Styx vs. Journey vs. REO Speedwagon vs. The World

In the first three or four years of the nineteen eighties the top forty was full of rock music by bands such as Styx, Foreigner, Toto, Journey, Survivor, Asia, and REO Speedwagon. Not to mention The Go Gos, The Pretenders, John Cougar, Steve Miller Band, Rick Springfield, Survivor, Joan Jett, and Loverboy. Now don't get ahead of yourself, I'm not going to argue that this was some kind of golden age but I do think it was Top 40 Rock's last stand. Especially one handful of groups that that are often lumped together (Journeyrstyxreospeedwagon) deserve to be given some thought (or don't but you can't stop me!)

These oft derided bands shared some things in common like : virtuoso playing, bold powerful singers, ambitious song writing and arranging, slick and extravagant production. Or as it's often remembered wanker guitarists, cheesey vocals, and overblown and over produced songs. Below I will argue that the former is more accurate and, making every effort not to sound like an old grouch, I will try to place them in context vis a vis the current less than stellar state of commercial rock.

I've recently come across articles and radio shows featuring self satisfied hipsters deriding, mocking, dismissing, and giggling at the eighties. Especially in the media, and not only music media, things get lazily repeated and recycled and repeated until they become a created truth that goes unquestioned.(e.g.Sgt. Pepper's is the greatest album ever) That the eighties were terrible music-wise and fashion-wise is one of these. Sure, once in a while someone will write something to say" See there was some non-crap..." I found this top 100 list on Pitchfork that should have been titled "A Hipsters Guide to the Obvious"

This isn't a defense of the eighties, though. There's a bigger problem here and that is the inability to remove music from the cultural context in which it was created and listen to it as a song, pure and simple. I'm sure there were a lot of reasons to dislike REO Speedwagon at the time they were charting. I'm sure they were seen as the uncool flip side of the new wave of bands emerging out of the punk explosion. No doubt, Toto didn't compare favourably with The Clash. Journey weren't exactly out to question the very notions of a rock song but and the same time they didn't earn the "authenticity" tag that Bruce Springsteen did. But they didn't want to or need to. They wanted to make something shiny, big, and awesome. They wanted to make something everyone would love. You can't have the extreme without the mainstream so they fulfilled a function and took their responsibility seriously. They weren't young punk kids either. They were seasoned musicians that had been kicking around the music biz, with varying degrees of success, throughout the seventies. Moreover, who cares! Twenty five years later it surely doesn't matter who was cooler, who wore what, who said what. Is "Too Much Time (On my Hands)" a great song? Yes, it is.

I don't mean great in a "guilty pleasure" way either. "Guilty pleasure" has to be the most inane,weakest, most intellectually cowardly concept ever! Don't get me started! (too late). How could anyone possibly be ashamed of something they like. Are you that insecure? Are you that afraid to stand by your opinions? Are you just too intellectually flaccid to be able to justify your tastes? Why do I like something? Because it's good and I don't like things that are not good. If everything I like is good then why would I feel embarrassed to like it? I have thought about why I like what I like ( and don't like what I don't like) and I can explain why if pressed to do so. (You know hard it can be to pry an opinion out of me).If you can't then what have you been using your brain for all this time? If you feel "guilty" for liking a Phil Collins song your an ass. 

In this time where we often know a musicians "story" before we've even heard their music, where critics biographize and psycho-analyze because it's easier than actually writing about music, combing through lyrics to find a tenuous connection to some bio blurb from a press release, it is often difficult to separate an artist from their art. Now, I have been guilty of this a million times, hating some band because of something completely extraneous to the music they've produced. I hate something they said, what they wear, what the represent, how they are promoted, (and the hardest to overcome) I hate their fans. But I've grown up and I realize that I love music and not musicians. Do I want to know what Lilly Allen has to say about life, love and politics? No, not really. But she made a good album and I'm interested in that.

