I was up watching SNL this weekend so I could catch The206 afterward.
The206, was good, but 15 minutes of commercials for a 30 minute show, and watching Keister pimping local businesses made me realize just how much the country has changed since Almost Live’s heydey. The in-your-face emphasis on the show making money wasn’t lost on anyone, but you can’t blame the actors. Dallas 5 shareholders are only concerned about the bottom line.
Anyway, the musical guests on SNL this weekend was some hipster band that I almost muted the moment they started playing.
“Oh, look, some rich kids have formed a band”, I said, “their parents must be ever so proud.”
When I saw the blonde girl in the back playing maracas, it was just too Williamsburg, BK for me. Back when I lived in the borough, that neighborhood was not yet a pejorative. My how times have changed. Why must gentrification and authenticity always be so mutually-exclusive?
Instead of muting the performance at first white-girl sight, I watched for a few more seconds then a few more, then a few more, finger on the mute button, ready to pull the trigger.
It never happened, though. Somehow, someway, I made it through.
Nobody was more surprised than I was that I had endured it all.
After the performance was over, I said “you know, maybe it wasn’t so bad”. The frontman seems rather sincere, even though a couple of the members look like trust-fund kids. He actually emotes, and not in a contrived, cliche’d way. I’m sick of fucking autistic Gen Y bands, singing about how their girlfriends abuse them, but how the singer is still loyal.
“Most sweetest beauty, I know you fucked my best friend, and the mailman, and my brother, and my mom … but it’s only because I’m not good enough for you … which is why you have an eating disorder … and you cut yourself … but someday I’ll be worthy … someday … you’ll have the best soy latte that you ever had … and me … oh, and here is a pair of earrings I made for you … they’re my testicles.”
Good God, man the fuck up already. Kick the bitch to the curb then spend the next two months snorting oxycodone off of a hooker’s ass in the Marco Polo on Aurora. Sure, you’ll emerge strung out and broke, but at least you’ll still have some self-respect left.
You know, I’m not one for Motley Crue machismo-rock myself. Cock-rock is intolerable and unrelatable to me as well. But Jeeeesus Fucking Christ, must the only alternative be neutered hermaphrodites playing the goddamn tambourine?
Once again, I digress.
This week, I noticed that “fun.” was playing at the Paramount in February.
“Oh, what the hell”, I thought, and against what may be my better judgement, I endeavored to get tickets.
It’s sort of a big deal. I’ve never seen a hipster band before. I’ve never seen any band that used autotune. It will either open up a whole new concert-going experience for me, or it will sour me on the idea forever, assuring that I will never see a band formed post-1998 ever again.
Which one will it be?
Only time will tell.
As for the show itself, I sure hope it’s [puts pinkie to the side of mouth and pauses for dramatic effect] …. fun.
Because it’s what I hope to have AND it’s the name of the band too!
Do you see?
Do you see what I did there?
Fuck you, that’s why.