Heeeeeere's Jesse

Okay 60 days is a long time. But I have never been one to talk just to hear my own voice. I really, really wish I hadn't killed that fish (abandoned the idea of seeing Brand New @ Avalon). God and the Devil were raging inside me that day and God, er, the Devil, won. Depends on where you stand on the whole, ya know, emo phenomena.

You could ramble the surprisingly short song titles to describe the pungence of beauty that permeates on this thing, but that just doesn't seem fair. If you can remember all the way back to 2003; Jesse Lacey and his boys took a lot of heat for being, well, let's clean it up: less genuine. So they got library cards and turned in their Blockbuster ones. What a difference four years makes.

They have earned our trust. Corporate oil has no bearing here, neither does the criticism it recieves. Ambiguity is exempt too, and has become all of a sudden refreshing. Rather than scuffle with labels, or former tourmates--like the absent-minded professors they have seemingly always been--Brand New have created something to be proud of, while simultaneously maintaining the reins on their own budding futures. What a concept. Some of the best bands of all time mastered this art, and a lot of thier loudest statements weren't this raging. A-

Umm I'm listening to Bright Eyes at an alarming level to the point that if a female (of any appearence) would approache me.. well, you know the rest. The first BE (as my sister and I call them) show in Boston this year was met with a lot of head scratching, and I still have not sumitted my Relix review for these bastards. I realize that Conor's mistique is to fuck with the heads of his fans, thus challenging them in No Code fashion to see who remains but boy. I purchased tickets for the next tour (of course) on the whim that I hear anything from the Every Day And Every Night EP (which I won't) as it is genius. That is my introverted way of recommending it. Please YouTube this son of a bitch.

At what point does the parent become the child? I mean this in the nicest possible way. When does the child and parent compile a confidant relationship. When does the child start making their own decisions that are universally endorsed by the former parent to the tune that they no longer punish, guide, or so much as question. When the child starts paying rent? When the child makes more money than the parent? When the child accomplishes more? TV programs as little as they provide lead us to believe that the child will always be in the shadow. The key is for the child to eclipse, then sit with the parent and discuss issues, as equal adults, the parent always wiser, knowing that they have taught their offspring so well. The lines are completely blurry, and certainly, this phonomena happens for different ages of all types; but the key is that it happens. I don't know when this stage will happen for me, but it scares the hell out of me. I only hope I don't fuck it up.

Chargers Win?

There are more than a few ways to go about choosing a favorite team. The most popular, of course, is proximity to one's home, or perhaps following a certain player for example. But is it possible to like a team and not even be aware of it? Like falling in love with a girl over a period of time, this is a less popular way to go about the delicate task of throwing your support behind a person or team that could easily within months turn on you in an embarassing way.

It has come to my attention that I am a San Diego Chargers fan. Before you find a ledge, the Eagles are my team, but apparently I have been following the Charge since their 1996 season when they became an option for that season's Super Bowl Champion, hopefully defeating but eventually falling to the neighboring San Fransisco 49ers. I even remember their frumpy coach, Bobby Ross and equally silly quarterback, Stan Humphries, playing well beyond his means. Their throwback uni's are too awesome, and need a big comeback, despite their regular uniforms being more than solid. Two awesome uniform choices that are completely different? Two years ago on the foot of their fresh-faced rookie Nate Kaeding, the Charge fell to the Jets at home. The year before that and last season as well, the San Diegoians missed the playoff tournament entirely. After last season's quiet end to a loud season, I predicted the Chargers would be 13-3 this season, and destroy anyone that stood in their way. I was wrong; they were 14-2.

Ladanian Tomlinson is a phenomenal football player, all without steroids, off-the-field issues and on-the-field theatrics, like glueing Googled photographs of himself on sneakers that would sit in the locker game for six months after game 16. The fact that I can remember so much about the Chargers makes me realize I am a fan of thiers, and I'd love nothing more than a win in the face of the cocky Bill Bellicheck this weekend, and I'd love if Marty ball dominated the Patriots. But I highly doubt that Marty would elbow a reporter just to get to Bellicheck to give him a heartless fake hug. I doubt it very much indeed. Go Chargers.

