Just a quickie

Listening to some music at work the other day and “Seventeen” by Foreigner came on (similar in content to Warrant (or whoever) that did “You’re Only Seventeen” that I frankly only know because of the commercial that used to run on TV for the Hair Metal album. You know, music a lot of folks liked in the late 80s/early 90s that “rocked” then but know they like it because it’s so cheesy.) anyway, it hit me that Foreigner (and Warrant, for that matter) were well old enough that they shouldn’t have been squiring teenage girls through song. How come, with the exception of “Stacy’s Mom” and “Mrs. Robinson”, you don’t hear these rock star types singing about older women. Especially with bands going on and on and on. Couldn’t Foreigner, these days, sing a song about a “girl” whose “Fifty-seven” and still be singing about a younger woman? or Warrant give us “She’s Only Forty-three”. It beats Iggy just singing songs about his dick (see the tepid recent Stooges album…)


Hairy Potheads

So i tried to go shopping at bookstores Friday night and was mildly successful. At one Barnes & Nobles I literally got three feet in the door before the chaos associated with all things Harry Potter hit in full force. As I reversed my way out, I ventured to two more stores in a non-Potter quest when it finally hit me how silly this phenomenon was and how much the music industry would, at this point in time, kill for anything remotely similar to it. As I saw twenty something year old Harry lookalikes smoking outside Borders (does Harry hit the cigs? I have no idea) I realized that in the old days when folks camped out for concert tickets or a new album release they didn’t do so dressed as their favorite artist. Sure a lot of Skynyrd fans sleeping in the Oz parking lot waiting for those Omni tickets to go on sale may have looked like Gary Rossington, but that’s just who they were, they weren’t making any special effort. And all of this for a book? I’m currently reading Pete Rose’s book (a Dollar Tree special complete with incorrect spelling of Rico Carty’s name!) but don’t expect me to look like Pete if I enjoy it.

Which leads me to these “role playing” kids who inhabit the Student Center Commons near WREK nearly every Saturday. Maybe it’s because I’ve never smoked pot, listened to a lot of Rush or Bauhaus and have never played Dungeons & Dragons, but I don’t get this either. I used to pretend I was Phil Esposito (or his brother Tony) when I was a kid, but I’d look a damn fool if I did that now.

And speaking of sports, here’s hoping the Braves truly honor Henry Aaron the next few days and give Mister Bonds absolutely nothing to hit…….

Sitting At The Metroplex…

Holy shit, it lives!!!

I drive by the site of the second (Marietta Street) Metroplex virtually every day going to and from work and while I don’t miss it as much as 688, it’s still one of those holes in my life I can never refill. At some point I’ll regurgitate a few more stories about the place but I’ll whet your appetite with two.

The first is late November of 1985, the second (and less impressive) Atlanta Dead Kennedys show. I parked down the street outside an African-American club called, I think, the Phoenix. I’ve always thought that was the only time I ever parked there but today decided I must have done it before that show because I felt ok about doing it. And the reason why I did it? To save the three bucks or so the guy charged for parking in the lot next to the ‘Plex. Needless to say, I rued my decision when I came back after the show to find it hade been towed. Save $3? Cost me probably about $100 to get it out. Plus, I had to find a ride home. My friend Todd couldn’t take me because he was going with Jello to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers show that was at 688 that night. (aside – the only words Jello Biafra probably ever heard me say was “They towed my fucking car”. That heartens me in some way.) Anyway, I drive by that place evryday as well. When I first started commuting to Centennial Tower I noticed the place had changed names to something Dance Club and had various country flags painted on it, leftover, I’m sure, from its proximity to Olympic festivities in 1996. Anyway, last night I looked over and they’d knocked the building down. One more old Atlanta structure gone to be replaced, probably, by a highrise of some sort.

The other Metrplex story I’ll regale you with today dates from 1986 or so, the first time Skinny Puppy played Atlanta (and the only time for several more years.) The end of their show seemed rather hokey at the time, with an “audience member” (aka band associate) pretending to shoot the lead singer (Ogre?) to death. It was actually sort of funny. Some guys from the band Flatbush were videotaping the show upstairs. As we knew the band would get a copy, we said loud enough to be on mic “At least Alice hung himself”. When some moron pulled this stunt for real on Dimebag Darrell, I could see why initially some audience members thought it might be part of the show. Bad life imitating bad art.

In the future I’ll bring up Arthur Davis getting clocked by a full beer can outside the club and other shenanigans that’ll make you think “damn…….”