Your Band (Name) Sucks

So I'm just sitting here as I do most Tuesday mornings, going through the new stuff on iTunes, and I have a question: Can we please stop the hipsterfication of alt music? I don't meant to impugn anyone's material as I already know that some of the bands I'm about to mention are pretty good, but a quick scan of the latest alternative releases available reads like a South Park parody of indie music band names.

Let's run down the bands who line the front page of the alternative section of iTunes right now:

Rah Rah, Ducktails, High Highs, BOY, Y La Bamba, Cave Painting, Wildlife Control, Skinny Lister, Spectral Park, Leagues, Big Harp, Blaudzun, Hey Ocean!, Bleeding Rainbow, Sleeping at Last, Air Review, Thao & the Get Down Stay Down.

I get that the hipster aesthetic dictates that your band name should generally be an inanimate, single-word object, two words picked out of a hat that make no sense at all together, or an opaque, strangely non-descriptive action that's so not a band name that it strikes exactly the right note of aloof irony (or, of course, the name of an animal). But I feel like bands these days are just trying to be elusive and weird simply for the sake of being elusive and weird.

Maybe I'm getting old.

I was going to say that I think I'll start a band and just call it "Noun" -- but of course that's already taken.

Grown Cold

I've got a hell of a lot on my plate at the moment, but before I dive into all the work I have to do this morning I figured I'd throw out a pretty random question I'd like an answer to: Am I the only one who doesn't care one bit about Coldplay anymore?

Now before anybody mouths off and says, "I always thought they were awful," please just cut it out. Parachutes was a damn good record and A Rush of Blood to the Head remains one of the best and unexpected pop releases of the last decade or so. The latter is the often dark, lovely and powerful work of a band really finding its footing and improving upon its debut by giant strides; it cemented Coldplay as the kind of band that wasn't merely going to be a flash in the pan. And to be fair, of course, they haven't been at all. They're huge. Massive. The new U2, if you believe a lot of network morning show hyperbole.

But here's the thing: They really kind of suck now.

The band's been on a downward trajectory since Rush, first with X & Y, which was a decent record but one that felt like a pale copy of its immediate predecessor. Then of course came Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends, an album whose name pretty much summed up what you were getting yourself into by listening to it and spelled out in no uncertain terms the kind of band Coldplay wanted to be: wildly pretentious and completely in love with their own bombastic art-rock self-importance. Yes, Viva La Vida was actually a damn good pop song, but the rest of the record was just -- meh.

And now we get Mylo Xyloto, released today. Again there's more soaring, more hollow grandiloquence, apparently more of the band in matching clothing (dear God) -- only this time around, if you can imagine it, the proceedings have been taken to a whole new stratospheric level because the record isn't simply sporting an obnoxious mouthful of a title, it's a 100% concept album. And what is the concept, you ask? Well, let's let Chris Martin (aka Mr. Gwyneth Paltrow, and the seeds of the problem could very well lie there) explain it to you. From Wikipedia:

"The album is 'based on a love story with a happy ending', in which two protagonists: Mylo and Xyloto, who are living in an oppressive, dystopian urban environment, meet one another through a gang called 'The Lost Boys', and fall in love."

Oh for Christ's sake.

Again, though, here's the thing: I'll bet that if I listened to it a few times I'd really grow to like it -- but I'm not willing to. And that's what I'm kind of trying to figure out -- how a band I once enjoyed so much now barely even summons a passing interest from me. I'm not the least bit excited about a new Coldplay record, and I'm not sure I ever will be again.

I mean, I like Rihanna -- I really do -- but could you ever have imagined Coldplay doing a duet with her?

Update: Interestingly, I hadn't seen this in today's Salon: "Why I Can't Hate Coldplay Anymore."

Quote of the Derp

"I like the idea of MGMT using their popularity to bring some new bands into the fold. And not just new bands but really nice sounding bands. I didn't hear of any of the other bands on this album but I gotta say that I really like them. For MGMT to vouch for all these guys it makes sense that they must meet their high musical standards which I suspect that they do."

-- Commenter Drew G. at iTunes, who rates the new MGMT release, Late Night Tales, at a full five stars

As Drew alluded to, the record is a compilation of music from some of MGMT's favorite bands and artists.

Included are tracks from the Velvet Underground, Julian Cope, the Durutti Column, Spacemen 3, Felt and the Chills.

Bored This Way

Lucas Kavner at the Huffington Post dissects the breathtaking silliness of last night's first ever "Best Video with a Message" award at the MTV Video Music Awards:

"Certainly there's nothing wrong with rewarding artists who release music based on personal convictions, but isn't that kind of par for the course? If, as MTV president (Stephen) Friedman said, he wanted to 'reward' these artists for digging into their personal experiences to create powerful songs, did we really need to point out exactly what message they were trying to get across?

The most powerful songs in history come from 'deeply personal' experiences. In fact, every original song is personal. The lyrics come from somebody's brain and are based around either specific or universal experiences and then, in turn, inspire personal feelings in the listener. That's... what a song is.

There's something oddly icky about MTV assigning more 'meaning' to a song, as if Katy Perry's pop anthem about personal empowerment, which netted her millions of dollars, contains as powerful a "message" as a song from a rock band whose lead singer lost his close friend. Do we need MTV telling us we shouldn't be 'mean' to other people? Does this even make sense anymore?

Somehow this category rivals even the lamest of MTV decisions in recent years, a strange pander to the most common denominator of superfluousness."

As Kavner points out, almost every video nominated for this great honor featured a "message" that was as comically trite as it was predictable, particularly in a year that saw the publicity surrounding the suicides of several supposedly bullied-to-desperation kids reach cacophonous levels. From Katy Perry to P!nk to Rise Against, the theme was the same: you're somebody, loser; please don't kill yourself; it gets better. In the end, of course, the song and video with the absolute least subtlety in its point won out: Lady GaGa's insipid and shamelessly derivative gay anthem Born This Way took the prize.

If I sound especially caustic, it's because I can't help but see this kind of thing as perfectly illustrative of the fact that we're now apparently trying to raise a generation without the ability to think for itself. When an engine of pop culture pabulum as egregious as MTV actually begins translating the meaning of songs for viewers and rewarding the ones that are the most obvious and not the least bit daring, you know that Generation Y -- or whatever the hell is following in its wake -- has one more reason to shut down its collective imagination. Personal inspiration gets trampled in the name of whatever democratized, prepackaged and Wiki-approved form of supposed creativity appeals to the largest and lowest common denominator.

