The Sleeping Bear

I’ve turned into a grassman. No, I’m not one of those Bob Marley wannabes with bugs in my hair who hates deodorant but loves kicking the hacky sack. I’m the kind of grassman who likes to mow the lawn, kill weeds, fertilize and water.

It’s not surprising. I come from a long line of grassmen, sired by some of the greatest grassmen this side of Augusta. Both of my grandparents were grassmen. Grandpa Bob was notorious for his immaculate lawns. They were so green and weed-free that you’d think you’d died and gone to heaven. But not the Muslim heaven, because there weren’t any virgins around. Though he had the money for it, Grandpa Bob didn’t need migrant Mexican labor for his lawn – he did it all himself with a mix of cancer-causing pesticides regular mowings and lots of water.

Grandpa Arnold was also an avid grassman. His ideal day consisted of catching a Twins game on TV and then going outside to his riding lawnmower to whip his lawn into shape. By the time he got to his late 80s, he could barely walk, but he always managed to walk out to the garage, get that lawnmower and shave that fast-growing grass.

And then there’s my dad. He may tell you that he hates mowing the lawn, but just one look at the two-acre parcel he slices and dices and you know he’s lying. No one would create a yard of that size without being an honest-to-goodness grass-aholic.

An anecdotal aside: We were recently enjoying the dad’s immaculately mowed parcel when the following conversation occurred:

Relative: It must take you forever to mow the lawn.

Pops: About 4 hours.

Relative: At least you’ve got kids to do it.

Pops: Too bad they never did.

I of course protested. I remember killing many a young tree, scraping the bark off of apple trees and running over garden hoses while tooling around on the Snapper. But the truth was, I didn’t mow the lawn much. Why? Because dad’s a grassman through and through and didn’t trust us to mow as precisely as him. Bottom line: We weren’t grassmen.

But now, I’m sad to admit, I am. I bought a house 5 years ago (and didn’t own a lawnmower for my first three months in the new abode). I didn’t care about my lawn, mainly because with three shitty, pissy dogs, it’s very hard to keep the lawn in order.

And what damage those shit-pissers did. Yellow spots, dead spots, spots where no living thing, not even a cockroach, could survive. And the retreating grass was quickly taken over by dandelions and Creeping Charlie. And not the Vietnam-era Creeping Charlies. This one is harder to kill.

My conversion to grass-aholic started almost two years ago. Over Labor Day weekend the little lady and I (mostly the little lady since I just want to veg on the couch) decided to dig up the most disgusting part of our yard and re-sod it. Three days of back-breaking labor and many swear-words later, and we had ourselves a green lawn.

But it didn’t last. We made the mistake of letting the dogs on it this past winter. When the snow and ice (which was mostly dog piss and shit) melted, we were staring at half of our new sod dead and gone.

And that’s when I knew I was a grass junkie. Because I dug up half the new sod, laid down some even newer sod and sprinkled in some grass seed for good measure. Then we laid down a killing field that consisted of both fertilizer and weed killer. And we watered like hell. And to top it off, we put up a green chicken fence that isolated said pissers/shitters to the deadest part of the lawn. No more free range pissing/shitting at SCL’s house.

Obviously, that didn’t kill the Creeping Charlie (because he’s damn near impossible to kill), but I solidified my grass habit by raking up what I could (since Chuck’s essentially a ground vine, it worked better than expected) and then got down on my heretofore pristine hands and knees to pick out the creepers. Yeah, you heard me, nearly 15,000 square feet of lawn full of creeping grass death and I’m systematically de-creeping it inch by inch.

That’s commitment. And that’s why I have now been indoctrinated into the Grassman faith.

It’s time I come clean. I’m addicted. Addicted to H. What can I say? It is more addictive that crack, meth or ganja. No, I’m not talking heroin, I’m talking Local H, the Chicago area post-grunge rock machine that keeps on ticking while others in the genre fade away.

