CLASSIC MYSPACE BLOG - RABBID LASSIE

Note: These accounts first appeared in my MySpace blog. I'm reposting the ones I'm particularly proud of - giving my Facebook friends a chance to see them. The obnoxious blue background on the illustrations is a relic from the MySpace format. I could change it, but I'm too lazy, so blue it stays. In reviewing what I wrote last year, I've noticed I never really completed the story. (I think I had grown frustrated with the MySpace blog and had given up on the enterprise). Needless to say, there's more to be said, here, so stay tuned...

RABBID LASSIE PT 1
(originally posted Monday, July 30th, 2007)

Fall, 1985. Music equipment costs hundreds, even thousands of dollars. In my entire career as a senior at California High School, I'm up about a buck thirty-seven in change. Sure, Grandma Hansen sends me ten dollars on my birthday but I use it to buy pot from Suzie Knudson. She's all, dude, chill, as she rests her head against the wall of the smoking area in back of the school. My Mormon hands tremble as I hand over the cash.

Near penniless, I don't know how I've come to possess a drum kit. Some of its components Dad brought home from his compulsive scouring of garage sales, thrift stores and flea markets. The rest I think Jef got me. I'd feel indebted to him, but he got gain by ripping off all them old Alamo cunts while filling their prescriptions at Thrifty's. So I guess I'm indebted to them.

Half my drum sticks are frayed if not entirely busted at the tips. None of them match.

RABBID LASSIE PT 2
(originally posted Tuesday, July 31st, 2007)

The toms are wrapped in purple felt.

The bass pedal is held together with shoestring.

The high hat cymbals look as though they've spent their days beneath the tire of a Mack truck.

I don't know I'm supposed to cinch up the wire below my snare so it hangs rattling below.

These are but a few examples of the challenges I face, but of greatest concern: I have absolutely no sense of rhythm and belong nowhere behind a drum kit.

RABBID LASSIE PT 3
(originally posted Friday, August 3rd, 2007)

TRENT
We're somewhere around age fourteen. We see each other often at church and Boy Scouts. On a hike one day he shows up with a tape recorder. One of these dohickeys:

Trent: I started a band.
Me: Oh yeah? Who's in it?
Trent: I am.
Me: Oh.
Trent: I call it Miller's Delight.
Me: Huh.
Trent: Wanna hear a song?
Me: Okay.

He hits the play button. It's him singing, punctuated by the sounds of certain novelty toys from his mom's preschool, namely one of those cylinder things that makes a moo-cow sound (which he has also brought - for reasons unknown - on the hike).

He invites me over to his house to sit in on his next "session." I play the triangle and a bongo. He, a toy guitar. One of our songs is called "Impaled on a Sharp Stick."

Later he gets a real guitar. I - as I've mentioned - amass a drum kit. For the next couple of years we play with various combinations of friends under band titles like SO/80, Pippi and the Fux, and Decent Phlegm. Senior year we start Clam Plate Orgy with Joey and Mike.

RABBID LASSIE PT 4
(originally posted Monday, August 6th, 2007)

After jamming one evening, Trent and Jeff Anderson wait for me to leave the room, then dump pencil shavings all over the surface of my snare drum. Apparently they're out to test their theory that I never practice my instrument. A couple weeks later I spot them hovering around the set and snickering as they find the snare just as they had left it - in the same messy state, untouched. After owning up to their plot to expose me I'm all, Christ, I could have told you I never practice. Every time I go near that thing I want to put a steak knife through my eye. Now who wants snickerdoodles?

Back then, why do I think Lars Ulrich possesses a drumming ability that extends beyond that which is humanly possible and into the realm of the miraculous?

Hypothetical Dad who is in tune with my needs as a developing human: ...and so Son, that's where babies come from. Oh, and Lars Ulrich fucking sucks. Proceed accordingly.

But no, no one sets me straight and I end up approaching the drumset with nothing but fear and trepidation. This reflects on the bands I help create and the music we play - mocking, I suppose, more serious minded performers - all the while being very jealous of them and their talents. Trust me, if the Good Lord had seen fit to endow me with any amount of ability, I would have run with it, yes sirree Bob.