Then again, does anybody really give a shit about the VMAs anymore? The irony of MTV continuing to hand out awards for music videos is pretty laughable; I play more videos on this site than MTV does these days. Somebody wake me when the YouTube/Vevo Awards become a reality.

Downed Boy

A fantastic -- and very sad -- little piece by the always unapologetically populist Chuck Klosterman on the death of Jani Lane.

Grantland: Klosterman Remembers Warrant's Jani Lane/8.12.11

All That You Can't Leave Behind

Both of my favorites are on this list -- All I Want Is You and Where the Streets Have No Name -- but I would've put them at two and one, respectively. Still, you look over these ten songs and realize that you're very lucky to have had this band in your life throughout most of it.

Rolling Stone: Readers Poll: The Best U2 Songs

DXM History Repeats: Music

Obviously, music has been a huge part of DXM since its birth five years ago this month. The Listening Posts that I put up just about every day give you a pretty good idea what's in heavy rotation on my iPod at any given moment as well as what my overall tastes are. But only once did I actually make it a point to go into detail about my strong opinions on the bands and artists I love (and a few that I don't). Since I'm going to see My Chemical Romance tonight, and this was written just a few weeks after the release of The Black Parade, I figured it was as good a time as any to bring it back. By the way, as this piece was written almost five years ago, I reserve the right to adjust or renounce some of the statements made in it. Times, tastes and views change, ya know?

"Shut Up, Listen, Learn" (Originally Published, 11.19.06)

Just about everyone has that moment.

It typically comes during the formative years and its sheer weight cannot be overstated, simply because -- upon reflection later in life -- it will always be held in the kind of esteem and spoken of with the kind of reverence typically reserved for a first kiss or a conversion to Christ. I'm speaking of course of that single, epiphanic event which inarguably determines if not the final outcome of your musical tastes, then at the very least the path that will be taken to eventually arrive at that point. It is the juncture which often decides whether you'll spend entire evenings passionately arguing the merits of the new Secret Machines album, or debating the necessity of Muse's existence were it not for the fact that Radiohead doesn't write actual songs anymore -- or think to yourself that you might pick up that new Mariah Carey record at some point. Whether you'll seduce a potential lover with a mix playlist that includes Jeff Buckley, Marvin Gaye, Zero 7 and Protection-era Massive Attack, then inevitably have mind-blowing sex with that person to the Deftones' Change (in the House of Flies) -- or half-heartedly try to decide between Kenny G and Enigma should you actually convince someone of the opposite sex to spend an evening with you in a manner that doesn't involve chloroform and a tube-sock.

To put it simply, it will decide whether or not you suck.

As I sit here typing these words, I'm listening to the new Army of Anyone record. For the unfamiliar, the band features the DeLeo brothers (formerly of Stone Temple Pilots) and Richard Patrick (lead singer of Filter). It's the kind of album which will in no way align the planets, but as good, melodic rock records go, it more than serves its purpose. I owe the fact that this is currently being played in my home to one person, and one person only. His name is Robert Rivero. I haven't seen him since the sixth grade, which is coincidentally the same year I met him.

Up until the point that Robert Rivero entered my life, my music had come from the same source as my Toughskins jeans: Sears. And as with those jeans, the authority deciding the specifics of what I would be listening to was my mother. Thankfully, my mother had pretty decent taste in music -- when it came to what she herself listened to. With the exception of the sage purchase of Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album, however, the music she foisted upon me showed no such keen judgment. In fact, as I think back to a small stack of records that included Leo Sayer, Abba and a pre-ironically hip Bee-Gees, I realize that my mother owes her current freedom only to that era's liberal child abuse laws.

When Robert Rivero stumbled into class on the first day of school in 1979, however -- eyes mere bloodshot slits, dressed in the ubiquitous stoner uniform of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, torn jeans and suede chukka-boots -- everything changed. He and I became friends quickly and within a month or so, much to my parents' abject horror, Robert was influencing everything from the way I looked and acted to, most importantly, what I listened to. In an ultimately pathetic vision-quest to be more Rivero-like, I would put my allowance toward the purchase of vinyl and beg regularly to be chauffeured to the mall to pick up AC/DC's Highway to Hell or Sabbath's Paranoid. I had fantasies of running into Abba on the street and setting them on fire in an effort to demonstrate my unwavering allegiance to Jimmy Page and, by proxy, Satan.

The irony, however, is that it was through the attempt to emulate someone else that I learned to make my own decisions; it was through an influential kinship with someone my own age that I learned to develop tastes and appreciations that were independent of my parents. It also, as I mentioned before and can't stress enough, started me down the passionate musical road which I continue traveling to this day.

The titular "Highway to Hell," perhaps.

About a month ago, I voiced my considerable like for the new My Chemical Romance album, The Black Parade. That opinion still stands -- in fact, after repeated listens I can honestly say that I like it even more than I did when I first wrote about it. As that post was quick and to the point -- as opposed to some which are long, rambling and take forever to make their point, like this one for instance -- I didn't expect much in the way of reaction. I was wrong. Given the responses that I received, both on the comment page and via e-mail, you would've thought that I had suggested replacing every other noun in the pledge of allegiance with the words "pee-pee pants." What surprised me most was the implication by many that the enjoyment of MCR was somehow beneath me -- that it was unexpected for someone who considers himself an independent thinker to support a band that was so obviously populist.

And that's what led me to feel the need to make my musical tastes clear.

My first job in broadcasting was as a DJ at WVUM, the radio station at the University of Miami. Before finding my place as the host of a show which was essentially talk and opinion, I made the rounds in the general DJ pool, where I played a combination of my own choices and the songs and bands which the program director had deemed worthy of broadcast. I'll probably make my first pro-mainstream statement regarding my likes and dislikes (aside from my MCR jones of course) by saying that most of what the program director picked was shit. In fact, most of what's played on college radio in general -- then and now -- is shit. Although there are many fantastic bands on tiny labels which certainly deserve to be heard, there are three times as many bands that are on tiny labels with good goddamned reason. A message for college radio kids: Playing bands that are so far underground that they've never even heard of themselves doesn't make you cool, it makes you desperate to appear cool, which in turn makes you suck.

Likewise, abandoning a band simply because they evolve, get a major-label deal, or suddenly achieve some measure of success merely shows that you weren't half as interested in the band as you were in how the band made you feel about yourself. Once again, this makes you suck.

I look at music the way I look at politics: If an equal number of people from both sides of the aisle -- in this case, the pop-lovers and the indie kids -- hold you in the same disdain, you're probably doing something right.

So, without further ado -- and in appropriate stream-of-consciousness fashion -- here's the music that I love and hate...


