I Know I'd Rather See A New Glassjaw Record

Last night I attended the annual Thursday holiday show at the Starland Ballroom in Sayerville, New Jersey. It was hands down the best line-up for a concert I have ever been to (Well, best line-up for a small venue show. Rock The Bells headlined by Rage and Wu-Tang was pretty fucking amazing).

Last night I had the immense privilege to witness United Nations, Dillinger Escape Plan, Glassjaw, and of course Thursday epically tear through hours of the best of the best New Jersey post-hardcore has to offer. However, the point of this post isn’t to bore you people with how perfect the night was for myself as a music lover. Most of you don’t listen to the same music I do, and there are only so many times I can talk about how great these bands are to see perform live. No, I want to talk about how a money-grubbing big business company almost ruined the entire evening for myself a number of other people attending the show last night.

First a little history about my favorite concert venue in the country. The Starland Ballroom opened December 6, 2003 with a performance by David Lee Roth. Before it was known as Starland, the venue was called the Hunka Bunka Ballroom, which operated as a dance music club in the 80s and 90s.

In its inaugural year as Starland, over one hundred and fifty thousand tickets were sold to events hosted at the Starland, enough to make the venue one of the ten largest concert nightclubs in the world. By year two, Starland sold over two hundred and five thousand tickets, making the jump to the fourth-best ticket-selling concert nightclub in the world. Not bad for a small warehouse on a back road in Jersey. Also, you should keep in mind this venue only holds about two thousand people to put in perspective how many events needs to held to accumulate those kinds of numbers.

Over seventy-five different acts have sold multiple sold-out concerts at the Starland, including a two-night event benefitting the December 2005 tsunami headlined by My Chemical Romance, Taking Back Sunday, and Senses Fail and raised over $150,000 for UNICEF and the International Red Cross. Again, charity came calling in September 2005 where Dashboard Confessional and Coheed & Cambria co-headlined an event and raised $80,000 for Direct Relief International's to aid the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Sadly, On April 13, 2007, the building was purchased by AEG Live, one of the largest producers of live concert and sporting events in the world.

And last night, “one of the largest producers of live concert and sporting events in the world” apparently failed to understand and plan appropriately for the event, which was the Thursday Holiday show. Thinking more like a money making machine than a small punk rock venue, Starland oversold the show by almost ­one thousand tickets. I spoke to people working there (security, etc.) and no one was prepared for what was coming. What do you expect when you put Thursday and Glassjaw together in the same room with one of the best math-metal bands (DEP) in the world, and top it off with United Nations’ only show in America this year? They apparently expected only half of the people who originally bought tickets to the two-month-early sold-out show to attend, so AEG opened another thousand tickets to make sure the place was full. Then when EVERY TICKET HOLDER rolled in, the venue was short on bartenders, security, and most definitely space. It was like a frat party in the basement at Phi Kap: you could barely move. I watched as people poured over the barrier to the bar area just try to grab a drink before they hit the pit. I almost felt bad as three burly security guards fought tirelessly to try to hold back the throngs of people flooding into the venue. This is the fourth holiday show I’ve attended, and I don’t ever remember the Starland having trouble selling out a Thursday show.

Still despite the packed-ness of the venue, I managed to find a couple of a cool people, one of a which was a lovely young lady who had never seen Thursday perform live. We watched all of the acts, had a few drinks, and was “forced” by said young lady to drag her down to the pit so she could get a better view of the band.

I have to first thank the members of Thursday (Geoff, Tim, Tom, Tucker, Andrew, and Steve) for throwing another amazing party. And second, extra special thanks to Tucker Rule for hanging with (and remembering) me in Pomona and persuading me to change my flight and stay for this show (although, I am now stuck east coast until March). So glad I decided to attend.

And you were there… And I was every question that never had an answer... I see right through you…

Guest Blog: Power Violence Band United Nations Frontman Geoff Rickly Urges Followers to Drop Cameras, Pick Up Rocks, Get Active

Geoff Rickly, for the Headbanger’s Blog on MTV.com, wrote the following article in September 2008. Geoff is the lead singer for United Nations, as well as my favorite band, Thursday. He is known for his powerful lyrics, which are a powerful extension of his personal beliefs. His ideas on the state of music today mirror those of my own. Read on, reeducate, and enjoy.