Last night I got a chance to see the two-piece live in person at the Rock in my hometown, Maplewood, MN. The wife and I arrived at 9, just in time to see the second half of a set by Apple Valley act The Soviet Machines. A high school punk band slightly reminiscent of Green Day, they were surprisingly good, surprisingly entertaining and as my wife pointed out, really small and wearing really tight pants. “Oh, they’re so small I could put them in my pocket.”

After that another Minnesota band, Santiago’s own Seazon of the Fly, took the stage. They reminded me of a cross between Alice and Chains and the Melvins. I like those two bands, but for some reason I wasn’t captivated by the fly. But you gotta give a band from the small oasis in the bowels of Sherburne County credit for being original - they had some solid guitar work layered in their songs. Plus, as a marketing guy, I was impressed by their post-show marketing efforts - they had folks wandering through the crowd trying to sign up for their mailing list and gave away their CD after the show. Heck, they probably have a more polished web site than Local H.

But enough about the opening acts. I was there for the H. I needed the H. I hadn’t seen the H live this millennium, so I had high expectations.

And the H didn’t disappoint. The frontman (literally, guitar, bass and vocal pretty much makes you the frontman) with two first names, Scott Lucas, and the patron saint of drummers (and birds), Brian St. Clair, started the show off with a bang, pounding out The One With ‘Kid’ and Michelle in quick succession. Touring behind their exceptional new album, 12 Angry Months, the band played with ferocity. Closing in on two decades of music-making, Lucas showed why Local H is considered one of the best live bands in the business by ripping up aggressive Local H staples like Fritz’s Corner and Bound for the Floor (with a brief segue to Britney Spears’ Toxic), slowing down for songs like 12 AMs Simple Pleas, and going tripping on Buffalo Trace from 2004’s Whatever Happened to PJ Soles.

But Lucas wasn’t the only star of this show. St. Clair is a maniac behind the kit, as close to Animal as you’ll find. He’s a mesh of long, stringy, sweaty hair, flailing limbs and hard-hitting menace. His drums take a pounding night in and night out, as he mashes drumsticks into toothpicks. How he managed to survive the week-long residency at Chicago’s Beat Kitchen that coincided with the release of 12AM I’ll never know, but I’m glad he did because his all-out drum assault is a sight to behold. To call Scott lucky to have found someone capable of filling Joe Daniels’ shoes is an understatement.

After ripping through nearly 90 minutes of their own material, including nearly half of 12AM (Taxi-Cabs may be my new favorite live H song) they closed with a roaring cover of TV on the Radio’s Wolf Like Me, including an incredible closing drum flourish by Brian St. Clair. The complete setlist:

The One With Kid
Michelle
Lovey Dovey
California Songs
White Belt Boys
Simple Pleas
Hands on the Bible
Buffalo Trace
Taxi-Cabs
Half-Life
Cooler Heads
24 Hour Breakup Session
How’s the Weather Down There?
All the Kids are Right
Fritz’s Corner

Encore:
No Problem
Bound for the Floor (with Toxic in the middle)
Wolf Like Me

After the set, Lucas exited stage right and walked through the crowd to the merchandise booth to chat with his adoring fans. Which leads me to my soapbox: If the music industry wants a shining example of a band that gets it right, they should look to Local H. They’ve built up one of the most loyal (and possibly dysfunctional, but that’s for another soapbox) fan bases in the industry because they make music by themselves, for themselves and their fans. Name me another band that would (or even could) play their entire catalogue live in a 7 day span - and do it for $10 a show. They aren’t in it for the money, or the women or the booze (well, the money, women and booze are nice perks), but the music. It’s the old-fashioned rock ethic of hard work, long bus rides, small bars and loud music. It’s uncommonly good music for the common person. And it’s why I have the utmost respect for them - music is about the live experience and Local H does it better than most.

