A Very Raging Christmas – Crap Music Is Over, If You Want It

In a land far, far away, called Great Britain a yearly war wages every winter. In this magical Narnian Isle, music is still a viable commodity taken very seriously. Their denizens actually record new holiday songs every season in the hopes of having the top Christmas single of the year.

We cynics across the pond are fine to do with the recycled, rehashed songbooks – over the river and through the wood, decking the halls and all that. Why would you need MORE freaking Christmas? A trip outside for a few hours on Black Friday and we’re drowning in so much Christmas it’s enough to move to the Aboriginal outback.

But England doesn’t mess around. Music and Christmas are a very serious thing. I mean, they still have music programming on TV, AND the government pays for some of it. Can you imagine if our government gave PBS money to make old school MTV styled programming? I might actually still want to live here.

Yes, England gets downright fervent about music, specifically the ‘single’. Especially when it comes to the OZ like machinery of Simon Cowell and company, who pump out yearly soft rock balladeers with their contest shows like Pop Idol and X Factor.  Yes, we have our American Idol, but it pales in comparison to the juggernaut that X Factor brings to the UK every year.

I was treated to the wonders of X Factor this October when I was staying in London. I politely watched with some fervent friends over Sunday roast and found myself drawn in by a bigger, cattier, more sordid and maudlin type of idol where the judges mentor the contestants, take sides and cut each other down so furiously I’m surprised they’re not allowed swords onstage. I have to admit I did get a little hooked. OK, a lot. It wasn’t the music, which was mostly dreadful. It was the huge soppy spectacle of it.

X Factor Judges

But truly music is the loser in this scenario, if it’s nothing more than a soapbox stump for Rhianna or Janet to pimp their new album, in between green faced kids being forced to sing George Michael covers. The winner of this contest releases a single and that song, most likely, goes on to be the Christmas single winner, no doubt to be over played through out the holiday season and beyond, knocking struggling bands off the charts and out of our memories as the new year chimes in.

This year’s X Factor winner, pie eyed Joe McElderry is an 18 year old Geordie accented charmer with a lilting, soaring voice who is as sweet as a Disney cartoon heroine. Blech. They even chose for his first single, the Christmas single in question, to be ‘The Climb’, a Miley Cyrus cover. Jesus. Come on, England! Throw some tea overboard!

Well, Jon Morter for this revolting enough to do something.  Sick of the slick promotional big label machine and the ‘crap’ it pumps out, he decided to take a stand and protest by simply using social media. Jon made a Facebook page called RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE FOR CHRISTMAS NO.1. On the page he asked the fans to buy his favorite band’s 1994 single, Killing In The Name Of, instead of X Factor Joe McElderry’s new Cyrus single “The Climb”.

The kid, Joe McElderry, seems nice enough – benign in a musical theater, syrupy sweet kind of way. He wasn’t even my choice to win the thing – I would have gone with the song and dance man Olly Murs, if I were holding a UK green card, but there I go, tipping my hand as someone who has seen enough of the show to care.

The fact is, there has always been pop music that was put together in a board room. Girl groups formed in the offices of the Brill Building weren’t exactly an organic creative process but still some of the best songs ever sung.

So some pop music can’t be denied, even if the singer didn’t pen the song themselves…but the pervasive problem today, it seems, is the onslaught of boy bands and mall makeovers done on any kid with half a voice who are put on diet pills and thrust into the spot light like Three Octave Barbie.  In a month their CD, filled with tuneless drivel, is overstocked at Walmart and outselling the grassroots band that actually writes music.

If you throw money and PR at a turd, the public will spend money on it. Sheeple are Sheeple, as the D Mode song goes…and the loser is not only the smaller musician out there, but ultimately the music listening public.

Enter Rage Against The Machine. Now they were invited to the party, unbeknownst to them, not because they are a small unknown indie rock band. No, they are a huge successful act on Sony, the very same Goliath label that Cowell and McElderry call home. But RATM started from humble beginnings and won each of their hundreds of thousands of fans, one by one. Not from a television show contest, but by playing small gigs and then larger ones. By touring relentlessly. By making music. And yes, by being political loud mouths and standing up for the little guy.