With the creation of Clam Plate Orgy, I expect more of the same. I envision another short-lived project where we jam a half-dozen times after school in my garage as Mom's daycare kids run amok all around us. We push them out of the way and record a few songs. Trent dubs a bunch of copies and prints up cassette cover art and lyrics. I contribute very little in the process, but reap many of the rewards. As we distribute our product in the halls of California High, girls actually break from tradition and pay attention to me.

That's what I expect, but nothing can be further from the case. For one, Mike and Joey hate the name Clam Plate Orgy and Trent is siding with them.

Rabbid Lassie is our new name. We've kind of composed a song, "Negri." The guys had been listening to a lot of DRI lately and one can easily recognize the influence. The lyrics, I think, were penned by Trent and Jef Barber. In scope, they're limited to the boundaries of California High, as they warn of a nasty vice principle. They harken back to the attitude we once had in all our previous band incarnations which I am trying to cling to, though it is obvious things are going in a different direction.

Joey writes his vocals from here on out. He is serious about hardcore - true to the cause. They reflect classic Reagan-era angst and also make repeated appeals for unity within the scene. I'm hearing a lot of this lately. Slogans like keep the scene tight get bandied about. Try as I may, I can't identify with the sentiment. I'm left wondering how long I will last with so many strikes against me. I want out but I don't want to let Trent down.

Bassist Mike is well connected. Almost as soon as we're up and running, there's talk about booking shows...

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BIG BEAT/SPARKS LIVE IN LA

Jenn and I select our favorite songs from a Sparks album and play them for you here and discuss why Sparks is the greatest band in all of Tarnation, by golly.

JENN: So, Ted – I know it's been a while since we posted a Sparks review, and it is time to get back on track with Big Beat, but I want to make sure our fans know the reason for the break. I mean, I wasn't feeling worthy for a while after meeting such amazingly knowledgeable and committed fans at the concert we attended at UCLA. Plus, seeing the Ron and Russell live for the first time sort of put me in shock at how truly cool they really are…

TED: I used to be pretty cocky because I knew of Sparks in the 80s, but we met people who were digging them back when Kimono came out. I was in awe. I kept asking all of them what it was like to be a fan back then. A common answer was that all their friends at the time thought they were nuts!

J: And still do! Because once you get sucked in, the tendency for us Sparks fans, I've found, is that we get a little obsessive. A bit like you are a member of a secret society that gets something about the world that the non-members don't. We should re-cap the highlights of our concert experience here, in addition to selecting our favorite songs from Big Beat, an excellent, but poorly produced album.

T: Sounds like a plan. Let's start with that nasty drive from Salt Lake City to LA. A major challenge the Universe dealt us!

J: Well, aside from encountering skating rinks rather than roads, pea soup fog from Provo to Scipio that forced us to stop dead in our tracks for over an hour, an average speed of twenty miles per hour for half a day, and snow from St. George to LA, I think the drive was very uneventful. I mean, a fifteen and a half hour commute? – well worth it for Sparks, though.

T: We're heading down this incline in thick fog and there's, what, five vehicles that have rolled off the road and people milling about who we very well could slam into if we do the same! I tap the brakes and it's all slip and no traction. I thought we were doomed...

J: It was so frightening. You could feel the car floating on the ice. There was no grip, and it was only six in the morning so it was so dark and eerie.



T: That motel in LA was pretty shabby and in a shady part of town – but I was just happy to have made it there alive.

J: As far as I was concerned it was the Taj Mahal. We had planned a big night out in LA weeks prior, but we almost immediately crashed after retrieving some very tasty (and authentic) Mexican food at the attached restaurant. I think we were both just overwhelmed by the day - we turned on the television and slept right through whatever we were planning on watching.

T: The next day - an amazing sushi meal, then beers with other crazed Sparks fans, then Sparks!