My three "desert island" albums are, in no particular order: Radiohead's OK Computer, Jeff Buckley's Grace, and Coltrane's A Love Supreme. Buckley's Grace contains probably the most beautiful song -- and certainly best cover -- ever recorded: Hallelujah. OK Computer meanwhile could be the best rock album of the 90s (yes, better than Nirvana's Nevermind). Although Nirvana are a vastly more important band than the Foo Fighters, they are not, in fact, a better band; when their bodies of work are compared side-by-side, Foo Fighters are an infinitely better band. There's a reason that pop music is pop music: it's pleasing to the ear; as such, I'd rather truly enjoy Neil Young's gorgeous Harvest Moon album than have to trudge my way through his nauseatingly self-indulgent Arc album, which consists of nothing but noise. Most modern hip-hop is little more than noise -- unlistenable noise being shouted by ignorant Neanderthals with a lot of money, and I'd gladly give up the brilliant work of Mos Def, The Roots, Public Enemy, Outkast, A Tribe Called Quest, Ice T, Slick Rick, the Beastie Boys and others if it meant that the cultural virus known as today's rap could be completely eradicated. If you think this is racist, you're probably a tool. Tool is one of the best and most instrumentally complex bands in the world right now, however, song-for-song I prefer A Perfect Circle. Perfect Circle is R.E.M.'s best song from Michael Stipe's pre-intelligible stage; Sweetness Follows is their best post-intelligible song. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People is one of the 10 best albums of the 1990s. Matthew Sweet's Girlfriend is one of the top 25 albums of the 1990s, despite containing only three really great songs. Every Matthew Sweet album contains only three great songs, tops, but those songs are typically better than other artists' entire discographies. People who claim that vinyl is better than compact disc or digital music should be treated with leeches and trepanation the next time they get sick. AC/DC should've broken up after Bon Scott died from choking on his own vomit. I'll never forgive Rick Rubin for turning the Cult into a latter-day AC/DC on their worthless Electric album. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's Howl album, although brilliant, should've come from another band; their original incarnation, doing Jesus & Mary Chainian psychedelia, filled a much-needed hole in the musical landscape. BRMC -- then and now -- are one of the coolest bands on the planet; the others that come to mind are Girls Against Boys, Queens of the Stone Age, and the Dandy Warhols. I'm in love with the Dandys' Zia McCabe, and not just because she occasionally performs topless. Liz Phair's old material is great. Liz Phair's new material is average. Whether Liz Phair's material is great or average doesn't matter, because there's no one in rock n' roll that I'd more like to have sex with. Gwen Stefani used to be both adorable and the singer for a really decent band, No Doubt -- she's now a hip-hop anime character. Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl is one of the worst songs in the history of recorded music; it makes me wish I'd been born deaf. Fergalicious by Fergie is equally bad. Jennifer Lopez's disappearance from the music business is proof that there may in fact be a benevolent god. Despite the underlying Christian message of their music, Switchfoot are actually a pretty likable band. You can like a band's music but hate the band itself (Good Charlotte). You can like a band but hate their music (Happy Mondays). Oasis are music's biggest assholes who also write great songs; they also have the distinction of being the only band whose b-sides are actually better, by and large, than the material on their albums. The Red Hot Chili Peppers may be the last great rock n' roll band with any kind of longevity. U2 may very well contradict my last statement. Upon further reflection, yes, Green Day's American Idiot was that good. Billy Joel has recorded more phenomenal music than any other single artist working right now; although The Nylon Curtain is his best album, Zanzibar is his most underrated song. Cheap Trick are rock's most underrated band. The Grateful Dead are rock's most overrated band. I never get tired of hearing the Stones' Gimme Shelter, the New Pornographers' Use It, Crazy Town & Orgy's Black Cloud, Gnarls Barkley's Crazy, Fiona Apple's Sullen Girl, and Zero 7's Destiny (or the entire Simple Things album for that matter). I got tired of hearing the White Stripes midway through their debut album and actually believe that Jack White's new band, The Raconteurs, write better songs. No one is better than Tom Waits. Elvis Presley has always been overrated. Elvis Costello cannot be overrated. Somehow, New Order released their best album two decades into their career; Get Ready is shockingly good. There is nothing, NOTHING, better than a playlist which includes Coltrane, Monk, Mingus, Miles, Brubeck and Jimmy Scott. The same goes for one that includes Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding and Curtis Mayfield. The one and only Disposable Heroes of Hip-Hoprisy album almost contradicts what I said earlier about hip-hop. Generally speaking, both blues and funk are types of music played by brilliant musicians who can't write a song for shit. Faux-punk music would probably be tolerable if it didn't try to bill itself as punk. When Avril Lavigne was labeled "punk," Joe Strummer, in a final show of defiance, died.