There is a vacuum in the center of our music culture. Whatever the genre -- metal, punk hardcore, dance, pop or rock -- the trend remains the same: leave your beliefs at the door. Our 21st Century promise seems to be that of a society in the advanced stages of decadence and social apathy. Not only has our music been stripped of any message that it might have had, but it's now packaged as being "beyond message" -- irreproachable in its indifference.

In the recent past, bands as diverse as Fugazi, Megadeath, Pearl Jam and Ministry all had songs that raised questions about political corruption, social inequity, personal responsibility and artistic freedom. Today, we see artists more concerned with friend requests on MySpace or wanting to "shake it" than with the problems of our lives. This isn't to say that there's not a place for celebration, joy, silliness and fun in pop music. That would be a frightening vision in its own right. We just have to ask ourselves, if we're not facing the big issues then who are we leaving them to? Politicians? Lobbyists? Maybe it's time to quit f---ing around and wake up.

Where did it all go so wrong? Although there seems be be a cavernous gulf between the glory days of Dischord Records to the vapid careerism of today's mall-centric punk and nu-hair-metal, the transformation took place in less than 25 five years. Were we all tired of being earnest? Was sincerity unflattering? Was a compassionate world merely a naive dream or is it something that we killed with in-fighting and ego-stroking?

It's quite possible that the dialectic of our progressive music movement was responsible for its own demise. The conversations in 'zines and at shows resembled the discourse of a University debate rather than the concerned talks at a town meeting. People were discussing the politics of language instead of volunteering at soup kitchens. Arguments over patriarchy and masculinity took precedence over starting women's outreach centers. The intellectual one-upsmanship became a rhetorical nightmare; many young kids came to shows energized and ready to start making a change and left feeling drained and humiliated. In short, we liked to talk about the revolution more than we worked for it.

Our own philosophies have been used against us. Canadian '70s media theorist Marshall McLuhan once famously contended: "At the empirical level of consciousness, the medium is the message, whereas at the intelligent and rational levels of consciousness, the content is the message." As a counterculture, the underground punk movement simplified this message to "the medium is the message" or "the music is the message" and adopted it to mean that the message and music were one and the same and wholly indivisible. It seems obvious now that the shortened version isn't the same. It's missing an essential word: content.

Various groups, including The Nation of Ulysses and Refused made a study of the aesthetic of revolution, and so did many underground artists such as Sheperd Fairey and Banksy. These artists explored the links between advertising, propagandizing, evangelism and philosophy. As a subtle and complex exploration of art, commerce and humanity these artists were very successful. Unfortunately, this may have been an important turning point in our culture -- the point at which the image replaced the message.

In the years since, we've been given bands that retain the sound and image of our counterculture but forget the politics and leave out the distasteful bits of reality. If Milemarker and Q and Not U put some dance into modern punk, it wasn't so that they would be replicated sans-politics by third rate impostors being blasted in every Urban Outfitters or American Apparel. There has been a domino effect: Political punk gets more accessible, accessible punk gets less political, punk becomes completely apolitical and irrelevant. The tiger has been declawed and we're all wasting time in our twenties pretending not to care about anything but ourselves.

Recently, the magazine Adbusters, published an article railing against "hipster culture," saying, "We've reached a point in our civilization where counterculture has mutated into a self-obsessed aesthetic vacuum. So while hipsterdom is the end product of all prior countercultures, it's been stripped of its subversion and originality." While this may be true, we need to investigate how we got to this point. We have to face facts. We have let the "hipsters" down. By not presenting a counterculture movement worth caring about, we've railroaded them into a subculture of not caring. We need to reach out to our DJ friends and organize events that are socially conscious. We need to inject a sense of urgency into all our mediums of expression. It's not like all hope is lost. Le Tigre has made feminism danceable. Verse put out, in the form of a record called Aggression, a political protest you can feel, not just think about. Darkest Hour and Lamb of God are continually blasting a message into the headphones of metal lovers around the world. And everywhere in the world, kids are starting bands in their basements and they are pissed off.