That’s my review. The best part of the concert experience: watching the crowd. Random concert anecdotes:

Elaine - Seriously, I had a Seinfeld flashback watching this chick strut her stuff on the dance floor. For her sake, I hope she was tripping on something, because she was quite possibly the worst dancer I’ve ever seen live and in person. If she wasn’t high, she must suffer from a the worst case of the white person’s lack of rhythm disease ever diagnosed. She’d move fast during the slow parts, slow during the fast parts and accent during the unaccented parts.

Mohawk - My wife was enthralled with the mohawk next to us. “He had the most perfect mohawk I’ve ever seen. It was perfect.” I think she spent more time watching the mohawk to see if it would fall (it didn’t) than watching the concert. I gotta admit, mohawk man, it was pretty impressive. Nice work.

Tall, older guy who randomly wandered into the mosh pit at the end of the set - So Local H is pounding through Wolf Like Me, the 10 person mosh pit is going strong and suddenly, out of nowhere, some tall guy in his 30s wanders into the pit, as if in a daze. Just sort of saunters on in with a “This is pretty neat. I have the munchies” look on his face. He’s not bouncing up and down or flailing his limbs like the regulars, just going for a leisurely stroll through the pit. Guys hit him and he bounces softly for 1 or 2 beats and then continues on at a leisurely pace, oblivious to the craziness around him.

The Barber - The dude next to me shouting “I love your haircut, Scott” repeatedly. Sure, that’s an odd thing to say once. But when you say it 60 times in rapid succession, sometimes saying “Fucking love it!” while shaking your head in wonderment, it gets a little creepy. Maybe it was some kind of inside joke that I don’t get, but it was odd to say the least.

A great show by a great band ended with my wife and I in complete agreement. “I’d like to just follow them across the country and watch all their shows.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

I recently attended a Sales training session. No, I’m not in Sales. I don’t ever want to be in Sales. But that doesn’t mean I can’t sell – I could sell a sex tape to a nun, if I wanted to. And I’d throw in a free dildo emblazoned with “I’ll make you see God” along its length just for the fun of it.

Anyway, back to our Sales meeting. I’m obligated to attend the Sales meeting and put a spin on all the cool stuff I’m doing. So yea, my speech took 30 seconds.

So I roll into some posh country club on the other side of the city for day one of four days of training. And our Sales reps are there in all their “Voted Most Likely to Talk Forever Without Really Having a Clue About What They Are Talking About” glory. There’s the bitch from Milwaukee. The bimbo from Texas. The doofus from Chicago. And the Stan’s mom wannabe from Boston. It’s an eclectic group of me-first corporate transients. The only people in the company who require a commission on top of their exorbitant salary and all-expenses-paid traveling excursions in order to do their job.

I love sales folks.

So I roll in 10 minutes in advance and pick a chair in the far back corner. First up is our EVP of Sales. The head honcho. The kingpin. He comes flying in, full of energy and pizzazz and pops up a few slides showing recent sales and generating applause. That’s all well and good and I’m thinking “Hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe I won’t be subjected to lots of suits, shiny shoes and cheesy songs, long the staple of sales meetings past.”

No sooner had that thought exited stage right than our Sales leader asks his admin assistant to cue up the music. Judging from his manic attitude and expanding waistline, I’m hopeful that in addition to cheeseburgers, pizza and blow, the big cheese’s past may have been filled with some bearable classic rock.

Think again Commish, here comes the Michael Scott moment. It’s time for the banjos, violins and steel guitars of your favorite country music stars! And it wasn’t even a recognizable country song by Travis Tritt or Johnny Cash or Rascal Flatts (who says I don’t know my country superstars?) nor any song that could be associated with some sort of poorly choreographed barnyard line dance. Nope, this was some obscure cult classic country hit by a bronc-riding cowboy.

And Commish is thinking “Wow. Fucking blowing my mind here.”