Sid Vicious was an idiot; Johnny Rotten was anything but. The Pistols were gods regardless. Every night I thank God for Henry Rollins. I want Debussy to be the last thing I hear before I die; Clair de Lune is perfection. I want Nine Inch Nails to be the last thing I hear before I kill; The Fragile is a masterpiece. I loathe Missy Elliott. I miss Elliott Smith. I miss Husker Du. I miss the Replacements. I miss the Smashing Pumpkins while simultaneously not missing Billy Corgan. I will never, NEVER, be able to figure out why Jonatha Brooke isn't huge; stop reading this immediately and buy everything she's ever released. I will never be able to figure out why Ken Andrews isn't huge; buy the Year of the Rabbit album immediately. Abandoned Pools are the best band you've never heard of, besides possibly The Start. David Baerwald's A Secret Silken World is the best song you've never heard. Sloan rule. I believe that the Sneaker Pimps are actually better without Kelli Ali. I believe that Brian Warner/Marilyn Manson is a fucking genius. I believe that Charlie Benante of Anthrax can drum circles around Lars Ulrich of Metallica. Buddy Rich can drum circles around both of them. Greg Dulli has never sung a bad song, whether it's a cover or an original -- whether he's fronting the Afghan Whigs, the Twilight Singers or solo. Surprisingly, Motley Crue's cover of the Tubes' White Punks on Dope isn't half bad. Unsurprisingly, Motley Crue's cover of Street Fighting Man is terrible. There has never been a good reggaeton song, and there never will be. Madonna should be killed on principle. Killing Joke's Night Time album is probably still my favorite record of the 80s. The Killing Moon from Echo & the Bunnymen is probably the best song of the 80s. The Cure was always better than the Smiths. You can tell a lot about a person by his or her preference in Cure material: my favorite Cure songs are Burn from The Crow soundtrack, The Kiss, and anything from Disintegration; I have no use for Friday I'm in Love. I loved Gang of Four the first time around, which is why I can't take two seconds of the wholly derivative crap that Franz Ferdinand churns out. Sometimes it isn't about the music, so much as where it takes you when you listen to it -- this is why I can listen to Trespassers William's Different Stars album and Thievery Corporation's The Mirror Conspiracy over and over again. Liam Howlett should've kept Prodigy intact. Big Audio Dynamite and Faith No More are both vastly underrated, and contributed more to the sound of modern music than anyone willingly gives them credit for. 1992 was the last truly great year for music. Were it not for the greatness of Pearl Jam, the death of Andrew Wood and the collapse of Mother Love Bone would have been one of the biggest losses to rock n' roll ever. Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash were too fucking cool to live. Prince, David Bowie, Trent Reznor and possibly Todd Rundgren may be the only musical geniuses still living. Perry Farrell isn't half the musical genius he thinks he is. Ritual de lo Habitual was Jane's Addiction's best album; their last album Strays was a good rock album, but not a good Jane's Addiction album. Ministry's Psalm 69 is the best non-metal metal album ever recorded. John Doe's Meet John Doe is the best non-country country album ever recorded. Everything you've heard about Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is true. Lou Barlow is indeed the King of Sadness. Steely Dan's Deacon Blues is one of the coolest songs ever recorded; Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street is as well, if for no other reason than the first note of one of the best and most understated guitar solos around. Five strings, ten fingers, countless great songs, one name: Van Halen. Earth, Wind & Fire are gods. Joni Mitchell's Blue is beautiful beyond words. Duncan Sheik has a place in my heart for covering Joni Mitchell's Court & Spark, Jeff Buckley's masterpiece, Lover, You Should've Come Over, and Radiohead's gorgeous Fake Plastic Trees. Nessun Dorma, from Turandot -- particularly when sung by Pavarotti -- always makes me cry, ALWAYS. The Beatles were, in fact, the best band in music history.

Yes, the new My Chemical Romance album is fucking great.

And no, I will never be able to repay Robert Rivero.

Animal Corrective

I'll make this really quick.

Can indie bands please declare a moratorium on giving themselves animal names?

Jesus, there's Deerhunter, Crocodiles, Grizzly Bear, Fleet Foxes, Tame Impala, Wolfmother, Owl City (whose breakout single was Fireflies), Panda Bear (who's a member of Animal Collective), Foals, the Mountain Goats, Caribou, Wolf Parade -- and that barely scratches the surface.

I get that animal names have been popular for decades (Meet the Beatles), but it's almost a bad cliché that if you want to instantly appeal to the faux-esoteric hipster crowd all you have to do is slap some name on yourself or your project that makes it sound like you're not just into protecting the woods -- you're into shitting in them.

You know, now that I think about it there is a Swiss ska band called Open Season. Can we arm them?

Blow Job

The pop songs occasionally slipped into the outros and rejoins of CNN's various newscasts have apparently become the dominion of the most subversive among the network's staff. Just about everyone remembers the time back in May of this year when Kyra Phillips was forced to apologize on-air after CNN ran a story about a 104-year-old driver, who happened to be black, and played Coolio's Fantastic Voyage on the way to break -- specifically the part where he raps, "Ain't no punk-ass niggas set trippin'."

Well, this morning on American Morning, CNN bumped in with images of snow and used as a music bed -- wait for it -- Buckcherry's Lit Up. Complete with the line, "I'm on a plane, with cocaine."

Different kind of snow there, guys. But thanks for the laugh.

Oh, and then of course there's this inexplicable bit of hilarity.

I Heard the Balls on Christmas Day

Last year, I pleaded with parents and fans of decent music everywhere to take away the cellphones and computers of 'tweens in an effort to ensure that David Cook took the American Idol crown from willowy little frump David Archuleta.

The idea was twofold: to take a stand for decent music and at least relatively honest talent, and to put a steel-toed boot down on the neck of the 'tween hive-mind juggernaut that had basically taken the breadth of the pop culture landscape hostage.

I thought it was a pretty entertaining way to pass the time: casually crushing the dreams of a bunch of kids who were gonna eventually have to learn that life sucks anyway.

But my idea was amateur hour compared to the stroke of subversive genius a bunch of music fans just pulled in Britain.

The Huffington Post: Rage Against the Machine's Killing in the Name Takes Christmas #1 Spot in UK, Beating Reality TV Star's Cover of Miley Cyrus Song/12.21.09

If you've seen the movie Love, Actually, you get an idea how this works: Each year there's a battle for the top of the singles chart in Britain -- which is determined exclusively by the buying public -- to coincide with Christmas week. Almost every time, the winner is some manner of syrupy, inoffensive pop schlock like the Spice Girls or one of Simon Cowell's little creations that he spawned in a vat in the basement of his mansion. Well, this time around a couple of very clever Rage fans got on Facebook and started an organized campaign to use one of the most incendiary singles in modern rock history (come on, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" shouted over and over again?) to play a Project Mayhem-style prank on Christmas, Disney-approved pre-packaged pop and the eardrums of polite British society.

And it fucking worked.

Bravo, guys. I bow to you.

Now if you can just get Rage to play the song live from a boat on the Thames as it floats by during the Queen's Jubilee celebration, you'll be set.

Speaking of which, while I love every second of this, it doesn't change the fact that Rage Against the Machine -- a band that can admittedly be credited with recording some great stuff -- are basically still a bunch of pompous jackasses. Just read this hilariously over-the-top quote thanking their fans for making their big win on the British charts possible:

"This is a huge victory by and for fans of real music and we extend our heartfelt thanks to every fan and freedom fighter who helped make our anthem of defiance and rebellion the Anarchy Christmas Miracle of 2009."

Yup, that sounds like Rage. The people who got involved probably think of themselves as average folks who just got sick of hearing treacly crap at Christmas and spent a dollar or two to stick it to the Simon Cowell reality TV hit machine; to Zach and Company, they're Sandinistas coming out of the hills armed with AKs and wearing red armbands.

Sure, they could be kidding -- but when was the last time you heard Rage Against the Machine joke about anything?

The Twilight Singers

I didn't get the chance to thank everyone who stepped up and contributed as we wrapped up the big Spring Pledge Drive a couple of weeks ago. Honestly, you guys are fantastic and it really humbled me to know that so many people give a crap about this site -- enough to actually dip into their pockets and donate a little of their hard-earned money to it.

