Let's be honest. Most big time award shows are nothing more than a "Hooray for Us!" celebration, designed simply to reaffirm who's "in the club" and who gets to stay in the club. After all, if you're a corporate cog looking to cross-collateralize your widgets with a hot, young piece of "talent," or a network exec. interested in garnering ratings for your attempt at an eighth generation spin-off of a talent competition, nothing says you won't get fired like a gold phonograph.
The Grammys have long been to music what KFC is to chicken(see Jethro Tull's win for Album of the Year). And, now, with the recent signing of a petition by legions of angry musicians who demand NARAS, the organization behind the annual awards show, reinstate the Latin Jazz category -- and other recently eliminated ethnic groups -- to the ballot, as well as the planned protest outside the Staples Center this Sunday, it's beginning to feel more like Occupy the Grammys than anything else.
For a show that now seems to be entirely dependent on Lady Gaga's outfits for ratings and a mandatory appearance by the Foo Fighters to maintain its 'danger factor,' pissing off tens of thousands of loyal supporters to the point where a class action lawsuit is now underway, doesn't seem like the best way to go. Add to that the refusal of the "Grammy Republican Guard" to release the minutes of its secret meeting in which these eliminations took place, and we could be looking at a musical version of the Arab Spring (Arab Spring Awakening?). Hey, here's a category; Best Revolutionary Action by a Growing Group of Disenfranchised Artists. "... And, the winner is, Molly Hatchet!"
The Grammys are the largest non-profit organization in the U.S. and, like any non-profit, any of its members are entitled to read the minutes of any meeting upon request, but, according to nominee pianist/composer Mark Levine, who rejected his recent nomination, "For some reason, the repeated requests for the minutes of this particular meeting have been met with nothing but resistance. Thus, the petition and lawsuit, backed by legends such as Bonnie Raitt and Carlos Santana, seems the only way to go."
In N.A.R.A.S.'s defense, when looking at some of the discontinued categories, it appears they got it right (has anyone ever bought a "Pop Instrumental" Album?). However, it took members of the Latino community over seventeen years of lobbying to finally get N.A.R.A.S. to include the Latin Jazz category, so, if nothing else, it certainly seems they could at least make an exception to reinstate this popular genre, as opposed to, say, Best Contemporary Pop Album by a Hawaiian Playing a Blowfish.
If Chris Martin and Rihanna performing their version of Miss Saigon isn't enough to entice you to watch this year's Grammy telecast, keep in mind, each year they manage to come up with one-huge-gaff which makes for hilarious water cooler conversation - e.g., last year, some unknown named Justin Bieber lost the Best New Artist award to a long-established Hispanic, Contemporary Jazz artist by the name of Esperanza Spalding. Even Spalding herself was shocked. This year should prove to be no less exciting, as, in keeping with a condition of his probation, Chris Brown has agreed to perform in handcuffs. Just in case.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Mr. Friedman's Opus
It's March of 1985. I'm a senior in high school. It’s a good time. I haven’t yet heard of a company called Clear Channel and I’m still naive enough to think that music is more than just a business…
Growing up in Fair Lawn, NJ meant that, for as long as I could remember, every Memorial Day, the whole town would gather for the Senior Class Softball Marathon. Each year, this three-day, non-stop, round-the-clock softball game raised money for different charities. The senior class was divided into teams that competed against each other, straight through the night and into the next morning, without stopping, while a mass of beer-drinking, hot dog-munching town folk gathered to cheer them on, even at four-thirty in the a.m.
So, it happened that, on one particular sunny afternoon, my friend, Matt Gitkin and I were approached by Howie Friedman, our beloved chemistry and physics teacher who would brag in the halls on a daily basis about being the 38th most allergic human on the planet. Mr. Friedman was a "rocker" in the truest sense of the word, back in the sixties; he lived for rock music and the power it displayed. He told us of his idea to form a student-teacher band to perform classic rock tunes during the first intermission at the upcoming Marathon. Matt and I thought he was joking, as that was nothing new, and eventually, the nutty professor managed to convince us to drag some friends into the madness, while he recruited some semi-sane teachers willing to make fools of themselves singing Steppenwolf in front of their students. We called this student-teacher rock extravaganza, "The Boptones."
