Sugar Ray and the Losers

On September 13 Sugar Ray came to Humboldt County (I'm assuming the band actually showed). As to be expected, there were people who were pretty excited about this turn of events. Why wouldn't they be? We get Kenny Rogers and Nightranger. All things considered, Sugar Ray looks like Moses coming down from the mount.

When I was at the Redwood Acres Raceway two weeks ago I was sitting in front of some people old enough to drink, but too young to actually know better when it came to Sugar Ray. "I want to go see him," the girl said. It was as if she thought Mr. Mark was Sugar Ray, like Mr. Rob is Judas Priest.

"Why?" the one boy asked. At least he had the good sense to question this nonsense.

"Because. How often can you say you saw Sugar Ray?"

And that's the point. Nobody should ever have to say they saw Sugar Ray ... at least not willingly. You can say you were dragged their by an aunt who thought she was being "cool." You can say you went with some girl in hopes of a bj in the parking lot afterward (and you better have gotten one -- a wet one with swallowing). You can say you took your mentally disabled sibling because it "meant so much to him." You can never say you actually wanted to go.

Sugar Ray is the equivalent to a fancy dinner date at Arby's. It is what people who don't really like or know music listen to. It is something you keep on the radio, but hope to God the hot girl in the car next to you hears. (She is listening to Christian Death and has heavy black eyeliner on. She looks like she could kill you, but you'd thoroughly enjoy that slaughter. Her breasts are concealed under a fading t-shirt, but you can imagine the most incredible nipples. And that skirt? Pure sexual heat. If she hears that, the slim chance you had that you would even make eye contact is gone. Sugar Ray destroys all things good ... unless you like drunk frat girls who have lost track of the number of penises that have been inside them, and can't remember the faces of half those guys.)

I, of course, did not go see this. Would not go see this. I'm not Sugar Ray's audience. I have taste in music. If you went, I hope you had a good time. And if you were dragged to it, I hope you got that bj. If you didn't, maybe you should write to Mr. Mark. He might suck just like his music.

Phony Beatlemania

I can't escape it. Beatlemania has once again gripped the people around me. A video game featuring the band and a CD box set were released roughly at the same time, which means that every jackass around me is sporting a t-shirt with the Fab Four (sounds like a gay superhero team) and stores are pumping in the music.

It's enough to make me want to shoot Paul McCartney.

My feelings on the band are well known and thoroughly justified. If anyone else did "Strawberry Fields Forever," critics would be trashing them. Since it came from the Beatles, however, it's like God ejaculated straight into their ears. Give me a break.

I could live with hearing the band on the radio every once in a while. I could live with someone humming one of its songs (I like to hum shit I know people will get stuck in their heads). But now it is constant. Fifteen-year-olds are wearing Beatles shirts. What the fuck? No teenager should be sporting a Beatles shirt. Whatever happened to pissing off your parents? Now you are your parents. Jesus. What next? Perhaps you'll start a retirement fund or do something really daring like wear sandals to the mall. Christ.

It has to stop at some point. People have to come to their sense again. Maybe Whitney Houston will overdose or something. I just want something to come along and take their minds off this new fascination that is as pointless as it is disturbing. Can't people still be mourning Michael Jackson?

When will this madness end?

Making Sense of the Notes

I'm a writer, so it makes sense that I'd like to know what causes people to read what I write. I would also like to know because I'm trying to use my blogs to generate extra income. Ideally, making a living off writing is what I want to do. My royalty checks from the book aren't big enough, and another book being published seems far off, so these blogs are what I've got at the moment.

Google, which is the mommy of blogspot, has this neat thing called analytics. Through it I can learn all sorts of information about Satanic Music For Good Children. Here's a sample of the keywords that bring people to the site: satanic music, Dead Kennedys and disrespect, GG Allin songs about molesting children, music band the Yes satanic, good satanic music, (and my personal favorite) Ted Kennedy satanic. These are people who have ended up on my blog.

I'm a bit worried.

The Adam and the Ants piece has brought the most views, which I find inspirational.

A lot of people have found the blog through my Cancerous Zeitgeist blog, which is also good. Others have linked to me on Facebook, which lands some folks my way.

What does all of this mean?

Not much. The blog isn't making money. I briefly thought about asking bands if they want to advertise here, and if any are interested please let me know, but I have to like you in order to do it (that excludes most hip hop, country and opera -- sorry).

I do know I want to keep it going. I enjoy writing about music and exposing people to stuff they haven't heard before or may have forgotten about. I just wonder if it's worth it. This blog gets little to no comments, and the page views seem to be dropping.

The months to come will paint the picture, I guess. I'll see how the numbers look in about three months. See if there are more hits. See if people looking up songs about the evil Ted Kennedy are still coming here.

If not, maybe I'll pull the plug, or do some kind of overhaul or something. Hell if I know.

CD Review: The Bloody Lovelies

Some Truth & a Little Money is one of those releases that rubs me the wrong way from the start. The first song, "Hologram," which has the horrible line "I am a hologram" reminds me of what the Beatles would sound like if the band had some balls. Not a good thing in my book.

Part two of the anger: Randy Wooten is the man behind the vocals. He also plays the piano for the band. The piano. The band is called the Bloody Lovelies. There should be no piano in a band of that name.

Four scruffy white guys who are about as threatening as a virgin White Russian. Cheap Lullaby Records, which put this out, must be targeting the "bands you can introduce your mom to" market, and this would be the poster child for that movement. By the time the last song, "A Million Years From Now" comes around (and all the songs sound basically the same), I kept thinking, "I cannot play this on the same stereo that routinely hosts Nashville Pussy." It seems like a fucking crime.

The press release describes these guys as "4 rockers." Really? Has our definition of rock fallen so far? This came out in 2003 (I'm behind on my music reviews), but the definition can't have changed that much. Could it? Hasil Adkins -- rocker. Jerry J. Nixon -- rocker. The Black Crowes for Christ's sake -- rockers. This? Elevator music for the younger Sears shoppers.

I will admit that the band can play its instruments. The singer's voice isn't grating, either. But everything about this band is so blah that I can't help but wonder why the fuck these guys even try. I can picture them playing the same five bars for years, praying for the day they can all quit their day jobs in construction and the restaurant business. That day never comes, though, but they stick at it. Never getting any new fans. Never progressing.

Maybe I'm wrong. I'm so out of touch with what is popular these days (thank Jesus) that this band could be huge, and I sound like a fool. If that is the case, you people who put this band there are idiots. This is what happens when rock is dominated by men who love their grandparents.

Lord, whatever happened to anger?

Chumbawamba In Style

Gotta love Chumbawamba. Pay five pounds now and when Thatcher dies (here's to hoping it's sooner than later), you get the In Memoriam, Margaret Thatcher ep. Click here to pre-order. It's pressed and waiting to go. All you need now is for Thatcher to bite it.