The Mellow Hut

Speed It Up a Notch

I think freshman year of college is pretty much the same for everyone, nothing but a series of exchanges: brilliant ideas during class, drink recipes in the evening, and bodily fluids throughout the night. And so it was with me, at least with the ideas and drink recipes. Or maybe just the drink recipes.

But more important than any of that was the exchanging of musical tastes and opinions. A decade before Napster, we found our new music the old fashioned way -- by roaming the halls rather than trolling the internet -- and it was good. It was definitely hit and miss, though. My roommate, for instance, counted The Outfield's "Play Deep" among his favorites, and there was a boy genius two floors up whose taste ran towards television soundtracks (think Muppet Show), but everywhere else, it seemed, music was the currency that mattered.

Even though I had grown up suckling at the breast of KROQ, the most influential alternative rock station in the country at the time, I still found a good deal of new material in bands like the Replacements and Camper van Beethoven.

The undisputed kings of the college scene, however, were R.E.M. Their album Document had dropped earlier that year, and it quickly became the soundtrack of our Friday and Saturday nights. To this day whenever I hear that disc's opening track, "Finest Worksong," I swear I can hear the clinking of quarters hiding behind Michael Stipe's lyrics. From there we'd work our way to perhaps the best drunken sing-along of all time, "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)," and the inevitable competition to see who could keep up with the lyrics the longest. We'd usually get to "speed it up a notch" before the whole thing dissolved into mumbles and laughter until the chorus kicked in and brought us back together again.

My love for R.E.M. stems from those nights. Not only was the music cool, it made you feel cool to like the music, if that makes sense. As you sung along you could be bouncing around and screaming "Leonard Bernstein!" at the top of your lungs one moment, then soulfully crooning along with "The One I Love" the next while cynically pointing out to anyone who would listen that it really isn't a love song at all. They were the quintessential college band.

And then they grew up, and there were growing pains. Out of Time was a nice little album, but it was a little too shiny in some places, a little too happy in others. Automatic for the People also sounded good at first listen, but now it feels like something you'd hear at a Renaissance Pleasure Fair -- mandolins, zithers, and sitars, oh my! From there, it only got worse. The albums weren't necessarily bad, just forgettable.

Don't worry, though. In case you haven't heard, the boys from Athens-Gee-Ay are back, and this time they brought their guitars. Their latest album, Accelerate, came out a few months ago, and it's probably their best disc in two decades. It's filled with catchy guitar riffs and some of Stipe's best lyrics in a while. It all begins with an incredibly un-R.E.M.-like guitar that kicks off the opening track, "Living Well Is the Best Revenge," then jumps to "Supernatural Superserious," probably the one true pop song on the album. With lyrical hooks like "you don't have to explain the humiliation of your teenage station" and "you realized your fantasies are all dressed up in travesties," this one's sure to get some radio play.

The standard album closes with the quirky "I'm Gonna DJ," an apocalyptic tune about staging a party at the end of the world. (Equally quirky songs like "Red Head Walking" and the instrumental "Airliner" didn't make the cut, but they're nice B-sides that come with the extended version of the album.)

My favorite cut, though, has to be "Hollow Man." This song tricks you into thinking that you've accidentally slipped Automatic back into the CD player, but quickly corrects you a few bars in as the power chords drop in and push the cheesy intro lyrics aside. The chorus is transcendent, and seems written to be sung by Michael Stipe and ten thousand of his closest friends: "Believe in me, believe in nothing. Corner me and make me something. I've become the hollow man, have I become the hollow man I see?" Trust me, it sings better than it reads.

Altogether, the album is excellent. I'm not sure it will ever have the nostalgia of stale beer and hangovers like Document does for me, but I know I'll still be listening to it ten years from now.

The Cure for the Common Coldplay

As my family and I walked a local outdoor mall this past Sunday afternoon, we heard gunshots coming from a Civil War re-enactment taking place a few blocks away (and a few thousand miles from the closest actual Civil War site). Only minutes before we had been laughing as we noticed the signs along the road, and we made jokes about the people whose daily lives were so boring that they had to reach a century and a half into the past for weekend entertainment. I was so glad we were cool.

And then it hit me. The night before, my wife and I had attended a re-enactment of our own -- the Cure, live in concert, about a century and a half after they first hit big with "Boys Don't Cry." Don't worry, though. If there's one important difference between our night at the Hollywood Bowl and all those imitation hillbillies running around with muskets, it's this: the Cure flat-out rocked.