A while back, I found myself at a bar for some reason, with a bunch of British guys. I guess it was around the time that The Arctic Monkeys first album came out. I mentioned that I thought the Hard-Fi album was actually better. They looked at me like I'd just shit on the table and offered them some. I mentioned this to another British friend later and he said that the perception of Hard-Fi was that they were posers and wanna-be's and who knows what else.I guess the singer had said or done something that rubbed people the wrong way. Being completely unaware of the media buzz on either band I had come to an honest judgement based solely on my ears and brain. They may really prefer The Arctic Monkey's, that's perfectly fine, but they seemed to have rejected and embraced the two bands based on something other than the music entirely.

Getting back to Styx, REO Speedwagon and Journey, and why I decided to write about them, they encompass everything top 40 Rock should be and is no longer. Their songs were big, with REO Speedwagon leaning towards the soft side, Styx leaning towards the pomp and conceptual pretensions, while Journey went straight down the middle. REO Speedwagon played with the sweet love song with a rock edge and wrote some great melodies with a great combination of familiarity and complexity. They sometimes suffered from some overdone, fussy production that brushed over everything with a wash of tinny digital reverb but on their best songs like " Take It On the Run" and "Can't Fight this Feeling" they sound slick and confident. Styx go for the knock out every time out and when it comes together it's fantastic, like on "Babe" or " Too Much Time (on my hands)", but can be embarrassing like on the excessive "Suite Madame Blue". Thanks to their unadulterated and unashamed ambition, even the failures are endearing and command a certain respect. The ability and willingness too reach too far and risk looking pompous and foolish has been lost in modern Rock, it seems. Would any top 40 Rock band ever release a song like Mr.Roboto today? If they could make an amusing video that hinted they were probably just kidding about the whole thing then maybe, yes. Styx were not kidding.Finally, Journey, of the three, have stood the test of time the best. Solid songwriting, in any era, lyrics with a narrative sense and broad appeal, all topped off by the breath-taking, thrilling, all-time quality voice of Steve Perry. "Anyway You Want It" is a fist pumping, scissor kicking, lip sync into the mirror anthem. " Don't Stop Believing" is an anthem that out Springsteens Springsteen in it's small town, blue collar appeal while at the same time soaring wit a huge chorus and immediately unforgettable melody. The low key "Faithfully" is Perry at his vocal peak.

Listening to these bands now it's hard to imagine music with this combination of songwriting ambition, musical chops, supreme confidence and complete unselfconciousness  ever being made again. None of this is too say that this is the best music ever, far from it. They kept a foot in the elaborate overwrought prog-rock of the seventies while working in the synth sounds and beats of the more innovative early eighties bands. This may have been a cynical compromise to make their mark on the charts but 25 or more years removed it sounds like the next step for Rock and unfortunately the last step. Music blew apart in the late eighties where "alternative" bands started to go double platinum. U2, former outsiders, became the biggest band in the world. Eddie Vedder's overblown Rock hiding behind fake humility and anti rock star posing made it impossible for another Steve Perry to ever emerge. Give these bands a listen and think about what a unique time in Rock they represent. And I dare you not to have fun.

Adult Education

Every time I make a mistake in speaking Japanese I blush bright red, get flustered and fill with self-loathing. Anytime some one chuckles at my mistake, as funny as it may be, or shows even a hint of condescension as they correct me, I mentally ball my fist and prepare to hurl it with all my might at some one's face. These are not helpful attitudes for learning.

If there is one thing I've realised about myself, or made up to avoid making too much effort, it's that I am an "organic" learner. I learn through absorption and being confronted by situations that force me to find solutions. The hard way, figuring out my own solutions and tactics, helps me internalise lessons and become comfortable enough to use them again later without hesitation and relatively naturally. The upside of this, if I take my life long battle with French as an example, is that once I've come to my own solution it is so fully absorbed that I can sound rather natural when speaking, or so I've been told. The downside, apart from being a very slow process, is that, because I've never properly studied French, I have only the two or, if lucky three, ways of saying anything that I was able to become comfortable using. Fortunately, most people are not particularly adept at manipulating their own language so that my limitations mostly go unnoticed. I may not always be articulate but I always make myself understood. Unlike in English, where poetic eloquence spurts from my brain via my mouth like mayonnaise out of a super soaker.

