample of Bill Bruford's snare from 'Roundabout'." Listen here.
Aretha Franklin "Rock Steady" - Bernard "Pretty" Purdie - Oh yes. Pushin', shovin', smokin'. With the inimitable Chuck Rainey on bass. Listen here.
Carly Simon - "Anticipation" - Andy Newmark - A hallmark drummer with tons of credits. And few know his name. Those fills fit the song so well. And no splashy, crashy cymbals, either. Listen here.
The Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends" - Ringo Starr - Could've gone with "Ticket to Ride," but here's where Mr. Starkey treats the world to their first taste of Pepper Rolls--those wonderfully syncopated, jaggy fills. Easy to duplicate, sure. But he invented them. Listen here.
Rod Stewart - "(I Know I'm) Losing You" - Mickey Waller - Nasty, loose, sloppy shit that works splendidly. Just flips, flops and flies, but the wheels never fall off. RiP, Mr. Waller (2008). Listen here
Honorable mention:
The Police - "Roxanne" - Stewart Copeland
Little Feat - "Dixie Chicken" - Richie Hayward (RiP)
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - "Little Wing" - Mitch Mitchell (RiP)
Paul Simon - "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover" - Steve Gadd
Dave Weckl Band - "Tower '99" - Dave Weckl - A master's master. My favorite "chops" guy. Yes, I am biased because I knew him when he was a student at UB back in the day. I did double drums with him on one tune at a club. I wasn't embarrassed or humiliated. I did attempt to slit my wrists later. Check the song out here.
Lee Michaels - "Do You Know What I mean?" - Bartholomew Eugene Smith-Frost. Yes. Just "Frosty" and Hammond. That's it. And that last fill--one of the best ever. And no toms! Listen here.
The Rascals - "Do You Feel It?" - Dino Danelli - I have written this before, but he was the guy who helped me fall in love with drumming. Check out the snot and swagger. Pundits say Ginger Baker was the first "star" drummer. I say Dino. Period. Nobody played like that back then. Only a handful do now. Listen here
The Fifth Dimension - "Save the Country" - Hal Blaine - Here's the guy who invented the studio drummer. Listen to how he shifts gears (for the whole band) between syncopation and straight time. I know master drummers who can't pull this off. Oh, this tune wasn't a big hit? Try "Bridge over Troubled Waters" or "California Dreamin'". He has more gold records than anybody. Listen here.
Tower of Power - "Squib Cakes" - David Garibaldi - The guy who taught me funk. See the control--how he lariats this big semi and can make it howl or whisper. Plus a great Hammond flight by original ToP member Chester Thompson. Listen here.
Rickie Lee Jones - "Chuck E's in Love" - Steve Gadd - A glorious, swampy half-time shuffle sidles into full-time in the choruses. And that fill after the breakdown? Jaysus. Listen here.
Sting - "Seven Days" - Vinnie Colaiuta - An exquisite foray into 5/4 time. There are many renowned drummers who could never cop this feel. Civilians, get your minds out of the Maidenform; this is music talk. Listen here.
Steely Dan - "Gaucho" - Jeff Porcaro - Just dig the beautiful dovetailing by all players on this track. That breath on the "and" after 1. And the late JP holds it together with consummate technique, style and nuance. Listen here. One of two who are not with us anymore (1992). Yes, and there's also that fabulous half-time shuffle on "Rosanna" by Toto.
Yes - "Roundabout" - Bill Bruford - The pioneer of prog rock drumming ... and still the best. I don't think he hits a tom in the entire song. Tons of bottom-feeding, double-bass, paid-by-the-note drummers couldn't carry his stick bag. A star drummer (who has played on multi-platinum albums) once bragged to me, "I've got a sample of Bill Bruford's snare from 'Roundabout'." Listen here.
Aretha Franklin "Rock Steady" - Bernard "Pretty" Purdie - Oh yes. Pushin', shovin', smokin'. With the inimitable Chuck Rainey on bass. Listen here.
Carly Simon - "Anticipation" - Andy Newmark - A hallmark drummer with tons of credits. And few know his name. Those fills fit the song so well. And no splashy, crashy cymbals, either. Listen here.
The Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends" - Ringo Starr - Could've gone with "Ticket to Ride," but here's where Mr. Starkey treats the world to their first taste of Pepper Rolls--those wonderfully syncopated, jaggy fills. Easy to duplicate, sure. But he invented them. Listen here.
Rod Stewart - "(I Know I'm) Losing You" - Mickey Waller - Nasty, loose, sloppy shit that works splendidly. Just flips, flops and flies, but the wheels never fall off. RiP, Mr. Waller (2008). Listen here
Honorable mention:
The Police - "Roxanne" - Stewart Copeland
Little Feat - "Dixie Chicken" - Richie Hayward (RiP)
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - "Little Wing" - Mitch Mitchell (RiP)
Paul Simon - "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover" - Steve Gadd
Friday, August 14, 2015
(More) New Rules
Yes, I have checked in on this before. Felt like a revisit.