One of the ways a lot of people helped out was by buying a copy of my memoir, Dead Star Twilight. So, with that in mind, I thought I'd bring back one of my favorite "accessories" to the book -- namely, the soundtrack. As anyone who's read DST knows, I mention quite a few songs and bands within the story -- mostly, music I happened to be listening to at the time. Well, to complement the book and help readers know just what songs I was talking about -- as well to set the appropriate mood -- I put together an iTunes playlist a while back with all the music from Dead Star Twilight. Like I said, an unofficial "soundtrack."

What follows is the actual playlist from the book as well as a bonus playlist of stuff I was either listening to while writing or music I just kind of thought fit the overall tone of the story. Hope you enjoy it, and hope it makes the experience of reading my little memoir that much better.

Music (for a Film)

If anyone's qualified to create a list like this, it's Cameron Crowe.

Unfortunately, he's too humble to include all those moments from his own movies. My God -- In Your Eyes in Say Anything, Crown of Thorns in Singles, Tiny Dancer in Almost Famous, Everything in Its Right Place and Sweetness Follows in Vanilla Sky, it goes on and on.

Empire: "Cameron Crowe's Top 10 (or So) Music Moments in Film/5.18.09

Tuesday is Recycling Day

"Shut Up. Listen. Learn." (Originally Published, 11.19.06)

Just about everyone has that moment.

It typically comes during the formative years, and its sheer weight cannot be overstated, simply because -- upon reflection later in life -- it will always be held in the kind of esteem and spoken of with the kind of reverence typically reserved for a first kiss or a conversion to Christ. I'm speaking of course of that single, epiphanic event which inarguably determines if not the final outcome of your musical tastes, then at the very least the path that will be taken to eventually arrive at that point. It is the juncture which often decides whether you'll spend entire evenings passionately arguing the merits of the new Secret Machines album, or debating the necessity of Muse's existence were it not for the fact that Radiohead doesn't write actual songs anymore -- or think to yourself that you might pick up that new Mariah Carey record at some point; whether you'll seduce a potential lover with a mix playlist that includes Jeff Buckley, Marvin Gaye, Zero 7 and Protection-era Massive Attack, then inevitably have mind-blowing sex with that person to the Deftones' Change (in the House of Flies) -- or half-heartedly try to decide between Kenny G and Enigma should you actually convince someone of the opposite sex to spend an evening with you in a manner that doesn't involve chloroform and a tube-sock.

To put it simply, it will decide whether or not you suck.

As I sit here typing these words, I'm listening to the new Army of Anyone record. For the unfamiliar, the band features the DeLeo brothers (formerly of Stone Temple Pilots) and Richard Patrick (lead singer of Filter). It's the kind of album which will in no way align the planets, but as good, melodic rock records go, it more than serves its purpose. I owe the fact that this is currently being played in my home to one person, and one person only. His name is Robert Rivero. I haven't seen him since the sixth grade, which is coincidentally the same year I met him.

Up until the point that Robert Rivero entered my life, my music had come from the same source as my Toughskins jeans -- Sears. And as with those jeans, the authority deciding the specifics of what I would be listening to was my mother. Thankfully, my mother had pretty decent taste in music -- when it came to what she herself listened to. With the exception of the sage purchase of Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album however, the music she foisted upon me showed no such keen judgment. In fact, as I think back to a small stack of records that included Leo Sayer, Abba and a pre-ironically-hip Bee-Gees, I realize that my mother owes her current freedom only to that era's liberal child abuse laws.

When Robert Rivero stumbled into class on the first day of school in 1979 however -- eyes mere bloodshot slits, dressed in the ubiquitous stoner uniform of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, torn jeans and suede chukka-boots -- everything changed. He and I made friends quickly and within a month or so, much to my parents' abject horror, Robert was influencing everything from the way I looked and acted to, most importantly, what I listened to. In an ultimately pathetic vision-quest to be more Rivero-like, I would put my allowance toward the purchase of vinyl and beg regularly to be chauffeured to the mall to pick up AC/DC's Highway to Hell or Sabbath's Paranoid. I had fantasies of running into Abba on the street and setting them on fire in an effort to demonstrate my unwavering allegiance to Jimmy Page, and -- by proxy -- Satan.

The irony however, is that it was through the attempt to emulate someone else that I learned to make my own decisions; it was through an influential kinship with someone my own age that I learned to develop tastes and appreciations that were independent of my parents. It also, as I mentioned before and can't stress enough, started me down the passionate musical road which I continue traveling to this day.

The titular "Highway to Hell" perhaps.

About a month ago, I voiced my considerable like for the new My Chemical Romance album The Black Parade. That opinion still stands -- in fact, after repeated listens I can honestly say that I like it even more than I did when I first wrote about it. As that post was quick and to the point -- as opposed to some which are long, rambling and take forever to make their point, like this one for instance -- I didn't expect much in the way of reaction. I was wrong. Given the responses that I received, both on the comment page and via e-mail, you would've thought that I had suggested replacing every other noun in the pledge of allegiance with the words "pee-pee pants." What surprised me most was the implication by many that the enjoyment of MCR was somehow beneath me -- that it was unexpected for someone who considers himself an independent thinker to support a band that was so obviously populist.

And that's what led me to feel the need to make my musical tastes clear.

My first job in broadcasting was as a DJ at WVUM, the radio station at the University of Miami. Before finding my place as the host of a show which was essentially talk and opinion, I made the rounds in the general DJ pool, where I played a combination of my own choices and the songs and bands which the program director had deemed worthy of broadcast. I'll probably make my first pro-mainstream statement regarding my likes and dislikes (aside from my MCR jones of course) by saying that most of what the program director picked was shit. In fact, most of what's played on college radio in general -- then and now -- is shit. Although there are many fantastic bands on tiny labels which certainly deserve to be heard, there are three times as many bands that are on tiny labels with good goddamned reason. A message for college radio kids: playing bands that are so far underground that they've never even heard of themselves doesn't make you cool, it makes you desperate to appear cool, which in turn makes you suck.

Likewise, abandoning a band simply because they evolve, get a major-label deal, or suddenly achieve some measure of success merely shows that you weren't half as interested in the band as you were in how the band made you feel about yourself. Once again, this makes you suck.

I look at music the way I look at politics: if an equal number of people from both sides of the aisle -- in this case, the pop-lovers and the indie kids -- hold you in the same disdain, you're probably doing something right.

So, without further ado -- and in appropriate stream-of-consciousness fashion -- here's the music that I love and hate...