As always, the Cure begins and ends with Robert Smith. Even though he'll turn fifty years old next April, Smith keeps it real on stage -- the tumbleweed hairdo, deeply smudged black eyeliner, and sloppy red lipstick are still in full effect, and I'd have to say that he wears it well. The band's fashionista, though, is clearly their on-again-off-again lead guitarist, Porl Thompson. Thompson was resplendent in a fishnet body suit which was held tightly in place by a leather corset. Knee-high patent leather boots with six-inch heels capped off the ensemble, and his head was shaved bald to show off the black tribal tattoos snaking around his head. (As an aside, a suspiciously normal-looking guy in the row behind us was absolutely obsessed with Thompson's outfit. To quote: "I just wish I could be comfortable enough to wear something like that!")

But back to Smith. Even though he looks the same on the outside, something seems to have happened to the Godfather of Goth. He's happy. Sure, he managed a sinister growl as he belted out the less-then-loving lyrics of "The Kiss":
Get it out, get it out, get it out,
Get your fucking voice
Out of my head.
I never wanted this
I never wanted any of this
I wish you were dead
I wish you were dead

But there was a lot more to Mr. Smith. As he led the band through a career-encompassing, three-hour set, he flirted with the camera, teased the crowd, and gladly accepted bouquets of flowers from fans in the front row. In short, he had a good time. This was the Cure?

Yes, this was the Cure. And as they ripped through one hit after another (Lovesong, Pictures of You, Lullaby, Just Like Heaven, Let's Go to Bed, Love Cats) the band seemed to be reminding us that these songs were the bricks in the road that everyone else has followed. Like them or not (and you really should like them), bands like Jane's Addiction, Smashing Pumpkins, and even Nine Inch Nails owe a debt to the Cure. Remind me now, how it is that they haven't yet been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

But back to the show. Now here's the beautiful part. Whether you were once a thirteen-year-old boy who stole your mother's eyeliner and found solace in Smith's depressing lyrics, a sorority girl who fell in love when your boyfriend gave you a mix-tape that started off with "Just Like Heaven," or even a college junior who turned out the lights and listened to "Disintegration" for hours on end, everything came together for you with the thirty-fifth and final song of the night.

The song was almost thirty years old, but it spoke to all of us -- the mark, I suppose, of a truly classic song. The entire Bowl, it seemed, sang along from beginning to end, culminating with the final verse: "Now I would do most anything/To get you back on my side/But I just keep on laughing/Hiding the tears in my eyes/Because boys don't cry/Boys don't cry/Boys don't cry."

As the last few notes died away and it became clear that this fourth encore was finally the end of the evening, the crowd thanked the band for three hours and thirty years. As the cheers cascaded down to the stage, a funny thing happened. With no more music left to play, Robert Smith clearly didn't know what to do. He smiled, but only half a smile. He bowed, but only half a bow. For the first time all night, he appeared nervous and uncomfortable, and he lingered on stage, perhaps hoping we wouldn't go. As he looked out at us through the massive video screens flanking the stage, I suddenly flashed back to a verse from the middle of that final song:

I would tell you
That I loved you
If I thought that you would stay
But I know that it's no use
That you've already
Gone away...

Perhaps, but we'll definitely be back.

The Cure::Hollywood Bowl::May 31, 2008 Playlist

Plainsong
Prayers for Rain
The End of the World
The Walk
A Night Like This
Lovesong
Sleep When I'm Dead
To Wish Impossible Things
Pictures of You
Lullaby
The Edge of the Deep Green Sea
The Perfect Boy
Hot Hot Hot!!!
The Only One
Push
Friday I'm in Love
In Between Days
Just Like Heaven
A Letter to Elise
Never Enough
Wrong Number
One Hundred Years
Baby Rag Dog Book

Encore #1
If Only Tonight We Could Sleep
The Kiss

Encore #2
At Night
M
Play for Today
A Forest

Encore #3
Love Cats
Let's Go to Bed
Freak Show
Close to Me
Why Can't I Be You?