We rehearsed in my parent’s basement and after a few shaky months, we dragged our Peavey amps and Ibanez guitars onto the poorly lit ball field (picture Field of Dreams meets School of Rock). We played to a smattering of supportive cheers and polite applause. Our audience didn’t hate us, it was just tough to hear us. The two Campbell's soup cans we used as a P.A. couldn't provide the oomph we needed to really "RAWWWWK!"
That first "concert", Memorial Day weekend in 1985, featured six kids on our respective instruments and three crazy teachers, singing everything from Born to Be Wild, to Runaround Sue to Aqualung. Little did we know what we (or Howie) had started.
Fast-forward twenty years later (Jesus); Matt gets a call from a girl who claims to be on the official "Boptones Advisory Board" of Fair Lawn High School. Huh? Apparently, when we weren't looking, the Boptones student-teacher rock band had gone and transformed itself into something of an anomaly.
No longer are there six students and three teachers; no longer are there soup cans for P.A.'s; and no longer is the concert a forty-minute gig on the ball field between innings. Now, there's a lengthy audition process for both juniors and seniors, during which over one hundred and sixty kids try out each year and only thirty or so make the cut. Now, handfuls of crazy teachers lurk the hallways practicing their best Ozzy impersonations. (Mrs. Levine, the darling, sixty-something Spanish teacher who's retiring next year, is rumored to be performing Black Sabbath's Iron Man at this year's show.) Now, the P.A. is a state-of-the-art sound system, complete with top notch console, lighting board, and monitor wedges for the performers.
Even the art department donates their time and builds huge scaffolding and risers for the performers, complete with fake, crepe paper flames shooting up from the stage. The "gig" has become an event; a three-hour plus party held inside the school's thousand-seat auditorium, and I would be rendered speechless.
The phone call Matt received was to inform him that this year, Mr. Friedman would be hanging up the chalk and moving to Florida, and would we like to say something on his behalf at the upcoming concert? She explained that there would be a short video tribute to him during the show and they could film us saying something nice for his retirement. Matt and I had a better idea. What if the original Boptones were to reunite and surprise Mr. Friedman at the show by doing a few tunes from years ago? Now all we needed was to find everyone.
Thank God most of us from the original band are losers and never moved anywhere outside the New York area. We were all easily reachable, except for Chrissy Campanella. Who knows what she's doing these days? Last I heard she’s working for Clear Channel.
After about sixty thousand emails arguing what tunes we should do, we five surviving members get together a few days before the show to rehearse our short, but emotionally charged, set. The songs are Sergeant Pepper, Runaround Sue, Born to Be Wild, and Sounds of Silence.
The night of the show arrives and the high school auditorium’s packed. Backstage, I glance at the set list. No more Let's Spend the Night Together or Won't Get Fooled Again. Now, there's Bulls on Parade and Green Day's Longview. Dylan was right.
We stand in the wings watching the show and to my amazement, these tiny, little dwarves (I think they're called teenagers) come up to us one after another to shake our hands, ask me where I got my "groovy looking guitar", and tell us how psyched they are that we're there to play for Howie's last concert.
I stood in awe, watching scores of teachers and students sharing the stage and singing away together in front of a mob of cheering and, for a change, happy adolescents; I wondered if Mr. Friedman really knew the full extent of what he'd created that day, twenty years earlier, with the simple idea to play some rock n’ roll with his students.