We have been attacked repeatedly as a generation and as a demographic. We have been derided because of our looks and attitude. At the end of the Adbusters article, the writer, Douglas Haddow, tellingly concludes, "I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyah and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, 'If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we'd look like revolutionaries.' But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet --oblivious to our own impending demise."

Pretty glum. He writes something so insidious here, it's easy to miss: "...if only we'd carry rocks... we'd look like revolutionaries..." Maybe looking like revolutionaries isn't enough anymore. We have to start thinking like revolutionaries. The only sane response to criticism is activism. Let's get active

Contact me: www.myspace.com/unitednations and I'll write you back.

All your life you've been a sinking ship… It's time to make you rise… To make your mind up…

This Is Making Insanely Good Sense To Me

It’s an argument and discussion, which has been going on as far back as I can remember. I can recall one specific time when I got trapped in the cycle six years ago during my senior year of college. Both sides make their points, both sides are valid, and yet, understandably, there was no outcome or decision on who’s correct. In fact, most of this article will be old hack for a lot of you.

The argument lies along the Mason-Dixon line of “hate-speech”. I put the phrase in quotation marks because the words which I will be speaking about in the following lines aren’t directed at anyone in particular, and if my typing these words offends you in any way, it means my side has already won.

I’m going out on a limb here and assuming everyone who reads this has at one time or another used one of these words to insult one or several of their friends; or used one of these words on me. I certainly have called people assholes, bitches, cunts, shit stains, and (in the instance of this piece) fags. Obviously, I use these words to describe my friends. Not to be taken in a menacing manner. When I call Joe Child a bitch, I’m not insinuating he’s a female dog, nor is he a spiteful woman. He’s being a bitch: a guy with a weak backbone. I would never use this to describe a woman. Who hasn’t called that dick that cuts them off in traffic an asshole and not meant it in the literal, anatomical terminology?

Last Wednesday, my good friends Trey Parker and Matt Stone wrote a little treatment for their award-winning television show South Park to attack, rather, discuss the stigma surrounding the infamous word: FAG. I feel they did an excellent job with the issue, pointing out the absurdity of a word whose definition constantly changes and its usage in every day life when it doesn’t pertain to hate-speech against the gay and lesbian community.

Unfortunately, the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Again Defamation (GLAAD) doesn’t feel the same as I do:

Though this seems to represent a well-intentioned effort by the creators of South Park to de-legitimise a vulgar anti-gay slur, the fact is that the word is and remains a hateful slur that is often part of the harassment, bullying and violence that gay people, and gay youth in particular, experience on a daily basis in this country.

This is a slur whose meaning remains rooted in homophobia. And while many South Park viewers will understand the sophisticated satire and critique in last night’s episode, others won’t – and if even a small number of those take from this a message that using the “F-word” is OK, it worsens the hostile climate that many in our community continue to face.

First off, all of you should know by now, South Park’s bread and butter lies in pointing out the absurdity (read: stupidity) of life by pissing off every faction of the community. There have been episodes I have watch which have offended me, but still make me laugh. Like the show says, you either make fun of everyone, or you make fun of no one.

This has happened once before when the “Church” of Scientology tried to get the “Tom Cruise Will You Please Come Out Of The Closet” episode pulled. They laughed at the episodes which bashed Catholicism, or the point in every episode where Cartman berates Kyle for being Jewish. That’s okay, but when their cult loving followers are attacked, that’s off limits. Which is probably why the creators made an entire season to poke fun at the false religion, capping it off with the Family Guy two-parter. (If you haven’t seen the episodes, watch them, I’m not explaining everything, and besides, you should be watching the show anyway.)

With GLAAD publicly coming out (no pun intended) against the episode so strongly, they are giving South Park more power. They’ve won. Parker and Stone have won.

Second, the word isn’t rooted in homophobia. The word originates in sixteenth century England and described an old or unpleasant woman. Then in the nineteenth century, the term referred again to the old women who made a living gathering firewood, such as in the phrase "faggot-gatherer”. Later, the term faggot evolved to describe the actual bundle of sticks, and more specifically, a bundle of sticks meant for burning, as in at the stake. There is no history of homosexuals being burned at the stakes for their sexual preference, but it is believed the modern, negative connotation of the word comes from the idea women who were believe to be witches were burned at the stake, accused of homosexual behavior.

