Something has to be said for live music. And that something is 'not all of it is crap'. Went out with a housemate this past Sunday to a local bar and took in a little alternative country under advice from someone I shouldn't have listened to. I rang beforehand to check on times etc., and the band described themselves as 'celtic-kiwi americana'. And a bit like a baileys-drenched hamburger wrapped in a paua fritter it probably should have been avoided. Or, the fact that the band was already in the bar at 4pm should have set off the alarm bells.
Ah well, there weren't any expectations of the White Stripes at the Dogs Bollocks a la 2001, but still, all a bit howz it goin' really. Mind you, I didn't think of stuffing up their gig with the same kind of heckling Jack had to handle, instead giving the appearance of stoic silence.
The flatmate was more annoyed however, and obliquely commented that he'd wasn't up for listening to people play music at half the skill he could muster. I wasn't so sure though. If there's one thing we seem to be missing in this brave new world is any kind of respect for both learning and old age.
Still, old bastards can be a right royal pain in the rear, the only thing saving them half the time being that they don't go all skippy like teens. But, in between these two ages are the rest of us, kind of perched like a burglar caught half way over a fence, wondering whether to just resign ourselves to the inevitable fall to the ground, or to try making out like we're still athletic enough to muster a decent 'bounce and run'.
And it's right there that I wonder about why in the hell old blokes stand up in front of an audience of however many people and play crap original songs?
As I said they weren't all that bad, I could see where they were trying to take us aurally, but... Which is where I started respecting them a little. None of those old farts were ever going to be Jimmy Hendrix. None of them were particularly pretty or fit, being kind of balding, wrinkly and skinny to a man. But, they were doing something the seemed to just plain love.
Averagely.
But that wasn't the point. Sure, the flatmate was maybe a better musician, and when I cross-compared it to my own type of expertise, I could see how sometimes a person can get frustrated. I should add that my expertise is very, very narrow. I'm hardly a guru in the field of nationalism or nation-building, but I'm a hell of a lot smarter than some of the stupid assholes canvassed on Upton-On-Line.
What can really get my goat is trying to explain something to someone, something completely reasonable, not too ideologically slanted, not too loaded towards what I actually think should be the case, and only have them go all the way back round to their original argumentative position when they reach brain overload.
For reference, that's like trying to argue that a reasonable approach to moral issues like 'shaggin' to a fundamentalist Christian. At some point their eyes will glaze over and a switch in their head will be hit that flips their entire consciousness back to 'THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB'. End of story.
Another case in point these days is most obviously the current immigration debate, which seems to automatically default to 'aliens are bad'. The key factor being what constitutes an alien. Maybe 50 years ago that definition still encompassed 'the Maoris', but luckily we've moved on. Or should I say, hopefully.
Anyhow, music. What's great about seeing live music is watching people improving their skills in front of what can easily be a hostile audience. Maybe it's not about fitting in perfectly to what people want to hear, but instead being about playing stuff that you want to play because you just love doing it, even though you're too old and clapped out to be Mick Jagger with 'the ladies'.
It seems that all too often these days live music has to be spunky young things in great fashion playing snappy tunes and appearing on the cover of magazines. Now, while I'm partial to hearing really good music, I patronise the decidedly average because I think I respect them much, much more, because they've got much more on the line. There's every chance that I could be intolerant and write them off just because they don't fit my definition of what is and is not permissible in my presence, again like the immigration debate, but what kind of dick would that make me?
Mind you, if they're crap, I'm sure as hell not paying good readies for some self-burned CD, they're lucky I'll stuck round for two pints. Decent musicians do not play country.
Expect maybe Calexico. Or the Supersuckers. Or Giant Sands.