Halfway through the performance, the video screen is lowered and a "This Was Your Life at Fair Lawn High School, Howie Friedman" piece is shown. After slides and footage of the original Boptones (and me in parachute pants - which I'll publicly deny if asked), Matt is asked if the original Boptones would ever play together again, to which he replies, in true "Behind The Music" fashion, "No way. The five of us could never get along. We were always at each other's throats and there's too much bitterness involved now, so I don't see that happening anytime soon." With that, Mr. Friedman is beckoned to the stage and one by one, we are introduced from the wings. It’s all quite emotional. We lovingly molest each other, and take our positions on stage.
The kids go crazy. It feels like Altamont. (Never mind, bad analogy.) We have a blast playing our songs and for the last one, Sounds of Silence, we bring Mr. Friedman and a few new, younger, "Tones" up to join us; it feels very much like the passing of the torch.
Then the moment comes when I realize how old and out of touch I really am. We’re right in the middle of "Silence", the whole school is singing along, and I’m in the moment, looking down at my guitar. When I gaze up, I see one of the most spectacular sights I'm to witness as a performer; every kid in the auditorium’s waving his/her arms back and forth and a glowing, blue, neon stick is shimmering in each one of their hands, creating a sight I immediately take a mental picture of to make sure I'd never forget. What are those blue things? Are they those sticks that you break in half that glow neon when activated? I can't tell. Then it hits me. They're cell phones. Every kid in the crowd has his/her cell phone window glowing iridescent colors, replacing the obsolete cigarette lighters of old. My brother-in-law holds up his lighter and is about to flick it, when some twelve year old girl, shooting him a very serious look, says, "Um, sir, we don't do that anymore." Dylan was right again.
I realized that at the very least, the one thing I left the school with that night was knowledge that couldn’t be taught in a classroom; that one teacher, armed with the gift of music and a generous spirit, can bring an entire community together just by being crazy enough to “put it out there” and see what happens.
That night there were no cliques, no insults being hurled, nobody getting beaten up outside by the "Green Hill", no teachers being patronizing toward students. Everyone was "gettin' their groove on" together, like one big Partridge Family. And, I couldn't help but think, the next time a problem arises with a classmate, when a temper may cause someone to do something they'd later regret, simply remembering the sight of their teacher singing Black Sabbath with them, might make them laugh instead. What more reason do we need for keeping music programs alive in our schools? Thank you, Howie.
Growing up in Fair Lawn, NJ meant that, for as long as I could remember, every Memorial Day, the whole town would gather for the Senior Class Softball Marathon. Each year, this three-day, non-stop, round-the-clock softball game raised money for different charities. The senior class was divided into teams that competed against each other, straight through the night and into the next morning, without stopping, while a mass of beer-drinking, hot dog-munching town folk gathered to cheer them on, even at four-thirty in the a.m.
So, it happened that, on one particular sunny afternoon, my friend, Matt Gitkin and I were approached by Howie Friedman, our beloved chemistry and physics teacher who would brag in the halls on a daily basis about being the 38th most allergic human on the planet. Mr. Friedman was a "rocker" in the truest sense of the word, back in the sixties; he lived for rock music and the power it displayed. He told us of his idea to form a student-teacher band to perform classic rock tunes during the first intermission at the upcoming Marathon. Matt and I thought he was joking, as that was nothing new, and eventually, the nutty professor managed to convince us to drag some friends into the madness, while he recruited some semi-sane teachers willing to make fools of themselves singing Steppenwolf in front of their students. We called this student-teacher rock extravaganza, "The Boptones."
We rehearsed in my parent’s basement and after a few shaky months, we dragged our Peavey amps and Ibanez guitars onto the poorly lit ball field (picture Field of Dreams meets School of Rock). We played to a smattering of supportive cheers and polite applause. Our audience didn’t hate us, it was just tough to hear us. The two Campbell's soup cans we used as a P.A. couldn't provide the oomph we needed to really "RAWWWWK!"
That first "concert", Memorial Day weekend in 1985, featured six kids on our respective instruments and three crazy teachers, singing everything from Born to Be Wild, to Runaround Sue to Aqualung. Little did we know what we (or Howie) had started.