In the case of the South Park episode, Parker and Stone, and their bratty animated counterparts, use the fag to describe “[a]n extremely annoying, inconsiderate person most commonly associated with Harley riders”. Sans the Harley riders part, the way I, along with many of my educated contemporaries, use the word fag (and faggot) in the way the previous definition dictates.

Finally, you must remember these words meant for use by adults. To paraphrase Lewis Black, if there was a hurricane, you wouldn’t get upset and use the word “pussy feathers” to describe how you feel, you would most likely say, “holy fucking shit!” Swear words or cuss words or whatever you like to call them, are words meant for educated adults. (I use the word educated because only an ignorant fuck would use any of these words to be truly hateful to a fellow human being.) Plus, just remember, they are just words. Unless you give them power, they are meant a collection of letters put together phonetically. Until you place hatred and spitefulness behind them, they are just words.

As Louis C.K. states: “I would call a gay guy a faggot if he was being a faggot.” It’s not meant negatively toward the “gay guy”; if a homosexual is being an extremely inconsiderate person, he’s going to let him know. And if any of you act like faggots, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Freedom is slavery, and war is the peace that I know…

Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence

Finally, after eight years, I had the distinct pleasure to be in the same room as Daryl Palumbo, Justin Beck, Durijah Lang, and Manuel Carrero, better known to the layperson as Glassjaw. It was an experience, rivaling some of the best live shows I’ve seen.

To get the crowd in the right headspace, the RX Bandits opened the show. Trapped somewhere in the Bermuda triangle of Mars Volta, Bob Marley, and The Who reside the RX Bandits. Sadly, a description like that doesn't do the Bandits justice, mainly because after fifteen years, they’ve earned the right and honor just to be mentioned by name to my fans (ha!) and you should all know the awesomeness that is the RX Bandits. I close this quick paragraph by saying the RX Bandits sounded perfect.

But now to the men of the hour (or actually two hours, because that is how long their set lasted).

Their set list was a blur. Renditions of Mu Empire, Pretty Lush, Tip Your Bartender, and The Gilette Cavalcade Of Sports, sprung forth like gospel from the speaker system at the little independent record store warehouse in Pomona, California better know as the Glasshouse. Nothing during my two-hour drive through side streets on my way to Pomona could have readied me for what GJ had in store.

Known for their habit of canceling shows since Palumbo’s diagnosis with Crohn’s disease, I was constantly worried my dream of seeing GJ live might not come true. I’ve been a fan of Glassjaw from the moment I first spun Worship and Tribute on my old CD player in college. Having gotten cancelled on when I was living back in Philadelphia, I had yet the privilege to see these, dare I say, legends of hardcore in the flesh.

On November 12, 2009, this night, the dream finally came true. And Glassjaw did not disappoint. From note one Glassjaw was on point, and for the next two hours I lived and breathed every inch of madness, which spewed forth from that stage. Palumbo’s voice was all over the place, as it should be, ranging easily from a calming croon to an eardrum-shattering scream. Justin Peck’s guitar work was superb. I was a little weary the songs might lack something with only one guitar in the mix, but not one detail was missed. Lang and Carrero filled out the remaining noise with tireless perfection, layering each song with the right amount of backbone and power.

Against my better judgement, I took my aging body deep into the pit. I’ve been avoiding the pit my last few shows because my body can’t recover as fast as it used to after the massive pounding it usually takes. However, after missing my chance to dance last time around, and unsure of when the next dance will come, I ran immediately to the center of the recently awakened giant. I pushed and shoved with the best of them. I made a few passes in the mosh pit, luckily receiving only one fatal blow during the last moment of the last song, a quick elbow to the nose signifying not only the end of the show, but possibly the end of my career in the pit crew.

It could not have been a better time to call it quits. I emerged from the Glasshouse, hair matted down like I just broke through the surface of a swimming pool, shirt soaked to the core such as after a hard days labor, and shoes once colored purple and blue now remain the cool color of sludge.

My body ached, my neck killed, and my shins are bruised.

And it was all worth it.

