Sweet Riffs
It’s November, and it’s finally starting to get cold out. This means local bands really need to bring it to get people out to their already sparsely attended shows. Come on guys and gals: apple cider? Roasted marshmallows? Better songs? I kid.
The long arm of the law took its first rock-club casualty last Saturday: There are officially no more shows at 3 Crow Bar. It’s all because of a new sprinkler ordinance that’s fucking over mostly smaller, older clubs that didn’t have the money for sprinklers when they opened and—surprise!—still don’t have the money for sprinklers now. Yeah, that seems fair. Remember that Jack White once went to 3 Crow that one time The Clutters played. But the bands were already finished playing, so nothing really spectacularly local-band-meets-rock-star-and-rock-star-says-good-job happened. Now that will never happen.
Good news: Everyone can finally stop bitching about all the dance parties that used to be going on every five seconds in place of actual honest-to-God rocking. ’Cause they’re done. Over. Well, this week there’s one rare cold-weather dance feud: Buddytown vs. Left Can Dance on Saturday night (see the Critics’ Pick on p. 30), and it’s really an identity question: Are you an anti-douchebag elitist or an anti-douchebag-hating-elitist elitist? Careful, I think it’s a trick question. Regardless, lighten up and wear something fantabulous.
No trick here: Everyone should go check out Illinois transplants/dick-swingers The Titts. I’ve only seen them once, but I keep thinking about them—wondering where they are, what they’re doing, who they’re with, what they’re thinking, if they’re thinking of me. They have that just-out-of-the-garage, ridiculous-posturing, ’70s-rock-muscle-car-driving sound that could really pump some new life into this indie-pop scene.
Speaking of the long arm of the law, if you’re out of ideas for new ways to get a misdemeanor, think about getting yourself a vehicle-owner DUI. All the cool kids are getting them these days. (Actually, back in May it was reported by the Associated Press that only 42 adults statewide had gotten vehicle-owner DUIs in 2007. As of press time, that number had jumped to 141.) Haven’t heard of a vehicle-owner DUI? It’s a new Tennessee law that says if you let someone drive your car who’s intoxicated and they get a DUI, you’re getting a DUI too. It’s a cool idea, because the whole reason you give your keys to someone else when you’re too drunk to drive is so that you can get arrested, right?
Say you’re out having a few brewskies and a bartender/promoter you know from a well-known club says he wants to buy you a shot of Grand Marnier. Drink or think, my friend! That might be just the amount of alcohol that pushes you right into slurs and swerves. So you try to do the right thing and ask your companion, who has had only four beers over four hours, to drive. But then you thought going all the way from East Nashville to West End to get Taco Bell was a good idea.
Surprise, dumbass! There’s a little road block over by Ted’s Montana Grill. Your companion is stopped, questioned and field-sobriety-tested. He fails, blowing a .081 on ye olde breathalyzer—just barely over the legal limit. Next thing you know, he’s getting handcuffed and arrested, and there you are in the passenger seat of your own car with only the warmth of a sad, steaming little chicken quesadilla in your lap to comfort you. You feel devastated and terrible for him. That is, until you find out you’re about to be arrested too. (With vehicle-owner DUIs, it doesn’t even matter if you’re in the car or not, so long as you’ve given permission to the driver.)
Anyhoo, long story short, it wasn’t the getting handcuffed part—which was oddly thrilling for its novelty alone—that sucked the most. It wasn’t even the plastic restaurant-high-chair quality backseat of the cop car, or the cramped leg space, or the flashing blue lights, or the deep sense of shame, or the boiling sense of injustice.
Back in the cop car, upon finding out I worked for the Scene, the officer mentioned what a big fan of the rock music he was as I sat waiting for a friend to come pick up my car—they were nice enough to let me do that rather than charge me $8 million to have the city tow it. Turns out he liked the hard stuff—you know, what radio calls “active rock.” We’re talking Nickelback and Saliva, maybe a little Korn every now and then. He’d always wanted to write concert reviews. After chatting it up for a few minutes, I thought we’d established some common ground. “So uh, why don’t you just use some police discretion here and let me go?” I asked. “Not for a DUI, we just can’t ma’am.”
And as he started up the ignition on the cruiser, I thought about how I was about to see this city from quite a different angle, and searched myself for that vague sense of fuck-you-justice-system anarchism I was sure I’d feel if I were ever cuffed wrongly. I’d already been told my case would probably get dismissed, though, so really I was just going to ride it out and see what it was like on the other side. A mug shot! A record! Gross jail people! For some reason I thought of the opening stabs of “A Quick One While He’s Away” by The Who that blares while Max Fisher—with an expression that’s a perfect mix of indignation and pride—gets arrested for mischief in Rushmore. Pretty badass. But a vehicle-owner DUI? Bullshit. Total bullshit.
Just as I got all worked up about the absurdity of it, the cop pulled out to take me downtown, and cranked up his stereo. The soundtrack to my vague angry amused shame? The sweet, sweet post-grunge argh-rock of Puddle of Mudd.
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