Mel Gibson, do I have a job for you!

Who, me? Crazy? I made Passion of the Christ! It's about Jesus!


Stoners and trippers of the world united way back in the day when it was "discovered" that playing "Dark Side of the Moon" simultaneously with the first hour of "The Wizard of Oz" would seemingly create a soundtrack for each scene. It seemed like one big stupid lie--which takes you to the root of it all: What idiot just happened to be listening to the Floyd while watching a muted Wizard of Oz? That's the 70s for you, I guess.

Let's face it, everyone loves conspiracy theories. We all want to be Fox Mulder, living life by the saying "I want to believe" no matter how dumb or far-fetched the topic. Anyone who writes convincingly enough with a few seemingly pertinent clues can cause a shitstorm overnight. For example, one of my favorite recent conspiracy theory essays had some paranoid geek convinced that the Facebook is some government spying tool to keep tabs on radical students (hence the "Political Views"), tying the creator of the Facebook to a bunch of conservative hotshots. You know what? You need to just relax, buddy. You know, go have a coffee with a friend, play a little beach volleyball, watch reruns of Designing Women, and when you're all settled, please shut the fuck up.

Music conspiracies usually catch a reader's eye a little more often because some artists are just pretentious and self-involved enough that they might actually create some sort of mystery out of their albums (read: Roger Waters). One that comes into mind is Tool and A Perfect Circle frontman Maynard James Keenan, who, according to many self-proclaimed experts, created a Fibonacci sequence puzzle out of the album "Lateralus." Looking at Tool's fan base, I'd like to think they're reading a little too deep into their gaunt and scraggly hero's "art," but I wouldn't put it past Maynard to be that ridiculously over-the-top.

According to some drunken hipster named Claudia, there is reason to believe that Spoon's "Gimme Fiction" is in fact sequenced backwards, with the new order of songs creating some sort of amazingly cohesive album. Apparently, each song has a little instrumental part near the end of it that references the previous song. This was unofficially refuted by many intrigued fans and some indirect comments by lead Spooner Britt Daniel, and has since led me to new words to live by: never, and I mean NEVER, trust a drunken hipster.

The final conspiracy I'd like to cover--one that definitely caught my eye--was the belief that if you re-order each song on the Pixies' "Doolittle" according to the order of the songs shown in the liner notes, you get the album "the way they originally intended." When I nerdily attempted, the only thing that really interested me was the fact that "No. 13 Baby" is indeed track 13 on the "real" version. The reason I'm not convinced is that I can't see Frank Black and Co. so into themselves by their second record that they decided they needed some sort of cryptic statement to prove themselves. Oh, and the fact that Doolittle is already incredible to begin with.

This just proves that when people are into an album enough, they're always left wanting more--the b-sides, the live versions, the rarities, and the really stupid conspiracy theories. Can't the original work be good enough for you? Christ, people.
I'll be back later, I'm busy rotating Peter, Paul and Mary for this really nifty deviled eggs recipe.

The $64,000 Question

Whenever I meet a person, one of my classic icebreakers (just like any other human being) is the dreaded question, “So, what music do you listen to?”

I hate to be asked this, yet I do it all the time. How do I respond? Do I give artist names or genres? To be horribly honest, I ask people this because I think I can look into their personality by figuring this out. Hence, I’m very self-conscious of what I tell people about my tastes. If I’m lucky I’ll hear their tastes first, so I can either agree with them or appease them by giving them bands I sort of like along with ones I really like. It’s a disgusting process, yet I can’t say it’s failed me.

A little while ago, I spoke to a relative I hadn’t seen in a long time. Since that time, I had figured her tastes had matured so I asked the $64,000 question. Her response? “Oh, I like the Shins… Elliot Smith, I like.”

Let’s analyze this. Now, I’m no psychologist, but it doesn’t take a shrink to judge people based on their music preferences. First off, the Shins are probably one of the safest bets you can make in this situation. Two words: Garden State. Every kid who wants to be smart and is 16 or above can say they like the Shins and face no ridicule because, as we all know, they “will change your life.” Plus the Shins are a relaxed, sillyish band, so you’re essentially telling someone you’re the same, but in person form. So far, so good.

Now, to Elliot Smith. The man’s a genius, but what does this tell about your personality? It could mean you’re relaxed, sentimental and contemplative, but it also could mean you’re a manic-depressive/saddo/moper. Of course, in this situation, my relative has gained the benefit of the doubt by mentioning the Shins first. Excellent move.

So she did a good job—the band maneuver tells us she’s smart, relaxed, and doesn’t like shitty music. But is it ever safe to pull the genre maneuver?

I’d highly discourage the genre maneuver for all credibility purposes. It seems harmless because you are making a broad statement hoping that you will sweep up the other person, but slightly fewer people will respond with, “Oh, spectacular…I too enjoy the stylings of alternative rock.” Also, assuming you know very little about this person, saying you like “alternative” or “indie rock” could mean many things to them—“alternative” could spell Papa Roach and “indie rock” could spell any shitty band who happens to be signed to Drive-Thru.

One of the formerly flawless moves was saying “Everything but rap and country.” As a 9th grader, that got you through many a tense situation and probably helped you make a few new (and shallow) friends. But now that people are older and more cynical, they like to say, “Oh, so you think Johnny Cash sucks?” or “I can’t be friends with anyone who dislikes Public Enemy.” I can’t think of anything that pisses me off more when that happens—sure, there’s an exception to every rule in music, but people can easily pick up what you mean by those two genres. Modern gangsta rap, for the most part, is stale and boring, and modern country… let’s just say I don’t give a beer-for-my-horse’s ass what you did during the day, how to drive a tractor, why your cowboy hat looks so good and how you got that barbeque stain on your white t-shirt. It saddens me that country sells so much. Ahem, anyways.


J-Dawg feels me.

So, in conclusion, we can say that whenever you are posed with the “music” question, your best bet is to start out naming a harmless band that is both a commercial and critical darling, and follow it up with ones more important to you in hope that they will agree. Worst-case scenario, you’re shrugged off as a neutral, but you also might have yourself a fine conversation piece for the next 5-10 minutes.

The $64,000 Question