Encore #4
Boys Don't Cry

Freckles and Tea

In the waning days of the summer of 1983 I attended my first concert ever, and it was a doozy. There were many tours that summer -- Talking Heads, Tom Petty, Tears for Fears, Steve Miller -- but the biggest by far was the Police’s Synchronicity Tour. Sting, Stewart Copeland, and Andy Summers were on top of the world, and they headed into the Hollywood Park racetrack with three opening acts: Berlin, the Fixx, and the Thompson Twins. (Yes, this was the 80s...) What makes this story interesting, though, is that since I was only thirteen and my step-brother Peter only twelve, we would not be allowed to go alone. My mother took us.

In case you’re only thirteen years old and you’re thinking about asking your mom to take you to a concert, you can use this story as a case study of what not to do. Here’s how it went...

The first thing you need to know is that September is probably the hottest month in Southern California, and this was a typical September day. The Thompson Twins were scheduled to start things off in the early afternoon, so we arrived for the general admission show at about noon, which gave us plenty of time to bake in the sun.

Coincidentally, there was a group of teenage girls sitting directly in front of us who were getting baked while baking in the sun. (Their mothers were not in attendance.) There was one particular girl, probably about fifteen or so, who spent an awful lot of time with the pipe in her mouth. Her brown hair was cut daringly short, just like all the cool kids of the day, and freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, souvenirs, no doubt, of countless summer days spent lounging on the beach.

If ever there was a teachable moment, this was it, and my mom took full advantage. As Freckles drifted further and further into her purple haze, my mom became more and more disgusted. "Just look at her," she said. "She's here with her friends at this big concert, and she's not going to remember any of it!" For years it was the image of Freckles trying to keep her eyelids open that served as my own personal anti-drug campaign.

But there were other interesting aspects of the day, like when Pete and I went to buy some soda and missed the Thompson Twins' entire set. Or when I had the pleasure of sitting next to my mother while Terri Nunn writhed around on the stage screaming "I'm a slut!" Or when alcohol mixed with pounding sun and boredom between sets to produce the biggest melee I've ever seen. (It was at about this time, I would later learn, that a young Gwen Stefani had the pleasure of shaking Sting's hand, a meeting which -- no doubt -- propelled her to a career in music.)

When the Police finally took the stage the sun had finally retreated behind the grandstand and given way to a much cooler evening, but the damage could be seen everywhere. Shirtless men showed off bright red backs, and Freckles and her friends looked like they were waiting to be tucked in.

Sadly, the music itself doesn't hold as strong a place in my memory as all the rest of it. In fact, there are only two things that I remember for certain about the performance. First, when they played "King of Pain," I remember wondering why the crowd insisted on singing "it's the same old SHIT as yesterday," when the lyric was clearly supposed to be "same old thing." Second, instead of taking an intermission, Sting imposed his British will and the band retreated to their dressing room for a tea break which was broadcast on jumbo screens for all to see. It was all quite civilized until Sting and Stewart staged a fight and flipped over the tea table. Definitely, an omen of things to come...

As soon as the show was over, my mom gathered us up and headed to the parking lot, oblivious to our assurances that there would be an encore. The day had already been much more than she had bargained for. As we were searching in the dark for the family car, we heard the crowd roar in the distance, and then the music started again. We had been right about the encore, but it hardly mattered.

On that night the Police became my favorite band. I wore the tour t-shirt proudly on the first day of school later that week, and almost every Friday for the rest of that year. The following year I would find myself in a new school far from my old friends, but it was the Police who came to my rescue. I fell in with a group of tenth graders who spent much of July and August -- and by that I mean every single day -- swimming in my backyard pool. The soundtrack of that summer was Outlandos D'Amour. We listened to it hundreds of times until we owned each of Steward Copeland's drum riffs, anticipated every lilt of Sting's voice, and memorized every aspect of Andy Summers's guitar solos. I cannot listen to any of those songs without feeling the sting of chlorine in my eyes.

Eventually I would have all of their albums and follow Sting deep into his solo career, but there was always a regret. If I had seen that concert after becoming a fan, how much better would it have been?

Thankfully, I'll finally be able to get an answer this summer. In celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of "Roxanne," the boys have mended the fences well enough to plan what should be the biggest tour of the summer.

They'll be playing Dodger Stadium in June, and I'll be there. Tickets went on sale on Monday morning at 10:00 AM, and even though I was teaching class at the time, I was still able to sneak onto my computer long enough to buy two tickets before they sold out at 10:30. The price really didn't matter, because there was no price I wouldn't have paid. I'll finally get to see the encore I've been waiting twenty-four years to hear. And who knows -- maybe I'll even see Freckles again.