My Turkish prison is knowing I fit in… And, and, I fit in…

I Gotta Fart, So I'm Gonna Come Over And Stand Next To You

Twenty-Five Random Things You May Or May Not Know About Me.

Like my most influential albums composite, this is another list I’ve wanted to jot down for a while. My good friend Ed (the master of flavor and texture) came up with his list a few months ago, and I meant to respond to it, but had a hard time coming up with enough things. So in my time off, I’ve finally completed it. Here goes…

1. My sister is my best friend and the most important person in my life. Fuck with her, you die.

2. If I were only allowed to wear one shirt for the rest of my life, it would be my “Outback Steakhouse All-Stars” T-shirt.

3. I still collect CDs. Nothing can replace the excitement, fighting through the plastic wrap to see the album artwork for the first time.

4. I don’t believe in reincarnation. If I’m wrong, in my past life, I believe I was a grizzly bear.

5. I fall in love really easily, but falling out, not so much. I get my heart broken often.

6. I have very few friends from childhood. I’ve left most of them behind. I don’t miss them, but I do thank them for all I’ve learned from them and the good times we had.

7. My favorite food is pierogies. My second favorite is my grandmother’s meatballs, which my cousin Shawn and I compete to see who can eat the most. I always win.

8. Music is what powers my life. It’s moves me more than any other force on earth.

9. I’ve been in one real fight in my life, and got my ass kicked.

10. I collect key-chains from all over the world. My favorite is from Japan.

11. I have a good friend from college named Charles Charlesworth. Seriously.

12. I never lie and have a bad habit of being too honest. It messes things up more than you think.

13. I love crappy TV dramas, and I don’t care you all think they’re awful.

14. I have a fear that if someone touches my belly button, it will become untied and all my guts will spill out.

15. Running is my meditation. There is nothing that helps me unwind more than a nice five-mile run.

16. I celebrate my birthday for twenty days. July Fourth begins my “birthday season”.

17. Is scared of going bald, mostly because I look like a tool with short hair.

18. I’m not really all that concerned with the future. I know what’s going to happen. The adventure lies in how I get there.

19. I accomplish more when people tell me I CAN’T do something. I love being the underdog.

20. My favorite TV shows as a kid were The Honeymooners and I Love Lucy.

21. I've never had a problem which either PBR, great friends, or a good concert couldn't solve.

22. I hate being alone; it makes me uncomfortable. I thrive through my relationships with others.

23. I don’t remember anything before the age of fourteen except kissing a girl in kindergarten and about ten minutes of my first day of first grade.

24. I am a detail-oriented person, yet the biggest decisions of my life have been made on a whim.

25. After twenty-eight years, I am finally comfortable in my own body, truly believe I have completely discovered myself, know exactly what I stand for and believe in, and am very proud of the person I’ve become. I can’t wait to share this with somebody special.

If a leader preaches worship to the sheep within the valley, who'll be riding in a tank that says "just married"?...

Proper Propaganda

Wednesday.

12:36 AM.

I can’t sleep. The following random thoughts are bouncing around my head. Uncut, but rearranged.

A revolution through the looking glass:

Independent and underground labels are where the masses are finding their music. The internet has leveled the playing field and knocked the old major label kings from their thrones.

I find this music, from hardcore to hip-hop, from Norwegian metal to screamo, from Sunny Day Real Estate to Atmosphere, to be where the real emotion and fire lives. There lacks a passion in radio today. You need to dive deeper to find the true spirit of music.

You think the masses are following Nickleback with such dedication? You think those pricks give a rat’s ass about their fans, or only about the big cash prize getting awarded to them when they sell out to be the background music in a “Go Army” TV spot?

Tomorrow's armies are forming in the basements; at the record store concerts. Buying albums from independent labels and web stores instead of Best Buy. My generation is getting older. A generation who gave up on the geriatric liars in Washington and tried something new. I assume one day I'll be in my sixties, and the codger generation of politicians will be long gone, and standing in congress will be the kid who gave me the bloody nose at the Thrice show at the E-factory, or the next senator to be elected will be spend his drives to work listening to speed metal, or our new house representative will have a certain afflication to Mos Def and P.O.S.

Gone are the days of stadium powerhouses. Slowly, our generation is rising and making its voice known: from the basements of New Jersey to the rec halls of Orange County.