Fast-forward twenty years later (Jesus); Matt gets a call from a girl who claims to be on the official "Boptones Advisory Board" of Fair Lawn High School. Huh? Apparently, when we weren't looking, the Boptones student-teacher rock band had gone and transformed itself into something of an anomaly.
No longer are there six students and three teachers; no longer are there soup cans for P.A.'s; and no longer is the concert a forty-minute gig on the ball field between innings. Now, there's a lengthy audition process for both juniors and seniors, during which over one hundred and sixty kids try out each year and only thirty or so make the cut. Now, handfuls of crazy teachers lurk the hallways practicing their best Ozzy impersonations. (Mrs. Levine, the darling, sixty-something Spanish teacher who's retiring next year, is rumored to be performing Black Sabbath's Iron Man at this year's show.) Now, the P.A. is a state-of-the-art sound system, complete with top notch console, lighting board, and monitor wedges for the performers.
Even the art department donates their time and builds huge scaffolding and risers for the performers, complete with fake, crepe paper flames shooting up from the stage. The "gig" has become an event; a three-hour plus party held inside the school's thousand-seat auditorium, and I would be rendered speechless.
The phone call Matt received was to inform him that this year, Mr. Friedman would be hanging up the chalk and moving to Florida, and would we like to say something on his behalf at the upcoming concert? She explained that there would be a short video tribute to him during the show and they could film us saying something nice for his retirement. Matt and I had a better idea. What if the original Boptones were to reunite and surprise Mr. Friedman at the show by doing a few tunes from years ago? Now all we needed was to find everyone.
Thank God most of us from the original band are losers and never moved anywhere outside the New York area. We were all easily reachable, except for Chrissy Campanella. Who knows what she's doing these days? Last I heard she’s working for Clear Channel.
After about sixty thousand emails arguing what tunes we should do, we five surviving members get together a few days before the show to rehearse our short, but emotionally charged, set. The songs are Sergeant Pepper, Runaround Sue, Born to Be Wild, and Sounds of Silence.
The night of the show arrives and the high school auditorium’s packed. Backstage, I glance at the set list. No more Let's Spend the Night Together or Won't Get Fooled Again. Now, there's Bulls on Parade and Green Day's Longview. Dylan was right.
We stand in the wings watching the show and to my amazement, these tiny, little dwarves (I think they're called teenagers) come up to us one after another to shake our hands, ask me where I got my "groovy looking guitar", and tell us how psyched they are that we're there to play for Howie's last concert.
I stood in awe, watching scores of teachers and students sharing the stage and singing away together in front of a mob of cheering and, for a change, happy adolescents; I wondered if Mr. Friedman really knew the full extent of what he'd created that day, twenty years earlier, with the simple idea to play some rock n’ roll with his students.
Halfway through the performance, the video screen is lowered and a "This Was Your Life at Fair Lawn High School, Howie Friedman" piece is shown. After slides and footage of the original Boptones (and me in parachute pants - which I'll publicly deny if asked), Matt is asked if the original Boptones would ever play together again, to which he replies, in true "Behind The Music" fashion, "No way. The five of us could never get along. We were always at each other's throats and there's too much bitterness involved now, so I don't see that happening anytime soon." With that, Mr. Friedman is beckoned to the stage and one by one, we are introduced from the wings. It’s all quite emotional. We lovingly molest each other, and take our positions on stage.
The kids go crazy. It feels like Altamont. (Never mind, bad analogy.) We have a blast playing our songs and for the last one, Sounds of Silence, we bring Mr. Friedman and a few new, younger, "Tones" up to join us; it feels very much like the passing of the torch.
