{ 2005 05 09 }

Closet bands

My friend Robert, Bob in Another Life suggested I admit my “closet bands” — artists I secretly love but will receive mass amounts of shit for loving once I reveal my allegiance. Everyone has these … cassettes you keep hidden in an unmarked bag in the closet, albums you keep at your parents’ house but won’t let them throw out, CDs hidden among the masses. I will try to remember as many as I can. Taunt me all you want; I do not fear your condemnation.

Ratt — My heavy metal phase was very brief … it basically took me through junior high, two awkward years in between being hooked on Devo, Gary Numan and Sparks and discovering the Cramps, B-52s, Black Flag and the Dead Kennedys, which launched me into all kinds of wonderful shit. The only thing I took away from the heavy metal phase was a love of Ratt … an appreciation I just can’t shake. Even now I’ll find myself rocking out to tracks from “Invasion of Your Privacy” when nobody’s looking. I even saw them in exchange for a friend going to a punk show with me in high school. I pretended to not like it at the time.

Enya — Fine, it’s me and millions of new age housewives keeping her in business. You know you secretly love her voice; you know it helps you sleep sometimes. Maybe it’s the ancient Druid in me, even though the Celts didn’t actually augment their voices with synthesizers.

Don Henley — As much as I want the Eagles as an entity to explode, I have a soft spot for Don Henley’s solo stuff, especially “The End of the Innocence.” I even went to see him in concert in 1989 at the New York State Fair (with Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians opening, which totally ruled). I was happy when Mojo Nixon, after Henley joined him onstage to sing the song, said he would change “Don Henley Must Die” to “Glenn Fry Must Die.” That should have been the title in the first place — “You Belong to the City” and “Smuggler’s Blues,” you just can’t forgive that shit.

Courtney Love — I know, I know. She’s batshit insane and the total opposite of class and annoys everyone everywhere. She steals songs from Billy Corgan and rode on her dead husband’s coattails. Blah, blah, blah. She’s just misunderstood, OK? Don’t ask me to explain it in a way you will accept as reason … but damn, she drives me crazy. When I hear her sing “Malibu” I want to take her on a road trip and give her a footrub in a hotel room at the end of the day. When I hear her sing Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman” I want to run away with her and make out in a diner. When she pushes people off the stage then jumps into the crowd to beat some ass I want her to rape me. When she tries to write checks her voice can’t cash I want to give her a big hug and some tea and tell her everything’s going to be OK.

Eminem — I like one song. That “Without Me” song. I’m sorry, but it grew on me because they would play it at Mogambo when I was visiting Tokyo right as we all had perfect buzzes going and the whole bar would sort’ve fuse into a collective hysteria. Their speaker system is the only way to hear it. To this day when I hear it I want another shot.

Martika — Yes, I own the “Toy Soldiers” cassingle. I bought it when it came out in 1989. I still listen to the song sometimes. Fuck you all. I love Martika.

That’s all I can think of now. Anybody ready to admit theirs?

Posted by sid on Monday, May 9th, 2005, at 8:46 pm, and filed under Uncategorized.

Follow any responses to this entry with the RSS 2.0 feed.

You can post a comment.