On a whim, I decided to type my URL into the Internet Wayback Machine. I found an old write-up from 2010 there. I was not a happy boy in 2010.
- Times Change
I woke up at eight a.m and attempted to play God Hand with a hangover. This was, obviously, a bad idea. God Hand is not something that you can be casual about; you don’t just sit down with a controller and gallivant about. Adding in that hangover, I was going nowhere fast.
My memory of last night was an utter blank. I remembered a large building that apparently lacked any form of indoor heating. I remembered sitting in a circle of people, each of us with our phones out, sending text messages to an unknown number to get said messages plastered on a series of strategically placed television sets. I remembered actually typing out the phrase, “WWWYKI (Woo woo woo, you know it).” I also remembered finding myself very angry and very disappointed that night. This wasn’t because I was having a bad time. Far from it. It was the realization that things were changing; that things were changing for the worse and that like many things in my life, I was the last one to know.
Last year, I decided to write about a show I had gone to. The reason for this was because a) I’m not nearly as good a writer as I am sometimes given credit for and haven’t had an original idea that won’t fizzle out within three paragraphs in quite some time and b) I figured the events of the show would be entertaining enough. Soon enough, music writing went from, “a thing that I once did,” to, “this thing that I do.” Considering that I was following The Alan Baird Project around like an unrequited groupie more or less lead to music being heavily involved in my topic sentences. At least, when I wasn’t lazy and/or way too fucking discouraged to actually sit down and come up with something. It’s hard to write about these shows when they’re more or less carbon copies of one another: two or three acts with all the musical skill of sheltered, autistic Mormons whose equipment van might as well be a short bus irritate the hell out of me and cause me to make a mad dash to the bar and drink myself into an early grave, then The Alan Baird Project take the stage and play the same soulless, radio-friendly bullshit that causes me to bite my lower lip and say, “yeah that totally rocked, dude!” out of some ludicrous obligation I feel I need to have because I once went to high school with these people. What originally began as an exciting high school reunion with everyone I fell out of contact with in the last half-decade slowly became a depressing realization as to why I stopped talking to them in the first place.
Now, when I say things, either here or on Twitter (over to your right), about musicians, it’s not out of some desire to become their best friend and drop their name into a conversation like some hipster who hasn’t heard the sound of their own voice in the last two minutes. I don’t care about that. If someone in, say, Science Partner were to send me an e-mail calling me a stupid faggot, I wouldn’t care. Well, I would only kind of care, since nobody really wants to be called a stupid faggot, but I do believe I could continue living my life without any problems as a result of a hypothetical e-mail calling me mean names. However, when it comes to people you’ve known for a good portion of your life; at the very least, during a time of awkward growth for all parties involved, you would come to expect that responding to their invitations, attending just about all of their shows and writing good things about them on the internet for strangers to see would garner a better reaction than absolute apathy. It gets pretty depressing going to a show, walking up to your friends and finding yourself being talked around. Hearing about wild, debauched escapades that went on while you were at home, jerking off and playing Team Fortress 2 (not necessarily in that order, and definitely not at the same time) completely unaware, is not as fun as people would think.
“Yeah bro we totally went to this bar and got sooooooooooooooooo fucked up and THIS MOTHERFUCKER puked all over the place etc etc you should have been there!”
“Nobody told me this was going on.”
End of conversation. How Goddamned gripping, huh? Although lately, I’ll admit, I’ve been approached by a nice young lady who likes to ask me questions about my work. It usually goes something like:
“Like, so I totally, like, tried to read one of your articles and I was, like, Oh My God! It was sooooooooo long and I couldn’t get through it! How do you expect people to read through all that? Like, I tried to get my mom to look at it and she was all, ‘what the hell is this?’ and I was all, ‘I know, right?’”
Yes. The last few shows have seen me suddenly become Tim Rogers and the Summit Music Hall, Larimer Lounge and Hi-Dive have suddenly become the comments section for my monthly article for Kotaku (nerdy reference, don’t worry if you don’t get it). The last time this airheaded bitch decided to press my buttons, I simply ended the conversation by offering her mother, “something that she might find ‘too long,’ if you know what I mean!” Then I grabbed my crotch and walked out the door. I guess this is what happens when you hang around a group whose fanbase primarily consists of retarded teenagers.
Bringing ourselves back to the night I can barely remember. It was the final night of the International Pop Overthrown (IPO). My friends Connie and Ali, formerly Consider the Raven, now Reviving Cecilia, were set to play that night. I had, as always, invited just about everyone I knew to come down and attend. I also knew that would not happen. The last handful of times I’ve come to see them, it’s been strictly a solo affair. It’s as funny as it is infuriating to watch these people fucking scramble for a good excuse, which is immediately rendered null and void the moment they update their Facebook statuses the night of the show with things like: “Totally chillin’ at home, watching tv!” or “IS ANYONE DOING ANYTHING TONIGHT?” or “man, it is really boring over here.” Even better is asking Alan why he didn’t bother showing up after showing as much excitement as an airheaded fashion major would for his band and getting, “Well, maybe you should have told us and we all would have been there!” Since, I guess, phone calls, internet invitations or asking people directly to their faces just isn’t good enough these days.
What I’m taking my sweet time getting to is this: there is no respect. There is no friendship, at least not anymore. My name is simply brought up when the time comes to put some asses in the seats. It’s way too fucking obvious at this point. And as good as Reviving Cecilia are, I think they’ll be just fine without a second endorsement in print. As great as the acts at the IPO were (barring Primasonic, a band who’s lead singer dressed like a no-name backyard wrestler and whose music sounded like shit), they too will be fine without my endorsement. In other words, I’m pretty much done writing about music for right now. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of these (mostly) awful shows. I’m tired of being shit on by selfish, pompous assholes who I considered to be pretty fucking close. There’s no point. Maybe if I have a really awesome time with Connie and Ali again where I’m not doing stupid things like trying to drink the pain away and having it backfire tremendously, you might see it here.