Even the hardcore country music fans in the audience were taking off their straw hats and scratching their unwashed heads wondering who the hell was singing this twangy song. And wondering why the heck the sales leader of one of the fastest-growing companies in the US was having a hoedown and clapping along to it.

Next up: Our Sales Consultant. Next cliché please. Yup, you guessed it, slide 1 of her presentation included a definition of the word optimize. She even went so far as to include a picture of the Merriam-Webster logo. Because that’s where she got the definition from, of course. Solid use of the visual aid.

Let me crack my knuckles before this next typed rant.

If you’re a Sales Consultant the last thing you should be doing is starting a presentation with a definition of a word. Seriously. That’s the lamest thing this side men wearing assless chaps. It may have worked in 8^th grade speech. But this isn’t 8^th grade speech. Sure, it’s the path of least resistance. But so is driving your car straight off a cliff. Would you do that? Please?

So I’m over in the corner, banging my head against the table for the rest of the presentation. And then comes the big finish: You guessed it, another fucking song! I think it was Journey or some other dishearteningly dated act. By this point I had tied my tie to the ceiling fan and was looking forward to greeting my dead pets.

And our company relies on these yahoos to sell our product? They can’t come up with a better idea for a presentation than a definition and a song?

How about I define a word for you?

Imbecile: You, you fucking moron.

Maestro, cue up Slayer’s cover of the Verbal Abuse song “I Hate You.”

We’ve all had tough breakups. Unless you’re a really ugly dude, or a fat whale with your dead twin still hanging off your back, you’ve been in a relationship when it turned sour. When it’s done, you run the gamut of emotions: angry, sad, desperate, drunk and disorderly. If you’re lucky, you’ve survived and gone on to a girl with bigger cans who can suck better than a Dyson. Or, if you’re a chick, you get a guy with a big Johnson who likes to watch Sex in the City, drink wine and cuddle.

Local H’s new album, 12 Angry Months, chronicles the emotions you feel post-breakup. Using their trademark wit and a unique ability to craft albums that are at once diverse, catchy, insightful and, most importantly, rockin’, Local H’s follow-up to 2004’s Whatever Happened to PJ Soles is destined to be the best album of 2008.

From ballads like The Summer of Boats, to slabs of heaviness like Taxi-Cabs, to the haunting, orchestral closer Hand to Mouth, the two-piece that is Local H has crafted an album that meets or exceeds their finest efforts. There are some clunkers, but overall this is a well-crafted, excellently produced album that’s sure to get minimal publicity but is definitely worth shelling out your hard-earned cash to pick up.

Here’s the song-by-song breakdown:

1. January: The One with ‘Kid’

“Where’s my Pretenders record? You know the one - the one with ‘Kid’”

This song opens acoustic with some piano and a steel guitar. But like a limp dicked porn star, don’t let it’s soft beginning fool you - this song rocks and ends with a flourish of screaming, maniacal drumming and just plain awesomeness. Lyrically, the song asks all the important post-breakup questions: Who gets our friends? Which bars are we allowed to hang out at? And, most importantly, give me back my fucking music. Bitch.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

2. February: Michelle (Again)

“Everybody’s sad. Or everybody’s only acting sad when they hear about Michelle.”

Michelle (Again) is a short, catchy pop-punk song about the ex and about how we know we’ll find someone else. It’s fun, short and references some ex’s who appeared in other Local H songs, such as Rita.

Rating: 4 out of 5

3. March: BMW Man

“So you’re the boyfriend. Nice to meet you, is it Dustin? And did you say you are Republican? Can I get you another sloe gin fizz?”

Musically, this song is good, not great, but lyrically it’s pure genius. It’s about going to the bar and seeing your ex with their new boyfriend, who happens to be the polar opposite of you (and probably a lot richer than you) and drives a BMW. Yeah, in other words a big blur of jealous insecurity. But it’s also about realizing that the ex has found someone who loves his car more than the ex. So there’s a tinge of “In your face” in there, too.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5

4. April: White Belt Boys

“Yeah, hope you have a lonely life.”

