Friday, October 06, 2006

ShuffleLog 6-Oct-06: The Rant

We interrupt your regularly scheduled ShuffleLog to bring you the following rant.

I don't know if it's just me -- that the novelty is wearing off, that the novelty of the City is yeilding to frustration. The novelty of the subway, and gawking tourists, and cabs cutting you off in the crosswalk, and pushy self-absorbed idiots, and the Yankees, and the fact that I've called 911 three times in the three months that I've been here, and human shit in public (worse: that my dogs eventually find it)...maybe the honeymoon is over. But I'm not ranting about any of that.

Jen and I went to see Massive Attack at the Roseland Ballroom last night. I'd been looking forward to it for a while, this was the last of their three night run in New York, and Elizabeth Fraser was touring with them. Plus, we'd seen the Beastie Boys the previous night, so this was becoming a banner live music week in a City where there's always a ton of live music to see.

I think that I've seen more live music in the three months since I've been here than in the previous year in San Francisco. And it's run a pretty good gamut: national acts like Ani DiFranco outdoor at Summer Stage, local bands like Boss Tweed at Magnetic Field in Brooklyn, jazz legends at Iridium, DJs, turntablists, tabla masters, the Beasties at a fundraiser for animals. There's so much available during any given week, all of it so accessible.

And last night, I had one of the worst live music experiences. Ever.

An Open Letter To Everyone Involved In the 5-Oct-06 Massive Attack Show At The Roseland Ballroom

To the venue: Learn how to plan better. Clue #1? When there's a line 8 deep at the bar, you're losing money. My brother, who's in the business, taught me that. Although I do commend the guy who served us for being a professional about it. Oh, and when you've got a nice, big room with a massive stage and sound system, please use it. It improves the experience, and most importantly, it drowns out the legions of douchebags who can't shut the fuck up during a show (see below).

To the concert-going public: Please shut the fuck up. Seriously. Stop behaving as if the band is playing, TiVo'd, in your living room as background noise to your own private party. Stop behaving as if the band is an irrelevant sports team playing above the bar at your favorite Upper East Side meat market. Stop trying to have a meaningful conversation with your date in the middle of a fucking ballad. Stop text messaging. Stop screaming into your cell phone. Stop accepting comp tickets from your company/clients/drug dealer/pimp to see a band you don't care about, but are happy to yammer through all night. Better yet: stop fucking going to shows. Period.

To the B&T couple in front of us, at the railing: Shut the fuck up. There's a band playing, and you're missing a good show. Stop screeching in that grating, high-pitched voice, about nothing at all relevant. Stop trying to have a normal conversation, amplified because there's an inconsiderate band playing about 100 yards away. Better yet, make no attempt to whisper, or even try to yell in your addle-eyed companion's ear. There's a bar directly behind you: take your fucking insipid conversation over there. Or go home and try to convince yourself that, yeah, you really like Massive Attack, and not just because you've only heard "Angel" on the Snatch soundtrack. Really.

To the douchebag and douchbagette behind us on the right side: Shut the fuck up. We're actually on the floor now, dick, and there's a band playing. We're not back by the bar. Stop talking about nothing-fucking-at-all with some girl as if you were at the Olive Garden. Stop ignoring my glares back at you. You know, during a show, when someone looks back, away from the band, it's usually for a reason. No, I wasn't checking out the line at the bar, or scoping for the bathroom, or clocking some broad. I was looking at you. You know, the fucking H&M fashion victim screaming your conversation over the band. And when I tell you "Hey, you guys are missing a good show", your response is to shut the fuck up. "Am I bothering you?" only conveys the fact that you have no grasp on where you are, or your role in society. It also conveys the fact that sarcasm is lost on you.

To the twit on her cellphone sitting on the rail to our right: Shut the fuck up. Jesus Christ, Elizabeth Fraser is singing "Teardrop". It's a beautiful song, a soft song. Screaming "OHMYGODLISTENTOTHIS!" -- holding up your phone to whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the other end of the line so that they can listen to garbled distorted Elizabeth Fraser noise -- is a clear sign of bad breeding. For God's sake, your meat-head companion was shouting at you to shut the fuck up, severely limiting his prospects of getting into your panties. Oh, who are we kidding, you'll throw the donut anyway. But for the meathead's sake, let's pray that you're not like Paris Hilton at 19, answering your phone during uninspired sex: "OMG, no, I'm not doing anything, just fucking, and yeah, that one song was pretty good tonight, but I couldn't hear it very well because I was on the phone!" OMGSTFU.

To the couple to our left before the encore: Shut the fuck up. You started out OK. Jen and I had moved 4 times at this point. Aside from the lack of respect for personal space -- I know it's general admission and all, but there's a small studio apartment's space worth of room to your left, so why are you actually touching Jen and I? -- you looked into it. You were dancing, or at least swaying, to the music. But then some sort of infection gripped you. You probably picked it up from those assholes behind us, perhaps from sharing a Red Bull and vodka. Some sort of douchebaggery that made it impossible for you to resist having a full conversation while friggin' Horace Andy is signing, while Shara Nelson is singing! Christ, invade my personal space. But for the love of God, shut up!

To the dudes behind us, during the encore: Shut the fuck up. Are you serious? You're two guys at a Massive Attack show. You're fucking chatting with each other like you're scrapbooking over a bottle of Two Buck Chuck. This is not Murray Hill. The Yankees are not playing on a crappy flat panel TV while you drink Coors Light. For fuck's sake, I can hear you through "Intertia Creeps"! We retreated back here to get away from screechy, yammering chicks. Only to be rewarded with preening, yammering dicks. I can't believe I contemplated leaving the show before it was over. But you're pushing me there, fellas.

For the love of all that is holy, please, all of you, avoid going to live music venues. Please go back to whereever it is that you came from, play quarters, dabble in date rape, mindlessly produce verbal diarrhea about the finance industry or some shitty publication that you work for. Just don't go see live shows. Unless it's the donkey show in Tijuana. And then, by all means, volunteer.

Love, Clarence


  • From this post alone, I am convinced that you selected the best psueudonym EVAR! It would not have had the affect if it were just signed Love, John (Stephen ratted you out).

    Clarence! Too bad I already have three boys...

    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 3:29 PM  

  • okay, can't spell

    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 3:30 PM  

  • No fair! Stephen ratted me out. Now I'm at a distinct disadvantage.

    By Blogger Clarence Rosario, at 4:10 PM  

  • I'm sure he'll give you all the details if you just ask...

    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 7:46 PM  

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home