J: Oh yes. Valentine's Day in Westwood. It rocked. And thank God for that Sparks fan meet-up because our attempt at getting to UCLA without a map or a guide would have been a joke and a failure. The committed Sparks fans we had hooked up with had already made and timed the walk to Royce Hall from the brewpub. And then, Peter Rabbit math teacher made it his personal mission to get us there in due time.

T: I don't know if you noticed, but tears in my eyes during the first three songs of their set. I mean, here is this band that I have such a deep-seeded pubescent attachment to, PLUS all the emotions I associate with the start of our relationship and our (re)discovery of them... it was just enough to knock me out cold.

Ron and Russell Mael of Sparks, Los Angeles, 2009

J: I had butterflies. After watching so many of their shows on the Internet last year when they were in London, and then seeing them 3-D. Jeeze. I had a hard time containing myself. And I screamed my thirty two-year-old lungs out like I was fourteen, and the bitchy woman in front of us who didn't even like Sparks crusted me out like a wicked clam face.

T: Ha! Usually people like that severely harsh my buzz. But nothing was going to stop me that night from having my Sparks epiphany. Plus, the two highly amusing flamboyant queers in back canceled out the bad mojo ahead of us.

J: Those guys ruled. And they knew nothing of Exotic Creatures of the Deep, so they were in ecstatic shock for the first half of the concert. I think they were as happy about our weekend getaway as we were. Plus we gave them the cool Brangelina line that we wouldn't get married until they had that right. Hehe. It was good time all around. Soooo... back to Big Beat. What's your song, Ted?

T: Before I reveal my fav from Big Beat, might I mention the blackjack boon to our trip fundage upon entering the Rio, which enabled us to upgrade to a luxury suite... and Penn and Teller working their magic, selecting us for the front row, and Teller, like, winking and nodding in our (your) direction, and my four wild deuces, Jesus Christ, man, what a coup!

J: Don't worry, Ted. We'll get back to the trip. I just don't want to lose track of the purpose of the blog... two songs off of every album. I'm going to pick “Nothing to Do,” track number three, but I've got a case for “Everybody's Stupid” as well.

J: I think “Nothing To Do” rocks the house.

T: Well, "Everybody's Stupid" does contain the downright funniest lyrics ever known to anyone living in the Bonneville Basin and beyond, yes:

I traded you for Jean and Myra
I traded them for the Mormon Choir
Now I got some music and the Lord
And I'm feeling dumber than before
(Oh yeah) Everybody's stupid, that's for sure

But my song is going to have to be the solid rocking opening, "Big Boy." Mixed/produced poorly, but I do love this song!

T: The drums are way too loud. And where are Ron's keyboards? An afterthought, it would seem. But I've been exposed to enough Sparks for my brain to reassemble the slight production mess into something I can drool over...

J: “Big Boy” is a great song. Agreed. My name is David, he don't care! Hahahahahahaha! But, the production. Aaarrrgh. I mean, yeah, yeah, the guitars are played great on the entire album, but is that all we need to hear Mr. Producer Dude? Still, I've got to agree with you, Ted, again, this album has some of the funniest lyrics ever written. Ron is insane.

J: In my song, Ron complains that two thumbs just aren't fun enough to twiddle. If he had a million, then there would be something to do... Pahahahahahaha!

J: I WANT YOU, I WANT YOU BAD! Russell is the coolest singer ever. Hands down.

T: In a league of his own. What else did I want to mention about this album? It marks their return to the States. It is their last Island Records release... and what else?

T: A pretty twisted cover.

J: Hmmm.

T: They sure do nail down their contrasting personae in one photograph.

J: Gotcha. I thought you were talking about the Corrosion of Conformity song we were listening to, and was like, this is a cover? Of course you weren't. The Big Beat cover is brilliant. If that is Russell's real upper-body, which is likely, he is one of the hottest mo-fos on the planet. Stallion. But, Ron? Man is he an awkward cat.

T: There is just the richest pool of comedy to be tapped by contrasting the alpha male with guy who ain't getting any... and in the case of Sparks, well, only they can put out "Funny Face," a song where the speaker wishes he wasn't so goddamn handsome, and then turn around and release "I Wish I Looked a Little Better," where the speaker is "ugly as sin!"