My three "desert island" albums are, in no particular order: Radiohead's OK Computer, Jeff Buckley's Grace, and Coltrane's A Love Supreme. Buckley's Grace contains probably the most beautiful song -- and certainly best cover -- ever recorded: Hallelujah. OK Computer meanwhile could be the best rock album of the 90s (yes, better than Nirvana's Nevermind). Although Nirvana are a vastly more important band than the Foo Fighters, they are not, in fact, a better band; when their bodies of work are compared side-by-side, Foo Fighters are an infinitely better band. There's a reason that pop music is pop music: it's pleasing to the ear; as such, I'd rather truly enjoy Neil Young's gorgeous Harvest Moon album than have to trudge my way through his nauseatingly self-indulgent Arc album, which consists of nothing but noise. Most modern hip-hop is little more than noise -- unlistenable noise being shouted by ignorant Neanderthals with a lot of money, and I'd gladly give up the brilliant work of Mos Def, The Roots, Public Enemy, Outkast, A Tribe Called Quest, Ice T, Slick Rick, the Beastie Boys and others if it meant that the cultural virus known as today's rap could be completely eradicated. If you think this is racist, you're probably a tool. Tool is one of the best and most instrumentally complex bands in the world right now, however, song-for-song I prefer A Perfect Circle. Perfect Circle is R.E.M.'s best song from Michael Stipe's pre-intelligible stage; Sweetness Follows is their best post-intelligible song. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People is one of the 10 best albums of the 1990s. Matthew Sweet's Girlfriend is one of the top 25 albums of the 1990s, despite containing only three really great songs. Every Matthew Sweet album contains only three great songs, tops, but those songs are typically better than other artists' entire discographies. People who claim that vinyl is better than compact disc or digital music should be treated with leeches and trepanation the next time they get sick. AC/DC should've broken up after Bon Scott died from choking on his own vomit. I'll never forgive Rick Rubin for turning the Cult into a latter-day AC/DC on their worthless Electric album. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's Howl album, although brilliant, should've come from another band; their original incarnation, doing Jesus & Mary Chainian psychedelia, filled a much-needed hole in the musical landscape. BRMC -- then and now -- are one of the coolest bands on the planet; the others that come to mind are Girls Against Boys, Queens of the Stone Age, and the Dandy Warhols. I'm in love with the Dandys' Zia McCabe, and not just because she occasionally performs topless. Liz Phair's old material is great. Liz Phair's new material is average. Whether Liz Phair's material is great or average doesn't matter, because there's no one in rock n' roll that I'd more like to have sex with. Gwen Stefani used to be both adorable and the singer for a really decent band, No Doubt -- she's now a hip-hop anime character. Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl is one of the worst songs in the history of recorded music; it makes me wish I'd been born deaf. Fergalicious by Fergie is equally bad. Jennifer Lopez's disappearance from the music business is proof that there may in fact be a benevolent god. Despite the underlying Christian message of their music, Switchfoot are actually a pretty likable band. You can like a band's music but hate the band itself (Good Charlotte). You can like a band but hate their music (Happy Mondays). Oasis are music's biggest assholes who also write great songs; they also have the distinction of being the only band whose b-sides are actually better, by and large, than the material on their albums. The Red Hot Chili Peppers may be the last great rock n' roll band with any kind of longevity. U2 may very well contradict my last statement. Upon further reflection, yes, Green Day's American Idiot was that good. Billy Joel has recorded more phenomenal music than any other single artist working right now; although The Nylon Curtain is his best album, Zanzibar is his most underrated song. Cheap Trick are rock's most underrated band. The Grateful Dead are rock's most overrated band. I never get tired of hearing the Stones' Gimme Shelter, the New Pornographers' Use It, Crazy Town & Orgy's Black Cloud, Gnarls Barkley's Crazy, Fiona Apple's Sullen Girl, and Zero 7's Destiny (or the entire Simple Things album for that matter). I got tired of hearing the White Stripes midway through their debut album and actually believe that Jack White's new band, The Raconteurs, are far better. No one is better than Tom Waits. Elvis Presley has always been overrated. Elvis Costello cannot be overrated. Somehow, New Order released their best album two decades into their career; Get Ready is shockingly good. There is nothing, NOTHING, better than a playlist which includes Coltrane, Monk, Mingus, Miles, Brubeck and Jimmy Scott. The one and only Disposable Heroes of Hip-Hoprisy album almost contradicts what I said earlier about hip-hop. Generally speaking, both blues and funk are types of music played by brilliant musicians who can't write a song for shit. Faux-punk music would probably be tolerable if it didn't try to bill itself as punk. When Avril Lavigne was labeled "punk," Joe Strummer, in a final show of defiance, died. Sid Vicious was an idiot; Johnny Rotten was anything but. The Pistols were gods regardless. Every night I thank God for Henry Rollins. I want Debussy to be the last thing I hear before I die; Clair de Lune is perfection. I want Nine Inch Nails to be the last thing I hear before I kill; The Fragile is a masterpiece. I loathe Missy Elliott. I miss Elliott Smith. I miss Husker Du. I miss the Replacements. I miss the Smashing Pumpkins while simultaneously not missing Billy Corgan. I will never, NEVER, be able to figure out why Jonatha Brooke isn't huge; stop reading this immediately and buy everything she's ever released. I will never be able to figure out why Ken Andrews isn't huge; buy the Year of the Rabbit album immediately. Abandoned Pools are the best band you've never heard of, besides possibly The Start. David Baerwald's A Secret Silken World is the best song you've never heard. Sloan rule. I believe that the Sneaker Pimps are actually better without Kelli Ali. I believe that Brian Warner/Marilyn Manson is a fucking genius. I believe that Charlie Benante of Anthrax can drum circles around Lars Ulrich of Metallica. Buddy Rich can drum circles around both of them. Greg Dulli has never sung a bad song, whether it's a cover or an original -- whether he's fronting the Afghan Whigs, the Twilight Singers or solo. Surprisingly, Motley Crue's cover of the Tubes' White Punks on Dope isn't half bad. Unsurprisingly, Motley Crue's cover of Street Fighting Man is terrible. There has never been a good reggaeton song, and there never will be. Madonna should be killed on principle. Killing Joke's Night Time album is probably still my favorite record of the 80s. The Killing Moon from Echo & the Bunnymen is probably the best song of the 80s. The Cure was always better than the Smiths. You can tell a lot about a person by his or her preference in Cure material: my favorite Cure songs are Burn from The Crow soundtrack, The Kiss, and anything from Disintegration; I have no use for Friday I'm in Love. I loved Gang of Four the first time around, which is why I can't take two seconds of the wholly derivative crap that Franz Ferdinand churns out. Sometimes it isn't about the music, so much as where it takes you when you listen to it -- this is why I can listen to Trespassers William's Different Stars album and Thievery Corporation's The Mirror Conspiracy over and over again. Liam Howlett should've kept Prodigy intact. Big Audio Dynamite and Faith No More are both vastly underrated, and contributed more to the sound of modern music than anyone willingly gives them credit for. 1992 was the last truly great year for music. Were it not for the greatness of Pearl Jam, the death of Andrew Wood and the collapse of Mother Love Bone would have been one of the biggest losses to rock n' roll ever. Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash were too fucking cool to live. Prince, David Bowie, Trent Reznor and possibly Todd Rundgren may be the only musical geniuses still living. Perry Farrell isn't half the musical genius he thinks he is. Ritual de lo Habitual was Jane's Addiction's best album; their last album Strays was a good rock album, but not a good Jane's Addiction album. Ministry's Psalm 69 is the best non-metal metal album ever recorded. John Doe's Meet John Doe is the best non-country country album ever recorded. Everything you've heard about Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is true. Lou Barlow is indeed the King of Sadness. Steely Dan's Deacon Blues is one of the coolest songs ever recorded; Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street is as well, if for no other reason than the first note of one of the best and most understated guitar solos around. Five strings, ten fingers, countless great songs, one name: Van Halen. Earth, Wind & Fire are gods. Joni Mitchell's Blue is beautiful beyond words. Duncan Sheik has a place in my heart for covering Joni Mitchell's Court & Spark, Jeff Buckley's masterpiece, Lover, You Should've Come Over, and Radiohead's gorgeous Fake Plastic Trees. Nessun Dorma, from Turandot -- particularly when sung by Pavarotti -- always makes me cry, ALWAYS. The Beatles were, in fact, the best band in music history.