In an interview with UK paper The Sun, RATM frontman Tom Morello stated: “It is a historic campaign to save the UK pop charts from the abyss of bland mediocrity and we’re 100 per cent behind it. It’s really amazing and completely a grassroots uprising. It’s not like the band put this forward, it was the people. I found out about it when some friends of mine from the UK texted me.”

As the race between the two tightened, things got more heated. And weirder. Cowell kept accusing Rage of being bullies. Then the Facebook page went down and suddenly thousands of fans were inexplicably lost. And of course there were rumblings that this was all just an underground ploy of Sony executives to drive up sales of both singles – a major payday for Sony either way.

However, to show that it wasn’t a Sony plot, Morello promised that the band would reunite and play a free concert for London fans if they were to win the number one spot. This earned him some scorn and harsh words from X Factor kingpin Simon Cowell, and fellow X Factor judge Cheryl Cole, a former member of all girl group Girls Aloud, who was Mc Elderry’s mentor on the show. Cheryl stated “If that song, or should I say campaign, by an American group is our Christmas Number 1, I’ll be gutted for Joe and our charts.”

Cheryl Cole and Joe McElderry on X Factor

Morello flattened Cowell and Cole’s jingoistic pleas for support of Geordie Joe.

“The X Factor song was written by a cabal of highly paid professional songwriters and was already made a hit by a pre-teen artists from the United States. That’s nothing I would feel too proud about hoisting the flag up on.”

“The X Factor suits have been pulling out every dirty trick in the book to get their single to No 1. They’ve been pressuring the big retail stores over the price of the single and there were some shenanigans that happened with the Facebook page where it went down mysteriously on the second day.

“Some of the things they are doing seem almost desperate and that’s because they’re afraid of the people.”

As the deadline neared for the tally, Joe was in the lead by a narrow margin. Tom Morello took to twitter and urged his online fans to download on itunes and help push Rage over the edge. They upped the ante by stating that they would be donating their proceeds from their Christmas single to charity. No Sony payout for the people who helped put Rage in the number one spot.

It looked as if Joe had the Xmas single sewed up, but in a Christmas miracle come from behind victory, the American revolutionaries toppled Cowell’s teen idol and took the number one spot. Davey had conquered Goliath!

Of course Cowell was ‘gutted’ for his protege, McElderry, but was gracious enough to concede the spot to a song with well over fifteen ‘fuck you’ s laden in the lyrics. Well done. Cowell supposedly even offered Jon Morter a job doing marketing for his music label, though that might just have been the PR equivalent of licking his wounds.

Whether or not you think that this contest of wills will actually change the stranglehold that Cowell and X Factor has on music, the fact is that this small group on Facebook has managed to raise 83,000 pounds (approximately $132,700) for the charity, Shelter, they’ve helped to break  two UK chart sales records…and it’s made music history and social media history.

It’s also an example that we do not have to sit idly by and listen to crap. Crap music is over, if you want it. If you don’t want it, turn it off. If you hate the television you keep seeing, turn it off. Or make your own. Vote with your dollar, your time and your energy. If you don’t like what is out there. DO NOT give it your time or energy. “I am listening to it cause it’s on” is no longer a viable option as we enter 2010 a supposed enlightened era. If you don’t like it, do something. If you can’t create an alternative, then at least turn it off.

When asked if they’d attempt to overthrow the Christmas No. 1 again next year, Jon and his team admit that it probably wouldn’t work again nor would they want it to. But they are most proud of the fact that they were able to motivate people to take a stand against mediocrity and change something in pop culture history.

On top of that, raising money for a good cause and making friends with their favorite band of all time…well that’s just part of the best Christmas gift ever.

Tom Morello, Rage, plan show/rally opposite Republican Convention

When it comes to politics, many people complain that musicians should shut up and play. I for one am glad that we have outspoken troubadours today, running the gamut from Billie Joe to Bruce. Tom Morello is one of the best. I have tremendous respect for him and his collaborators. If you happen to be in Minneapolis, go check out their shows.