Then the moment comes when I realize how old and out of touch I really am. We’re right in the middle of "Silence", the whole school is singing along, and I’m in the moment, looking down at my guitar. When I gaze up, I see one of the most spectacular sights I'm to witness as a performer; every kid in the auditorium’s waving his/her arms back and forth and a glowing, blue, neon stick is shimmering in each one of their hands, creating a sight I immediately take a mental picture of to make sure I'd never forget. What are those blue things? Are they those sticks that you break in half that glow neon when activated? I can't tell. Then it hits me. They're cell phones. Every kid in the crowd has his/her cell phone window glowing iridescent colors, replacing the obsolete cigarette lighters of old. My brother-in-law holds up his lighter and is about to flick it, when some twelve year old girl, shooting him a very serious look, says, "Um, sir, we don't do that anymore." Dylan was right again.
I realized that at the very least, the one thing I left the school with that night was knowledge that couldn’t be taught in a classroom; that one teacher, armed with the gift of music and a generous spirit, can bring an entire community together just by being crazy enough to “put it out there” and see what happens.
That night there were no cliques, no insults being hurled, nobody getting beaten up outside by the "Green Hill", no teachers being patronizing toward students. Everyone was "gettin' their groove on" together, like one big Partridge Family. And, I couldn't help but think, the next time a problem arises with a classmate, when a temper may cause someone to do something they'd later regret, simply remembering the sight of their teacher singing Black Sabbath with them, might make them laugh instead. What more reason do we need for keeping music programs alive in our schools? Thank you, Howie.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Steven Tyler Accidentally Hits on Himself
Gazing into the full-length mirror left in the back of the room by a P.A. on a lunch break, Idol judge, Steven Tyler, accidentally took his own reflection for that of a prospective hopeful, and began complimenting the singer on his looks, his talent, and most of all, his "sexiness."
Fox is debating whether or not to run the as of yet, un-aired episode in which Tyler is heard cooing, "I can't find a single flaw on you. Even your wrinkles are sexy. My goosebumps are getting goosebumps."
Both J. Lo and Randy Jackson, Tyler's co-judges, tried to tell the googly-eyed rocker that he was talking to himself, but Tyler was lost in his own thought; going as far as to offer a ticket to Hollywood in exchange for his phone number. When the vision in the mirror accepted, Tyler proposed. Having been subjected to week after week of national humiliation, Erin Brady, Tyler's fiance, has reportedly been seen jogging up and down Simon Cowell's block in lingerie.
Idol producers are reportedly up in arms about the Aerosmith front-man using the show's audition process as his own personal dating site, and are believed to be actively seeking a replacement. Sources close to the show say exec. producer, Simon Fuller, is demanding this time they go in an entirely different direction, with a host who's known for his/her tact, grace, and lack of ego. Rumor has it the short list includes Snooki, Donald Trump, and Kim Kardashian.
Fox is debating whether or not to run the as of yet, un-aired episode in which Tyler is heard cooing, "I can't find a single flaw on you. Even your wrinkles are sexy. My goosebumps are getting goosebumps."
Both J. Lo and Randy Jackson, Tyler's co-judges, tried to tell the googly-eyed rocker that he was talking to himself, but Tyler was lost in his own thought; going as far as to offer a ticket to Hollywood in exchange for his phone number. When the vision in the mirror accepted, Tyler proposed. Having been subjected to week after week of national humiliation, Erin Brady, Tyler's fiance, has reportedly been seen jogging up and down Simon Cowell's block in lingerie.
Idol producers are reportedly up in arms about the Aerosmith front-man using the show's audition process as his own personal dating site, and are believed to be actively seeking a replacement. Sources close to the show say exec. producer, Simon Fuller, is demanding this time they go in an entirely different direction, with a host who's known for his/her tact, grace, and lack of ego. Rumor has it the short list includes Snooki, Donald Trump, and Kim Kardashian.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Patriot Fans Create Kickstarter Campaign to Build Tom Brady A Time Machine
It's one thing to lose the biggest game of your life in the final seconds when your team is on the verge of making history. It's another when it happens twice - to the same team... at the hands of the same guy. Add to that the "mission" to win one for the owner's beloved, recently deceased wife, the personal goal of vanquishing the demons from your psyche, thereby reaffirming your legacy as one of the greatest quarterbacks in the history of the sport, and, lest we forget, the bitter, century-old rivalry between the two cities participating, and you can say this was the biggest of big games.