Yes, the new My Chemical Romance album is fucking great.

And no, I will never be able to repay Robert Rivero.

Pay to Play

A few weeks back, Warner Music Group made the mind-boggling decision to remove the music of every artist in its considerable stable from YouTube. Right off the bat, this seemed like a shockingly short-sighted idea, and I said as much:

"YouTube -- not to mention anyone who pulls a video from there and places it on his or her own website -- isn't receiving a service so much as providing one: Each time I post a music video here, I'm publicizing that band and hopefully encouraging people to go out and buy its music. For this, I receive no compensation from the record company; I do it out of a true passion for the music and the artist. What Warner Bros. and its artists have with YouTube is a genuinely symbiotic relationship; each side is benefiting equally.

But of course, Warner and most of the other dinosaur-like behemoths in the recording industry -- including the RIAA -- don't see it that way. They can't. They still think in terms of protecting their fiefdoms at all costs by stringently dictating how the music of their artists is distributed. They believe that any use of their music constitutes them doing somebody a favor when, in reality, it's often exactly the opposite.

In the end, you the music lover are going to suffer a hell of a lot less than the bands you won't be able to see and hear."

You had to kind of figure going into it that the eventual result of this draconian tactic would be that you wouldn't be able to find music from Warner artists anywhere on the internet for free.

And that's exactly what's happened.

Don't believe me? Try looking for the new video from one of Warner's most popular and profitable bands: My Chemical Romance. Director Zack Synder personally helmed the video for the band's damn cool cover of Dylan's Desolation Row, from the Watchmen soundtrack. But if you want to see the entire clip, not just a 30 second teaser for it, you have to pay for it on iTunes. This marks a sea change in the way music videos are perceived by the record companies producing them: With the ability to download and watch clips over and over again on portable platforms like the iPod, what were once promotional items manufactured to help sell albums are now actual products unto themselves. The problem of course is that while Warner will almost certainly make a few extra dollars in the short term by charging fans to see the entire Desolation Row video, it loses the ability to flood the market with free hype for the band's single, the full album, and the band itself. Add to that, in ironic "Who Watches the Watchmen" fashion, the question of exactly who at Warner is deciding which bands get the teaser treatment and which are deemed too under the radar to hold over the head of the music-buying public like a carrot on a stick, and you've got a slippery slope that will almost surely send a few unfortunate artists skidding downhill into oblivion.

And that will cost Warner a hell of a lot of money in the long run -- as well as deprive quite a few good acts from finding the audience they deserve.

Erase the Music

There's almost no better proof of how little the old school media giants understand the non-linear thinking of new media than the fact that Universal Music Group refuses to allow videos from its artists to be embedded into blogs and third-person websites.

Well, there was no better proof -- until Warner Bros. decided to pull all of its music from YouTube.

That amounts to hundreds of thousands of videos.

It's making the move because contract negotiations broke down with Google over content sharing. In an official statement, Warner said:

"We simply cannot accept terms that fail to appropriately and fairly compensate recording artists, songwriters, labels and publishers for the value they provide."

Except of course that YouTube -- not to mention anyone who pulls a video from there and places it on his or her own website -- isn't receiving a service so much as providing one: Each time I post a music video here, I'm publicizing that band and hopefully encouraging people to go out and buy its music. For this, I receive no compensation from the record company; I do it out of a true passion for the music and the artist. What Warner Bros. and its artists have with YouTube is a genuinely symbiotic relationship; each side is benefiting equally.

But of course, Warner and most of the other dinosaur-like behemoths in the recording industry -- including the RIAA -- don't see it that way. They can't. They still think in terms of protecting their fiefdoms at all costs by stringently dictating how the music of their artists is distributed. They believe that any use of their music constitutes them doing somebody a favor when, in reality, it's often exactly the opposite.

In the end, you the music lover are going to suffer a hell of a lot less than the bands you won't be able to see and hear.

Listening Post

In honor of yesterday's story about the old guys who sit on the corner up the street from my apartment, drinking the day away -- here's one of my favorite songs from one of the most underappreciated bands, well, pretty much ever.

It's Dramarama, with Work for Food.

Listening Post

Sneaker Pimps' 2002 album Bloodsport is one of the best and most overlooked alternative records of the new millennium.

Here's part of the reason why: Loretta Young Silks (the video for which features Pussy Galore herself, Honor Blackman).

Listening Post

Along with the likes of Abandoned Pools, theSTART and Jonatha Brooke, Canadian band Joydrop has remained criminally unrecognized. They're history now, but for a few years straddling the beginning of the new millennium, they were one of the better alterna-rock outfits bubbling just below the surface of public consciousness. Tara Slone's eye-catching looks and powerful Garbage-esque vocals alone should've been enough to land Joydrop a couple of hits in the states, but there's no accounting for the taste of folks who were rabidly slurping up Baby One More Time and anything those retards in Creed were cranking out at the time. Alas, Joydrop faded into obscurity pretty quickly, forcing Slone to make the ill-advised decision to turn tricks with reality TV by appearing as a contestant on Rock Star: INXS.