Probably my least favorite song on the album. Bores the heck out of me, to be honest. Starts off with what sounds to my untrained ear like background music to a porno, then progresses to what I’m going to call 80s party rock shouts. Not inventive musically, but it may have clever lyrics if I actually could make it through the whole song to hear them. I guess it’s just not my cup of tea.

Rating: 1.5 out of 5

5. May: The Summer of Boats

“You’re allowed to change. You have permission to try. You’re moving off to Salt Lake. And no one will ask why. Moving off in June. Not a day too soon. It’s all just so perfectly strange.”

Luckily the album’s clunker is followed by the genius of the ballady The Summer of Boats. The steel guitar, piano and acoustic guitar return along with Scott Lucas’ crooning about the ex moving away. Electric guitars and vocal punch fill the middle of the song, as a builds to a marvelous crescendo. An emotionally charged masterpiece.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

6. June: Taxi-Cabs

“The dark haired girls attack in threes. They cut your plays off at the knees. They meet you out at bars and draft you further from your home, your out alone, out of your depth, Satan laughed and Jesus wept.”

To my ears, songs just don’t get any better than this song about getting back into the dating scene. Rhythmic drumming, climbing guitars and shouts of “Yeah!” intersperse throughout the song before it really kicks into gear for a bone-crushing ending where drummer Brian St. Clair earns his keep. This song has it all - an impressive drumbeat, background violins and pianos, a repetitious guitar line that turns into a pure rock fury and a glass-breaking finish. I could listen to this song forever and never get bored.

Rating: 5 out of 5

July: 24-Hour Breakup Session

“It’s a 24 hour breakup session. Come on like an intervention.”

Another slab of grungy-punk aggression, 24-Hour Breakup Session isn’t particularly great, but it will stick in your head. It starts with a “Don’t Fear the Reaper” intro before turning to a simple, catchy, chordy romp.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5

August: Jesus Christ! Did you See the Size of That Sperm Whale?

“You’re not a junkie. You’re just a groupie. But only a groupie would ever want to love me.”

Quite possibly the greatest song title of the 21st century. This song reminds me of Bleach-era Nirvana that quickly turns into something with a syncopated beat from High-Pro Glo era Anthrax. Which means I love it.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

September: Simple Pleas

“Baby just don’t lie to me. You know I thrive on jealousies.”

Another beautiful ballad that shows the range and incredible song-writing ability of this band. Seriously. Try to find another band that can range from rock, to grunge to punk to ballad as easily as these guys can. The song really kicks into gear at around the 2:30 mark, with Lucas’ heartfelt”I can’t let go!” vaguely reminiscent of Tom Petty. In a world of Nickelback faux ballads and forced anger, the raw emotion of this song is a breath of fresh air.

Rating: 4 out of 5

October: Machine Shed Wrestling

“You ain’t a lover. You’ll never change. I’d rather wrestle my machine.”

Another song I’m not real fond of. Possibly because, like White Belt Boys, it’s sort of monotonous. Local H is all about catchy choruses and constant riff changing. This song just doesn’t have those. And I hate the annoying beeping that happens at the end of the song. But it does pick up after about the 3:30 mark, earning it a 2.5 rating.

Verdict: 2.5 out of 5

November: Blur

“You know this year was the worst. I only thought it was fun at first.”

Seems like filler, but good filler. The song has a catchy little feel, doesn’t last too long (just over 2 and a half minutes) and seems like a good intro to the next song, the fabulously crafted Hand to Mouth.

Verdict: 3.5 out of 5

December: Hand to Mouth

“To find just one unbroken stare. A space in time to share. We’re going to stop these lies of ours. About a hundred million hours. You’ll know what really matters. You’ll know what really counts.”