I'm at the point in my Japanese language acquisition where I can understand most everyday or personal questions and respond appropriately but with limited detail. I can handle very simple business interactions, such as making various reservations, as well as any conversation where the context is very clear and words I don't understand can be easily guessed. ("Please hand me the XXXXX" said pointing at the vegetable peeler) . I'm well on my way to becoming functionally illiterate.

My friend Matt, who speaks Japanese quite well, is of the school that says you should just get out there and make friends, talk to people in bars, find out how to say what you want and say it. It worked for him. There is nothing in my character that suggests that this would work for me.My tendency to think that a stranger is just an asshole you haven't met, coupled with my reluctance to make mistakes that would allow said asshole to feel superior to me for even a second prevent me from doing my learning for all to see. If I may psycho analyze myself for a moment, or to put it another way, point out some things in my childhood in order to justify my short comings as an adult, growing up in Jonquiere and hardly speaking French may hold some clues to my current situation. 

I can think of a couple of people, maybe hockey team mates, who wanted to hang out with me despite my language limitations but I'm sure my general distrust and resentment put the breaks on what should have been a good opportunity. So mostly what I'm left with are the negative experiences of trying to learn French as a child and teenager in hostile territory. I won't use this chance to list every slight, real or imagined, but I'd like to site a few examples. One thing I learned is that, apparently, mistaking a masculine noun for a feminine noun, or vice versa, is HILARIOUS! Although, I've never found someone making a similar mistake in English to be particularly amusing, this may be a result of cultural differences. I also remember shopping with my mother and being pointed at, glared at, and on occasion openly insulted, for speaking with her in English. Worse than that was seeing how my mother, who made a lot of effort to learn French, going to lessons and and actually studying, was treated. People would be either genuinely confused by someone whose accent was different from theirs or  would intentionally refuse to listen to what she was saying because of her less than perfect pronunciation. I mean, I would be standing beside her and I could understand perfectly what she was saying but she had to repeat herself over and over as if she was the one who was in the wrong. There was little reward for all her effort.

Lastly, is something small that I guess in the end turned out to be a positive experience. I was about fifteen years old and my parents went to Jamaica on holiday leaving me and my brother at home alone. I remember finding out how to say Jamaica in French so I could tell my hockey team mates what was going on with me. I can't remember if I was expecting questions or if I was feeling unusually friendly. I told a couple of guys where my parents had gone and they looked at me like I was an idiot. "Where?" Oh no, I thought I may be saying it wrong so I repeated myself. I was still met with complete bewilderment. Maybe I had learned it wrong. I just went back to tying my skates and the attempted conversation was abandoned. Later I mentioned this to my father and told him how I had said Jamaica. He said I was saying it right but that they just didn't know where or what Jamaica was. It hadn't occurred to me that the problem might not be my French but that it might be that they are ignorant morons. What a relief! I spoke just fine the problem was who I was speaking to. The next year I moved to Montreal where my French suddenly seemed to be just fine and understood by everyone. I quickly improved.

Anyway this sad trip down memory lane was inspired by the fact that I started Japanese lessons again this week. It's my third serious shot at improving and if if the jump in ability is on par with what I experienced the last times, I may very well end up speaking passable Japanese someday. I never wanted or expected to learn another language in my life but it's looking like I my stumble along in my own self defeating and awkward way, baggage and all, into being somewhat competent in a third language. Never would have thought.

Everything = Nothing

I was listening to someone (via podcast) talk about developing an audience on the web. He made a very good point, or I'm remembering it as I wish it had been, in that case I guess I'm making a very good point, about focus. If you do a bit of everything, really you are doing nothing.

That's the way I've been feeling about this blog and about my creative life in general (not my work life, there I'm doing a lot of one thing). My room is full of 80% completed sketch books, half finished projects on a theme that have been laid aside for so long that going back to them now hardly makes sense, as the original impetus is long gone.

As for this everything blog, what's it going to be? Music? Art? Boxing? Clever musings? Porn?