Club Soda With Lime

I've been listening to mainstreamo again lately due to my super-sweet Xmas gift of an iPod. I forgot how good some of these bands are, as if I were shunning them to coincide with society's overblowing of their popularity. I do however, pride myself on the notion that most of the albums I care for the most are ones that never caught on, The Bled, Boys Night Out (first album) the first MCR, etc., but why am I arguing with myself? Who am I impressing? These albums are good, and maybe its better to have a slew of forgotten-era records on my iPod than it is to have 11 Conor Oberst ones. Right?

Smile

On the heels of a public dethroning so total, the Republicans are reeling today more than Kevin Federline. Even Rummy has up and left! Oddly enough, I can do nothing but Smile, which led me to a thorough re-evaluating of No Code. There is a tidbit of lyrics at the end of Who You Are, which repeats, "We make time for our own needs" which I am only now discovering and which points a fine point on the mass exitus in the House. Even Kerry Healy conceded as the polls closed in Massachusetts. In an attempt to be extremely picky, I too remember, friends and strangers alike, voicing their displeasure with Bush for all the wrong reasons. "He's so stupid, I'm smarter than him, how can I vote for him?" So you're not voting for him because of his eskewed beliefs? His irrational tactics? I heard an introspective interview on NPR last Sunday at work that I listened to straight through, and coudn't agree with more wholeheartedly. "George Bush is a likeable person. He is an affable guy. He doesn't read the newspapers. He doesn't pay close attention. Just a likeable person thrown into a situation that he could not handle and quickly lost control of. As a member of his advising team, I truly like him. As you would like an 47-year-old that cares about his family and just tries to get through the day. But he is simply not fit to be President."

Welcome To The Black Parade

If I was in Las Vegas I would put $100 on black, and another hundred on MCR’s fourth record being released self-titled. But for their third, forget the matching costumes, trendy haircuts and pushups in drag; My Chemical Romance have created nothing other than a shiny true rock record. And even though their inner punk snarl emerges from time to time, black t-shirts under their funeral-marching-band uniforms peaking through—as does an ode, or, admirable Iron Maiden chase during “The Sharpest Lives” the likes of which has rarely been seen in something so radio friendly—they play closely to the blueprint Harold Benson helped them create, but tweak it with soaring solos and falsetto shimmer.

But the unfortunately titled songs DO NOT compose a concept record, as the cohesion that was present on Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge has gone completely out the window, in favor of a twin taunt guitar crunch, focusing on the band’s individual talent pool as opposed to drowning their performances like a jettisoned anchor.

The talent pool runs deep. In “Cancer” The Gerard Way Band ambles through soaring “Bohemian”-like vocals and somber picking amid tambourine jangles to the tune of Saturday-Night-Live-levels of confidence.

There are flaws though. Although 2005 saw their grimy and sweaty live show up in smoke and financed with light shows and video screens, its all good, but what happens when people expect to see “Mama” performed live? Awash in glory of interviews, Way’s only choice of instrument is still his wail, and although peers and the band itself presumably see themselves as the Nirvana to their Candlebox counterparts, it will be hard for them to prove their plight when their stage presense is virtually the same as the others. And although his band members sound extremely taut, Way's growth as a singer is virtually non-existent.

MCR have done nothing wrong, and they rarely, if ever, miss the mark on their goals. There isn’t a throwaway; even the introspective introduction fires like a starting pistol. The sound is big and round, the hooks are perfected, and as most bands with staying power could attest, its all about its centerpiece. The bottom line is that Way’s melodies can cover strawberry fields, and his band is in it for the long haul. And although his voice shrieks teenage leather jacket punk, that is something he will grow out of. I can’t wait for that album.