An incredible ending to an incredible album. Reconciliation has come in the form of a Radioheadesque piece of layered, subdued, haunting beauty. I can’t quite explain it, but this song explains the insignificance of our existence in a way that’s rarely been expressed in this genre of music.

Verdict: 4.5 out of 5.

And that’s it. Twelve simple breakup songs. One incredible album.

Album verdict: 93 out of 100

Other Reviews:
Chicago Sun-Times
Some Blogger

Well, it’s over for me. Probably time for me to say sayonara to all my loyal readers. Well, my one loyal reader. Well, nobody. I expect the FBI, CIA or black helicopters to come for me any day now. Why? Because I’m an idiot.

Last week, I made the trek out to sunny California for my older brother’s wedding. Against my wife’s best wishes, we decided to fly. Because of that decision, we had to go through a security checkpoint on the way there and on the way back. So there I am, way past my bedtime, piling my computer, GPS, cell phone, keys and anything else remotely metal (Question: If I had a battery powered shiny metallic vibrator in my carry-on for mile highing, would I have to whip that out and place it in a plastic tray? Rustygopher, did they take yours?) into the plastic bin. My wife does the same.

So we get through the security checkpoint and the security officer flags us down. “You have a knife on your keychain.” Which was somewhat true - my wife has a pocket knife with maybe a two-inch blade. Unfortunately, you couldn’t cut a piece of single-ply toilet paper with the thing. It’d be easier to hurt someone by pulling a Jerry Springer guest-esque pull-off-the-shoe-and-beat-them-over-the-head-with-it.

But that’s beside the point. The security officer tells us we can check in the knife or have it mailed back to us. We say “You can have it.” Just don’t get caught in a knife fight with it because, at best, you can hope to maybe tickle your opponent. Next thing you know, they’ll find you with your balls cut off and stuck down your throat.

After a couple days of wedding festivities, it’s time to fly home. Again, it’s way past my bedtime. But I’m piling all my electronic and metal gadgets into the bins and putting my carry-on luggage through the ringer. So I get to the other side and the TSA (Note to government agencies: Make your acronyms more exciting. T-DA or T&A would be fun acronyms) agent pulls out my bag and says “Is this yours? We need to rummage through your stuff.”

So they take it over the rummaging area. First, they test it with a white piece of paper. Then, the rummaging begins. He gets to my brother’s wedding party gift, part of which is a small cooler, and starts to tear it apart. He reaches into a carefully concealed pocket and pulls out a much bigger knife than before (”You call that a knife? This is a knife.”), which also has a corkscrew perfectly made to take an eye out.

And now we start shitting. Not only did we try to smuggle a knife on board, but we carefully concealed it in a sheath hidden in the side pocket. We’re fucked. I’m thinking “Waterboarding isn’t so bad, is it? Might be kind of refreshing after a long night of beatings.” I’m thinking they’re immediately going to take us into a side room and the last thing I hear before they take my butthole virginity is the snap of the rubber plastic glove.

But my wife, always quick on her feet, says “We didn’t know that was in there. It was a gift and we just threw the whole cooler in without checking the pockets.” We wait with bated breath for what seems like an eternity. “Yeah, I believe you, it looks like it. We’ll just keep this. Have a safe trip.”

They bought it! However, I’m sure my wife and I are now flagged as the knife-wielding Bonnie and Clyde in some government watch list. In fact, they’ve probably already searched my house while I was flying back (I hope they didn’t find my carefully hidden Backstreet Boys collection. That’d be embarrassing.) and are just now rounding up the necessary signatures to get my knife-wielding ass on a plane to Guantanamo. So this is it - farewell!

PS - If I do end up in Guantanamo, anyone want to start a religion modeled after me? Turn the knife into a holy relic, say I got waterboarded and anally probed for your sins. Put up statues of me. Like some of the weeping and or bleeding Mary statues, I’ll try to get some of them to bleed from the anus just to prove my greatness to the non-believers.