Recognizing the disappointment suffered by their star quarterback, and terrified that, this time, he may never recover, several loyal-yet-delusional New England Patriot fans have created a campaign on Internet funding site, Kickstarter.com, with the hopes of raising enough money to build Tom Brady a desperately needed time machine.
The campaign is the brainchild of diehard Pat, Redsox, Cubs, and all-things-cursed-in-general fan, Charlie Wiggums, 29, of Worcester, Mass. Speaking in an accent which belies his intelligence, Wiggums, a peanut vendor at Gillette Stadium, stated,"Befaw ya go and say, 'Oh, daat's ludicrous. Ya can't build a time machine, numnuts. Dat's impossible.' Unduhstand, weah not lookin' ta build one to take us back to prehistawic times - of caws, dat's impossible. And, we'd get eaten by dinosaws. Weah just tawkin' about twenty-faw howas, heah. Just lawng enough ta get ah stah quawtahback da win he deserves. We figya we can do it faw about ten grand. My brawtha Tawmy's already out at Radio Shack scopin' fa pahts."
One of the first contributors, a doctor from Braintree, Mass who wished to remain anonymous, commented, "This is not happening. There's no way Manning did this to us again. And, if I have anything to do with it, he won't."
As an incentive, those who contribute $500 will receive a Super Bowl 46 championship jersey autographed by the entire Patriot team. Contribute $1000 and you get to ride with Brady in the transport.
The largest contribution, a donation of $5,000, came from Madonna.
Whether or not the campaign is a success, one has to admire the support, loyalty, and denial these great fans demonstrate toward their team and its crestfallen leader. A smaller campaign to "un-bitch" Bill Belichick from Tom Coughlin is also underway.
Prospective donors can visit www.kickstarter.com to contribute.
Recognizing the disappointment suffered by their star quarterback, and terrified that, this time, he may never recover, several loyal-yet-delusional New England Patriot fans have created a campaign on Internet funding site, Kickstarter.com, with the hopes of raising enough money to build Tom Brady a desperately needed time machine.
The campaign is the brainchild of diehard Pat, Redsox, Cubs, and all-things-cursed-in-general fan, Charlie Wiggums, 29, of Worcester, Mass. Speaking in an accent which belies his intelligence, Wiggums, a peanut vendor at Gillette Stadium, stated,"Befaw ya go and say, 'Oh, daat's ludicrous. Ya can't build a time machine, numnuts. Dat's impossible.' Unduhstand, weah not lookin' ta build one to take us back to prehistawic times - of caws, dat's impossible. And, we'd get eaten by dinosaws. Weah just tawkin' about twenty-faw howas, heah. Just lawng enough ta get ah stah quawtahback da win he deserves. We figya we can do it faw about ten grand. My brawtha Tawmy's already out at Radio Shack scopin' fa pahts."
One of the first contributors, a doctor from Braintree, Mass who wished to remain anonymous, commented, "This is not happening. There's no way Manning did this to us again. And, if I have anything to do with it, he won't."
As an incentive, those who contribute $500 will receive a Super Bowl 46 championship jersey autographed by the entire Patriot team. Contribute $1000 and you get to ride with Brady in the transport.
The largest contribution, a donation of $5,000, came from Madonna.
Whether or not the campaign is a success, one has to admire the support, loyalty, and denial these great fans demonstrate toward their team and its crestfallen leader. A smaller campaign to "un-bitch" Bill Belichick from Tom Coughlin is also underway.
Prospective donors can visit www.kickstarter.com to contribute.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)