These musicians might not be made up of the most talented artists, but the power and thrust behind the most simple of songs can carry the strongest message.

We will all be standing together, fists in the air, and we'll all scream in unison...

Your voices sound from underground… Your dreams endure ‘til days shall be no more…

Driving Up That 101, I Can F*cking See Why

We’ve all bitched about it. (Those of us in Los Angeles anyway.) We’ve changed plans because of it. We’ve made excuses due to it. It’s so far to go to that party, or go visit that friend who you haven’t seen in five months, or god, really, I have to drive to get to your house? How often do you think to yourself: “It’s Friday at six o’clock. Screw it. I’m gonna continue to sit here and watch the Bones marathon and then hit the gym.”

I, along with my other Venice Hoodrats, get poked fun at for not venturing past Lincoln. We get comfortable in our little bubble, but everyone does, no matter what area of the city you call home. I have friends who never leave downtown. I have friends who never leave Ventura. You get stuck.

The nice thing about LA is each section of town has everything you need. Bars (yup, necessities first): there are at least sixteen of them walking distance from my house. Barber: I ride my bike a whole four miles to Santa Monica, but the closest one is three blocks. Groceries, make you choice: Trader Joe’s, Ralph’s, Albertsons; the furthest I have to drive is fifteen minutes. Football: okay, I gotta go fifty feet past Lincoln to watch the Eagles, but hey, like I said, necessities). I’ve made a lot of friends here. They don’t replace my oldest and dearest friends who live all over this fine city. However, I sometimes selfishly make my plans based on the proximity to my house.

It’s a damn shame too. Back east I wouldn’t think twice about driving two hours to hang out with friends; out west the decision to cross county lines takes more planning than the invasion of Normandy. The time it takes to cross this city even the shortest distance arms me with such disgust sometimes, I easily go months without seeing my closest friends. Guys, which when I lived on the east coast, I would see at least once a week. Now, who knows when our paths will cross?

This issue can’t be better illustrated than with the help of my friend AJ. AJ used to work on Viva la Bam with me. We used to hang out all the time. I crashed with AJ, who had since wrapping Viva relocated to Santa Monica, for a few weeks before I found and moved into The Hotel. Since that time, AJ has moved to North Hollywood. I might, MIGHT, see AJ two or three times a year. That’s pathetic seeing how we pretty much grew up in the same area.

AJ moved into a new apartment with a fellow Dakota Pictures employee, Jeremy, who shares AJ’s love of Xmas. And if you know AJ, you know he looooooOOOOOOOvvvvesss Xmas. If you could only see the massive miniature village he put up at his folks house every holiday season, you would see just how deep his yuletide love goes. Anyhow, for his housewarming, AJ threw a “Xmas in July” party, complete with wreath shaped cookies and killer eggnog.

Now, if I was back in Philly, driving from my old apartment to AJ’s folk’s place is about forty miles away, maybe a forty-five minute drive. A drive I think nothing of making to participate in his awesome holiday extravaganzas. In our City of Angels, AJ lives a little over twenty miles away, but it could take anywhere from thirty minutes to ninety minutes to drive there, depending on the time of day.

And you must go alllllllllll the way over the hill to The Valley to get there. Making a trek like this takes planning, days in advance. You can’t drop what you’re doing and take off for The Valley on a whim. You gotta make sure you have time, you can’t drink because you have to drive so far home and the cops are sure to bust your ass, and god forbid the party starts late. I mean, shit, anything after ten at night and my ass is parked on the couch if I have to go anywhere further than walking distance from my house. All of this leads to you getting more comfortable in your hood, and results more often than not in a lack of mobility.

When you come from a small town, you take certain aspects of friendships for granted. Living in city like Los Angeles, you can’t. As we all age and grow up, and move out, and change cities, and make new friends, you need to realize these friends might not always be right there, just a bike ride away. We all make and have friends spanning this globe. Some of these friends you get to share a pint with once a week, some you’re only lucky enough to see once a year. The important thing is no matter how comfortable you get, to never put aside friendships because of time or distance, no matter how close or far they are.

This is how we stay so connected… So connected over space and time…