For awhile though, Joydrop were pretty damn good.

Here's their first single -- from 1999's Metasexual, it's Beautiful.



And from 2001's Viberate, here's Sometimes Wanna Die (complete with a guest appearance by Tommy Lee).

Listening Post

Perfect for a Friday, here's something from the new My Chemical Romance live album and DVD, The Black Parade is Dead.

It's Dead!

Cyrus the Virus

Back in high school, a friend of mine and I had a kind of litmus test -- an instant and surefire barometer -- used to determine whether someone was a complete fucking idiot.

That test: sunglasses indoors.

I'm not talking about the person who walks inside from a sunny day and happens to leave his glasses on for a few minutes; I'm talking about the one who seems to go out of his way to purposely keep his eyes covered in the hope of, I'd imagine, escaping detection from that flock of adoring fans and the strobing flashes it'll soon be aiming in his direction.

Whenever my friend and I spotted this special brand of clown, one or the other of us would make a point to walk up to him and say something like, "Hey, you know, if it's too bright in here we can have somebody turn the lights down for you."

Sunglasses indoors screams one thing: douchebag.

So it's no surprise that during his interview this morning on the Today show, Billy Ray Cyrus kept his oversized neo-Elvis shades on the entire time.

Which confirms something I've suspected for quite some time but have hesitated in officially declaring.

Billy Ray Cyrus is the world's biggest douchebag.

Seriously.

From the over-the-top Beverly Hillbilly aesthetic -- the blonde highlights, ridiculous soul-patch and Gucci calfskin jacket meets University of Tennessee t-shirt he wears without even the slightest hint of irony; to the preening, ego-laden seriousness with which he takes his role on Nashville Star; to his insistence on spouting trite "country wisdom" every chance he gets -- as if he's still some dumb-ass hick living in Appalachia and not worth a goddamned fortune; to his comical belief that Achy Breaky Heart was actually some sort of cultural touchstone; to the fact that he's the father of America's most virulent social disease -- Miley Cyrus -- and a guy who's managed to shamelessly exploit his daughter merely for the opportunity she's handed him to thrust his own worthless ass back into the spotlight; everything about Billy Ray Cyrus's ill-advisedly inflated sense of his own self-worth makes him a walking joke -- a living, breathing advertisement for the necessity of safe and legal late-term abortions -- the kind of guy that, if you wanted to create a "douchebag army," you'd need only a tiny sample of DNA from.

This morning on Today, Cyrus was in fine form -- which means that he was a pompous idiot. As he adjusted himself on the high stool opposite Meredith Viera, assuming the one-foot-on-floor and the-other-on-rung-of-chair pose common to douchebags everywhere -- as if he were a J. Byron model, circa 1979 -- I waited patiently for him to apologize for his appearance. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he might have recently undergone some sort of eye surgery that had left his pupils dilated and therefore required him to wear sunglasses at all times. But no -- of course not. He was simply wearing them because he's just that cool.

Once again -- douchebag.

Viera began the interview by asking him about the full-length feature film he's now shooting with his retarded daughter and will soon foist on a defenseless American public.

Cyrus did a quick shake of his chemically straightened mane and said, "Yeah, it's gonna be great. We've got a great director, a great script, a great team of folks, and we're shooting in the great state of Tennessee."

I'm kidding about none of this and, as such, would highly recommend that Billy Ray invest some of that money he's making in a fucking thesaurus. And for the record, that "great director" he's talking about is Peter Chelsom, who helmed the forgettable TNT/TBS staple Serendipity and the atrocious Beatty/Keaton/Hawn "comedy" Town & Country, which was released in 2001, making it the second unfunniest thing to happen that year. In Cyrus's defense, I'm not sure that anyone who was raised thinking The Dukes of Hazzard is the height of artistry would be qualified to recognize a decent director when he sees one.

Viera then brought up, of course, the almost baffling success of his kid, Miley Hannah Cyrus Montana.

"Condé Nast says Miley will soon be worth a billion dollars," she enthused.

I held my breath and waited for Billy Ray to respond with an angry, "What'd you call my daughter?!" But no such luck. Instead, he flashed a full row of those perfectly capped teeth and reacted with what I guess was supposed to be pride but what looked eerily lupine. Suddenly, the utility of the sunglasses became obvious, as they were probably hiding the big-ass dollar signs in his eyes.

After awhile, Viera finally got around to the heavily promoted nexus of the interview: Billy Ray Cyrus's supposed "first public comments" regarding the media-driven scandal over his daughter's sexed-up spread in Vanity Fair. At first, she asked Cyrus whether he was even there when the most controversial of the controversial photos was taken -- the one with Miley looking like she'd just woken up after a one-night-stand with the Joker. Billy Ray insisted he wasn't, adopting a sudden air of bullshit humility as he quietly proclaimed that, at the time, he had to get to Washington where his presence was required at a gig honoring U.S. troops returning from Iraq. He dropped the troops at least one more time before the end of the interview.

When asked if he thought another of the photos -- the creepy-as-hell shot of his daughter draped over him while he stared pensively into the distance, presumably at the big bag of money off-camera -- was a little too explicit, as some have suggested, he basically didn't even bat an eye (at least not that I could tell with the sunglasses on).

"Nah, I think it just shows a daddy that loves his daughter a whole lot," he said, then added, apropos of nothing, "We love acting. We love music. We love each other."

"Well, thanks for not making that whole thing any weirder," I said out loud as I sat on my living room couch, munching Funyuns.

Viera then asked why Cyrus didn't fight back against the accusations of those who found the picture offensive. Cyrus, as expected, responded with some good old-fashioned frontier gibberish: "My daddy used to say that the more you stomp in poop, the more it stinks."

It was right about this point that my intestines began moving up through my throat in an effort to mercifully cut off the oxygen to my brain.

The whole thing ended with Cyrus offering one more pearl of wisdom regarding the whole miasma. "You git knocked down, you git back up," he said, smiling with apparent pride at his own profundity.

"Good advice," Viera responded, returning the smile.

I'm pretty sure my jaw went slack, I lost control of my bladder, and the upper part of my body tipped sideways until it plummeted into the couch like a falling redwood.

And all of this was before Today brought out The Clique Girlz -- three bleach-blonde 'tweens named Paris, Destinee and Ariel who look like Hot Topic exploded all over them and whose music is about to "take America by storm."

Wanna guess whose tour they've already opened for?

Congratulations Billy Ray, you pass the test with flying colors.