Kudos to those who speak out and never back down, cave to pressure or let anyone silence their views…except Toby Keith. Toby you should shut up and play. Maybe not so much with the playing either…

“Rage Against The Machine have scheduled yet another show, this time in Minneapolis in conjunction with the Republican National Convention. The band will perform at Minneapolis’ Target Center on September 3 while the convention is going on across the river from September 1 to 4. In addition to the Rage show, guitarist Tom Morello also will hook up with singer/songwriter and fellow social activist Steve Earle to perform a show at a union rally on September 1 in St. Paul.”

Caught Between Rock And A Hard Place – the pitfalls of an embedded rock journalist

Rock journalism isn’t for the faint of heart. Though my suburban relatives may think that my professional life is a playground filled with hedonistic delights, they’re only partly right. There is a part of The Rock Life that is seedy, dark and filled with tragic stories of squandered brilliance and the leeching and blood letting by industry barnacles, which renders one so drained that there is practically nothing left (note: see upcoming Ali biography). While music may soothe the savage beast, when the music’s over, the beasts remain and feed, making it treacherous. Might I add that if you’re a woman, the trenches of rock are doubly so.

Often a gig is a place where one is defined…if only for an evening. There are separate lines at the venue doors. One for ticket holders, one for vip/guest list. Then once shuffled through security and frisked and swabbed (tonight the bouncer asked me to open my mouth and checked for gum contraband), you are given wristbands. A flimsy paper one if you have credentials to drink…a plastic snap-on bracelet if you are press, a brighter colored plastic bracelet if you are VIP and if you are the artist, or someone catering to the artist, well then sometimes the bracelet has sparkles on it. Artists like sparkly things.

I rarely attend shows anymore if I’m not on the list. Part of it is sheer jaded stubbornness, and the other is that it is my job to be there I don’t want to be treated like shit while I’m doing my job, especially by people who don’t pay me.

Tonight, my only night off in a long time, and I’m at a music show. I’m there to support friends, but even a simple duck-in, watch and say hi night, turns into greeting and hand shaking, listening, commiserating and general networking…if I want to actually escape work I have to go to a baseball game. Even hiking in the canyons has become over run with schmooze.

Whether or not I’m on the list, the baton pass of the wristband is still a stressful and irksome issue. No matter how thorough an artist or publicist might be, often names are left off lists, press passes are lost and egos are bruised…I’ve been told by box office hussies that my boyfriend hadn’t put me on the list. I know rock wives who have been told the same. Once, an event I was hired to film for, wouldn’t let me into the photographer/camera galley for the performance. Have clip board and badge, will conquer. And oh how the persons-in-charge-for-two-hours love to wield it.

Case in point: At the Troubadour last month, the over zealous and often pointlessly aggressive security guards, refused to let Brad Wilk in to the club, minutes before he was supposed to perform. He tried to explain that, yes, he was on the list, and that he had permission from the night’s star performer and organizer, Tom Morello, to enter. Even chants from fans waiting in line, went unheeded as Brad was rudely turned away.

“Dude, that’s the drummer from Rage! You can’t turn him away!” one amazed fan yelled out.

“I don’t fucking care who he is. He touched my velvet rope. No one touches the rope except me.” bellowed the guard, drunk with his low wage power.

Of course, minutes later, when Tom rushed out trying to find his band mate, the security guards could see their error. But amazingly, they wouldn’t budge from their position.

“We’re doing our job!” was their excuse. Yes, and with a veracity that will someday be used by Homeland Security.

Whether you’re in Rage Against the Machine or no…being listed and wrist banded, sticky passed or given the grail of the lanyard laminate, doesn’t stop one from being hassled. My friend Lorelei, who was performing at the Fonda tonight, was brusquely stopped at the backstage door, even though she had been going in and out of it all day long.

One reason why I am choosy about my free time rock is because of these overzealous cro-magnums. There’s no reason for excessive force on anyone simply walking by a door. Why all the hate? Is this a management mandate? If so, why all the precaution? And for that matter, is it necessary to charge six dollars for a bottle of water? Or to charge a photographer two thousand dollars to take pictures of the opening band? The Wiltern wanted to charge me SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS to film my interview with Cut Chemist…in his dressing room! For seven grand, I’ll rent a helicopter, fill it with Veuve Cliquot and interview my subject above the city, dropping the remaining cash on pedestrians below.