I Heart Heart

 Timothy Bradley  brought more heart to the Bell center than it's seen in 42 Habs' games this year. Bradley hit the big time last year knocking down and beating Junior "the Hitter" Witter. It was nice to see a humble, hard-working, young talent take out Witter whose combination of cockiness and mind numbing dulness leaves a bad taste in my mouth.This time he was up against big mouth Kendall Holt. After letting Holt get in his head with his (very loud) trash talking during the referee's instructions, Bradley came out a bit recklessly and got dropped by a punch that came pretty close to ripping his head clear off his body. He got up, seemed to get his bearings back within the eight count and closed the round strongly. The rest of the fight was just a perfect example of wanting it more. While Holt stood around waiting to land the next big shot and bitching to the ref about anything and everything, Desert Storm just kept coming, punching through clinches and outworking his opponent for every second of every round. He got caught again in the twelfth, with his glove touching the canvas, but he convincingly won almost every minute in between. I scored the tenth as a 10-9 round as I thought that apart from the flash knock down Bradley won it. 

What's not to like about Timothy Bradley? He fought two of his last three fights outside the USA (most American boxers go a whole career without doing that even once). He is a smart guy who says interesting things without being a dick. He fights hard for 36 minutes. He's only 25(!) and the Habs inspired shorts put him over the top! Throwing on a Habs sweater is a bit of a cheap move but it works on me. I hope he becomes the next American fighter to realize what a great boxing town Montreal is and, following in the foot steps of Librado Andrade, becomes a de facto hometown boy. I for one would love to see more of him, and anyone really who has half a heart, wearing the Bleu, Blanc, Rouge.

Runner's World

On a chilly overcast morning with the cherry blossoms about one week past peak bloom, I woke at 5:30 and caught a ride to Saga city, about an hour and a half from Nagasaki. After making a mess in two of three public restrooms along the way we got to the race site. I spent the next half hour in three different lines; the first to register, the second to sign my name on the card because apparently the first line couldn't lend me a pen, the third was back to the first to do what I tried to do twenty minutes before. I swear the Japanese national pass time is standing in line.I guess it teaches patience, or more likely resignation to a Kafkaesque nightmare existence.But I'm like that guy in the Apple commercial throwing that thing through the giant screen!  I am not a number!! Actually I just fidget and sigh a lot. They know what that really means though.

So I finally got my number (oh, the irony) and after finding a locker, changing, and sleepily trying to safety pin a piece of paper to my chest, there were about three minutes left to race time. Ten seconds of stretching. I joined the crowd covering about half a race track and spotted a guy holding a sign "40:00 - 45:00". That's me! So I pushed my way up to where he was standing. Without any warning (that I heard or understood) the gun went off and people slowly began to shuffle towards the start line. Either everyone had ignored the sign suggesting what time they expected to achieve or they were all lying to themselves. The first two kilometers were tiring as I fluctuated between calming myself down and trying to establish a steady pace and weaving in, out, and around the slow and very slow. I felt like I ran an extra 500 meters in circumventing steps and was feeling pretty flat and sluggish when I hit the half way point. I checked the time : over 23 minutes. Damn! I'm tired, my feet weigh a hundred pounds each, and I have to go to the toilet (number one and two). Can I step it up and salvage a half decent time?

The second five was a painful and thoroughly unenjoyable countdown to the finish line. With one kilometer left the shuffle on my ipod picked out the exact kick in the ass I needed: "That Was Just Your Life" by Metallica. I always seem to get into a back and forth battle with at least one other runner and this time was no different. He would pass me and as I slowly picked up the pace towards the finish I would pull ahead. He rushes past me again and, keeping a steadily increasing, pace I reeled him in. Finally we enter the stadium and hit the track towards the finish line and I floor it. Good bye anonymous foe!

I was glad to see that the second five took less than 21 minutes and I was pretty satisfied that I had emptied the gas tank but was a little disappointed that I was a minute off my best time from last fall. Have I peaked? I hope not. I hadn't been living the healthiest lifestyle in the preceding months, what with so much work and eating fast food because I'm too exhausted too cook. I put on almost five pounds and I could really feel it in the knees and feet.  One step back, two steps forward. Which is a really bad way to run.