THE HORROR, THE HORROR

Thanks to my sister, the ad and blog whiz for bringing this to my attention. I am just a mere music fan-just another nameless fanatic in a stadium filled with my ilk, a pedestrian engrossed in her own little earbud world, a face in a car among America's many listening to the music of her liking while in traffic, a mere digit in the record company's demographic. I may be minuscule but I take great pains in respecting the individuals who leave me in awe when they transmogrify theirs and life's innards into music. I cringe when I hear bastardized versions of "Hey Jude" in elevators and in hackneyed renditions from best-of medley albums and noon-time variety shows. My music is a personal thing, a statement, a credo.
The people who make them are my idols, my heroes, my loves and my cautionary tales. As love goes as love does, I am protective of their art, their legacy, their memory, of them. I certainly do not wish to get them fucked in the ass from their graves by pretentious yuppie scum. Which is what the ad monster, Saatchi and Saatchi have done with the images of these four grand gentlemen of rock. Although they have fired the offending agency, for Doc Martens to have approved this to run in the first place behooves me. Perhaps the memory of those trademark steel toes digging into the sides of Jewish youth while being worn by Neo Nazi's singing "Oi! Oi! Oi!" does not suffice? Nothing like the pock mark of controversy to Lohan-in pop culture attention. To emphasize the durability of the product my arse. I'm from an inconsequential small town from the third world and I know all about the iconical Docs. I do not need to have this abomination rubbed in for good measure, thank you.
Finally, for a generation who still has not gotten over the loss of Kurt Cobain and may never will.... what can one say?
The legacy of these gentlemen is always there. For those of us left behind, we live on and live through. And hope people like Kurt can finally find the peace they have not quite found in this world.
Rest in Peace, Gentlemen. DIE YUPPIE SCUM.


Link

SAVE A HORSE RIDE A VIRGIN: MORE post-its from the fest (RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS)

"They don't know what it's like to love some silly little piece of music or some band SO much, that it hurts." --Sapphira the Band-Aid (Fairuza Balk), Almost Famous.



A few years ago, in another world, for the first time in my life, guilt-filled and choked up, I begged my dad to succomb to a rare ostentatious frivolity. Until that time I had never cooed, cajoled nor manipulated my parental units into spending beyond their means for my sake despite my reputation as the spoiled youngest. Needless to say it was to no avail. Ironically it was one of the most emotional moments between me and my father. With my mom away in Cebu to tend to my sister and her new-born, it was just me and him talking quietly in our living room, the tv off, my tearful sobs and my dad’s heart breaking as he comforted a pained offspring. I had begged him to ask his sister, my aunt, for a loan to finance a trip back to Singapore to watch the Chili Peppers in concert, a whim, with our finances, not too far-fetched but nevertheless, a whim. My sister just gave birth; my grandmother was of ailing health and; I, the nurse in the family, was practically jobless and awaiting my fate to go to the land of oppurtunity. A whim.

So I waited and languished a few years more for my rock ‘n roll dream to reach fruition. On September 23, 2006, that dream came true ten times over: at the first ever Virgin Fest in the US at the Pimlico Racetrack. A spit-throw away from my rented enclave and a literal part of my route to and from work, one could imagine the screaming thrill of seeing the gradual rise of the main stage before my eyes while I drove by, as the THE date drew closer.


On the day itself, I restrained myself from imbibing too much alcohol for I had wanted to savor every moment unsmashed. When the beginnings of "Can't Stop" emanated through the cool Baltimore air, what else could a girl do but go ape shit?

The rest of this blog is going to be mostly clips from the fest courtesy of fellow V-festers in You Tube. Words cannot even begin to describe...


The moment John started singing this, my knees buckled and I crashed on my friend Amy's shoulders sobbing uncontrollably as echoes of every dream I had ever had finally lead me to this night.


Dani California. This was exactly how I pictured this song played live in my head.


The encore. My anthem. And as Flea walked off the stage on his head with his hands, I thought, "It is indeed much sweeter, Tay. SO much sweeter."