Why do they make it so hard for the artists, the press, the fans, to simply go and enjoy the show?

And unfortunately, this b.s isn’t only at the larger venues. I’ve had similar annoying experiences at the small so-called hip clubs like Spaceland and Silverlake Lounge…they abuse their customers and they don’t even have decent sound. No, I say. No thank you.

Another barrier my fun often faces, is what I call the ‘press conflict’. I consider myself a journalist and writer. However as the dual role of on air talent as well as actress, I always try to highlight the artist and bring out their best. I’m not one to try to trip someone up or paint them in a bad light. If that negativity seeps through in an interview, it’s not for my lack of trying to keep it engaging and fun. There are just some artists and industry who see the interviewer as “The Enemy” as Jason Lee’s character named the kid in Almost Famous.

So while my job is to often get all access for the interview, or even if the artist is a dear friend that wants me side stage to watch, there always seems to be a gate keeper huffing essence of ego, who distrusts me because I am a) a journalist and/or b) a woman.

I don’t even want to get involved in the ‘groupie’ discussion, which is a label far worse than “The Enemy” – a slam that most of my female friends have to dodge, even if they are accomplished photographers, publicists or even bassists. A female backstage is often seen as both eye candy and a target for abuse, no matter how professional she may be.

Imagine the limitations my fellow music biz girlfriends have to face: Can you date a musician? Will anyone take you seriously if you do? Should you dress down and hide your assets so as not to make the wives uncomfortable or the married label dudes horny? If you are a female IN a band and you shred, should you not step into your light, literally or figuratively, for fear of upstaging one of your band mates? How many times have my girlfriends and I been condescended to and told we’re cute, or worse, accused of just trying to get laid, when we’re actually trying to do our job?

Okay, okay. it’s not always terrible to be recognized for your gender or beauty. An old boyfriend used to say “It’s when they STOP harassing you – that’s when you should be offended.” And that could be true, but it certainly does complicate the already shark infested waters that flow backstage.

After the show tonight, and after the after-party winded down, our wristbands turned into pumpkins…no one was Cinderella anymore – not even the headlining band. A guard harassed Jaz, the drummer of Swervedriver to drink his beer and get out. He stopped short of grabbing it out of Jaz’s hand, but not with out some menace laced threats. I was even less lucky. With no drink in my hand, I was given a withering stare that clearly undressed me and implied that I was currently superfluous, no matter how good I was at giving head. You see…whether there as a dear friend of a band member, a girlfriend or even a tv show host, I was persona non grata. That’s OK. the night wasn’t about me. My ego can handle the changing tide of wristband status…but to have spent over twenty bucks on bottled water and then insulted is far from cool. Then, while Film School and Swervedriver gathered their things, the club began to lock up and lock them out of their dressing rooms. How muchmoney did these bands make for the Fonda tonight? Is foreclosure styled
callousness really necessary.

So what next? After spending most of the night being dressed down by security, undressed by the eyes of biz big wigs and jostled to and fro, am I allowed to finally participate in fun? When offered to party on the bus, what do I say?

‘No thank you, I can’t fraternize with the subject’.

Or

‘No, it might look bad if I enjoy myself or, gasp, allow a tatty compliment tossed my way to actually land.’

What does a girl wearing high heeled boots and a cloak of dignity say? Does she let her guard down and enjoy the company of music men? Or does she separate herself from the ‘Artist’ the way the wristbands and guard rails have been doing all night long? If integrity is a guideline, where does the moral compass read at this point in time? And should a smart, attractive woman, who is confident that she is good at her job, ever care what others will say?

The rock chick in me says ‘fuck em.’ After all, Joan Jett doesn’t give a damn about her bad reputation.

But the college graduate in me, who has worked her ass off and suffered too many concussions from bumping her head on the glass ceiling, keeps a certain distance. The Rock Life is a marathon, and I’m pacing myself to win it.