J: Well said, Ted. In fact, a similar theme comes out in your pick for Big Beat. “Big Boy” lyrics reflect on the David and Goliath dichotomy in men -- there are some that have it, and there are some that just don't…

J: I suppose the irony there though, is that David wins :-)

J: Ron, it would seem, rarely does.

T: A long time ago they adopted the two extreme archetypes and they've been pretty good at mining it for all it's worth, decade after decade. I consider myself to be like most guys, falling somewhere in between the two extremes... There are times in my life when I am ashamed to have been that spank-ass weakling, and then there are the fond memories of when I reigned supreme over everything and everyone! Perhaps that's why I so solidly identify with this band?

J: I do feel like Sparks, as self-proclaimed Pop band, is able with their lyrics and image, to portray the full spectrum of the human condition and not come off like they don't get it, but rather, they do get it and are able to find humour in it all. They are the good and bad, the pretty and ugly, and together they make an in-between that comes off as comfortable, but never generic because of their wit.

T: Amen to that. In summary, Big Beat needs to be remixed – tone down the drums and bring up Ron's keyboards! Now, back to the concert, how shitty of us to doubt that British bloke who was all, "Yeah, Ron and Russell were in my bedroom – I interviewed them for MTV Europe."

J: I called bullshit! real quick, but the Maryland family was buying tequila shots, so I hope the Brit forgives my immediate disbelief. He was a darling guy, and a most committed fan for making it to the LA show from some “shire” over there. He sent me verifying pictures to prove it, and I'm thankful he put me in my place.

T: Ha! Me, too.

T: So, Introducing Sparks is next - let's not make our audience of three readers wait too long for it...

J: Okay, Ted. That's a wrap. I recommend everyone give Big Beat a chance, but listen to the first release, the extra songs that come with the 21st Century Edition, sorry, they don't do anything for their cause.

T: You're like a talk radio show host who purposefully misspeaks by saying, "The Godfather was made by the great director, Martin Scorsese," in order to elicit calls of outrage. Are you hoping for another lambasting in our comments section?

J: I'm just warning my friends and family that the grotesque Beatle's cover, “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” was not on the original release and should not be held against them.

T: It's like you're sticking your head in the noose. Your funeral...

J: I'll take the heat. For the Mael brothers. See ya next time.

T: Roger, over and out.

Two thirds of the set list.  Jenn and Ted got one.  Peter Rabbit got the other.

"Mom and Ted went to LA and all they got me was this crummy Sparks tattoo.  Actually, it's pretty cool!"

"Big Boy"

The earth is shaking, so am I
If you don't run, it's suicide

Big Boy, Big Boy

My name is David, he don't care
He's never nice, he's never scared

Big Boy, Big Boy

Big Boy comes around
Throws his weight around
Throws our girls around
Leaves without a sound

Big Boy, Big Boy

He's well-equipped, the girls are sure
Is that a guess, or something more

Big Boy, Big Boy

We're bored to tears until he comes
And then we're crying cause he's come

Big Boy, Big Boy

Big Boy comes around
Throws his weight around
Throws our girls around
Leaves without a sound

Big Boy, Big Boy

The earth is shaking, so am I
If you don't run, it's suicide

Big Boy, Big Boy

"Nothing to Do"

I want you
I want you bad
I need you
I need you
I do, I really do

Better drop the requirement that
everything be great
Nothing to do, nothing to do
Nothing to do, nothing to do

I come home
I throw my coat down
I spin round
I plop down
Gimme a break, a break

Better drop the requirement that
everything be great
Nothing to do, nothing to do
Nothing to do, nothing to do

If I had a million thumbs
I'd twiddle, twiddle
But I just have two
Nothing to do, nothing to do
Nothing to do, nothing to do

I see you
I don't want much
Just something
A little something
To do, to do

Better drop the requirement that
everything be great
Nothing to do, nothing to do
Nothing to do, nothing to do

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