Restaurants will now show actual food as prepared by local employees. Wanna see that Subway sandwich again? I'll bet you don't. Ditto the "sizzling" hot bacon perched on tongs. Nope. Now you have to show Joey Pimply Minimumwage putting the par-cooked "bacon" into the "magic oven."
Ditto Taco Bell. No more flaming grill with a piece of prime steerflesh being tossed on it. Face it, would you ever want to see a TB employee anywhere near an open flame?
On America's Got No Voice Talent (and all its cousins), one judge must actually speak the truth: "Well, Cheyenne, your intonation, in a word, sucks. You're oversinging. Too many notes per syllable. We already have one Mariah Carey, and she sounds like a Manx in a microwave." In fact, get those smug douchenozzles from cooking contests to judge second-rate wedding-band singers. They don't like anything.
In the NFL, if you score a touchdown and decide to execute a cute little "I'm special" gavotte, the other team should be able to pummel you until you stop prancing. Add NFL: ban all cheerleaders. They: a) do not lead cheers; b) dress like saucy tarts; c) objectify and marginalize women of substance; d) use the oxygen of others. Do I need to mention the half-century-old, Lada Edmund Jr. go-go boots?
In the last month of the NBA season, when a team (home or visitor) sits down a non-injured starter, subtract a dollar from the price of beers for that game.
The following songs are now banned forever. Original artists must ask for permission:
Cowbells, unless strung around the necks of bovines, should be buried in the Enrico Fermi memorial landfill.
Any use of "uber." Especially without the umlaut. Want more?
BY THE WAY, PANINI IS PLURAL. ONE EATS A PANINO! YOU ARE AN ALUMNUS OR ALUMNA, NOT AN ALUMNI! LEARN ITALIAN PLURALS!
Ban all trophies, ribbons and awards for people under 18. No names on the backs of youth sports unis. And no "Tawnee's Mom" t-shirts allowed for spectating parents. No travel teams for kids. Just let them play.
Sargento cheese. French's mustard. Old El Paso anything. Miracle Whip. To that point, Kraft anything, as well. "Gourmet" pet food. Beer with fruit flavors. Any pizza with the word "stuffed" in the menu description. Ragu. Wine that tastes like Hi-C. I could go on.
Awards shows: Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony. All others: burned like a Salem wiccan.
TV chefs must not use the word "clean" ever again. Unless they are referring to dirty serving tools. What is "clean" flavor? Something sans botulism?
No more TV series for Emeril. Until his head size goes below 8½. Guy Fieri, just stop, will you?
Okay, I'm done for now. Gonna taste a raviolo.
Restaurants will now show actual food as prepared by local employees. Wanna see that Subway sandwich again? I'll bet you don't. Ditto the "sizzling" hot bacon perched on tongs. Nope. Now you have to show Joey Pimply Minimumwage putting the par-cooked "bacon" into the "magic oven."
Ditto Taco Bell. No more flaming grill with a piece of prime steerflesh being tossed on it. Face it, would you ever want to see a TB employee anywhere near an open flame?
On America's Got No Voice Talent (and all its cousins), one judge must actually speak the truth: "Well, Cheyenne, your intonation, in a word, sucks. You're oversinging. Too many notes per syllable. We already have one Mariah Carey, and she sounds like a Manx in a microwave." In fact, get those smug douchenozzles from cooking contests to judge second-rate wedding-band singers. They don't like anything.
 |
| Really? |
In the last month of the NBA season, when a team (home or visitor) sits down a non-injured starter, subtract a dollar from the price of beers for that game.
The following songs are now banned forever. Original artists must ask for permission:
- Wagon Wheel
- Mustang Sally
- Stairway to Heaven
- Sweet Home Alabama
- Wipeout
- Can't You See
- Free Bird
- Anything by Rush
Cowbells, unless strung around the necks of bovines, should be buried in the Enrico Fermi memorial landfill.
Any use of "uber." Especially without the umlaut. Want more?
- eye test
- talking point
- cognitive dissonance
- resonate
- optics
BY THE WAY, PANINI IS PLURAL. ONE EATS A PANINO! YOU ARE AN ALUMNUS OR ALUMNA, NOT AN ALUMNI! LEARN ITALIAN PLURALS!
 |
| Enough. |
Sargento cheese. French's mustard. Old El Paso anything. Miracle Whip. To that point, Kraft anything, as well. "Gourmet" pet food. Beer with fruit flavors. Any pizza with the word "stuffed" in the menu description. Ragu. Wine that tastes like Hi-C. I could go on.
Awards shows: Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony. All others: burned like a Salem wiccan.
TV chefs must not use the word "clean" ever again. Unless they are referring to dirty serving tools. What is "clean" flavor? Something sans botulism?
No more TV series for Emeril. Until his head size goes below 8½. Guy Fieri, just stop, will you?
Okay, I'm done for now. Gonna taste a raviolo.
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