Why I Hate American Idol

I'm back after a brief hiatus. This week, I'll announce the winners of my first-ever treasure hunt. For now, a brief rant.

Why I Hate American Idol

The reason I hate this abysmal show is not the lack of talent of the singers; it’s not the cheesiness of the performances; it’s not even the inanity of the judges. Or rather it’s those reasons, but not only those reasons.

First and foremost, however, is that it violates one of my few musical beliefs (the only other I can think of at the moment is that vibraphones are usually, like milk was to Ron Burgundy, a bad choice).

But my number one belief, the only belief that really matters since I suspect most people are with me on the vibraphone thing, is that you should never, ever cover a song unless you add something special to it, unless you truly make it your own.

And that doesn’t mean turning a rock or pop song into a fucking country ballad, Idols, simply because it’s a different genre. It means you need talent, style, an honest-to-God unique voice (And preferably, an honest-to-God goddamn band.) Think Jimi Henrix covering All Along the Watchtower. Brilliant, moving, goosebump-inducing cause he rocked the fuck out of Dylan’s slow folk jam. Same goes for Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujiah (Has anyone actually heard Leonard Cohen sing?) Johnny Cash’s Hurt (in my opinion, not as good as NIN’s, but Cash is a God), or Sublime’s Trenchtown Rock (RIP Bradley, RIP Bob).

So when I was flipping by just in time to hear some hack cover True Colors (I refuse to even learn his name, that’s how strongly I feel about this) in a version so utterly devoid of the beauty, the messiness, the feeling, the crackling imperfection that Cyndi Lauper brought to it (incidentally, she did not write the song—Billy Steinberg did—but Lauper rented that shit to OWN), it made me realize how much our nation has lost its fucking mind. Or at least its fucking taste. Which we had at some point, I know we did. Pop music has not always been synonymous with airbrushed former Mouseketeers and voices that only a vocoder could love… and it doesn’t have to be.

I know, I know. It's not really pop music, what they're doing: it's musical theatre without Disney sponsorship. Which brings me to one more belief: musical theatre singing sucks. It's nasally and cheesy and loud and generic and obnoxious. It's all well and good if you've got family in from out of town who want to see Times Square but let's not confuse it with actual music.

And look, I also know I’m five years too late or whatever on this but it bears mentioning because the novelty has worn off and then some and people still seem to like this shit, so…

Seriously, people. Turn off your fucking televisions, turn your backs on these overzealous karaoke singers and demand something BETTER. Start by supporting real musicians by buying the music they spent their lives perfecting. I promise you won’t be sorry.

Unless the band you choose to support has a vibraphonist.

I haven't forgotten you!

Been busy finishing up a cool freelance project and preparing for my improv graduation show... I'll be posting regularly again next week!

One Rule.

So. I hate authority. I didn't like when my parents told me what to do and I could only deal with bosses telling me what to do because they were paying me. So I don't much like enforcing rules, however, it occurred to me that I should set down one ground rule when it comes to commenting.

-Please, no anti-gay or racist jokes or statements. And no attacking other commenters, either.

That's it.

Sing to Me, O Mogwai!

My muses are fighting. This is not good. I knew getting two was a bad idea, like feeding Mogwais after midnight or some shit.

But they were so cute! She with all the hair! And he… with less hair, but still cute for a boy muse and I figured I could use one of them, too. This is America, I told myself, the land of plenty, and if they’ll let you buy two muses, then by God I shall have two.

But now they’re all grown up and I fear I haven’t done a very good job at raising them. Pieride at Mazedonia’s Muses told me they didn’t require much care, just some sunlight and the occasional grape leaf, but Zorba the florist said something similar about the Miltoniopsis orchid I bought last winter and that thing didn’t last a week!

My muses do not argue like you or I. They have lyre-offs. It is so fucking annoying. I can’t get a damn thing done with all that golden music in the house, not even when I’m all sweet and “Sing to me, O muses.” It’s like they don’t even care about me anymore.

But this morning, the music stopped. And I can’t find my muses anywhere! This is not good, because she can be fucking fierce. One time I came home and found her sitting there with blood on her hands and her mouth. She’d found a mouse in the apartment and eaten it alive. Grape leaves, my ass!

I’m sitting at my desk, typing, when she walks in without him. We’re leaving you, she says, we’re in love and want to move to Nashville.

Nashville! I say. What do you muses know of the American south?

We know nothing, Mortal, she says. We are only the inspiration. But we have tired of writers. We want to work with country singers.

Then she adds under her breath, At least they don’t try to be funny.

I don’t believe you, I say. I think you killed him and now you’re making a fast getaway.

He couldn’t face you, Writer. Behold! He is waiting with the driver from the land of Arecibo.

Fearful for his safety, I walk over to the window where she's pointing.

But there he is, sitting in the back of a Cadillac. He's smoking a cigarette and weeping.

Fine, I say, go. Maybe now I can finally have some peace and quiet and get some work done.

Maybe so, she says.

Then she smiles and I see that her mouth is red with fresh blood.

Ch-ch-ch-changes?

I have already grown tired of the rigid daily features I imposed upon this blog and am hard at work thinking of changes I'd like to make. Stay tuned for a new and improved version of Sarah Rainone is not for sale, now with more guest stars and less OCD (at least when it comes to features).

Tomorrow expect to have your mind fucking blown (sorry, I watched the season finale of Eastbound and Down last night and it's quite possible I'll be channeling Kenny Powers for the next few days) by an original short story about mogwais and muses.

And as for today, it's the first installment of "Are you a cold-blooded killer with a case of amnesia or a lapsed Catholic who just can't shake the years of religious indoctrination?"

You wake up in a cold sweat. Your jaw is aching, probably cause you'd clenched it really hard before falling asleep the night before. You could not fall asleep because you felt so guilty about what you'd done that day that you felt the need to replay the entire day over and over again in the hopes of doing the right thing this time. But no matter how many times you try to mentally undo what you did, it stays did.

When you roll your tongue along the sides of your mouth you discover two thin lines of raised flesh from having chomped down on your cheeks while sleeping. You feel a growing sense of existential unease. You have wronged someone and you know it. But who? In your dream, you either cheated on your husband, took some kind of psychotropic drug, missed an important meeting, cannot remember your locker combination, or accidentally insulted a good friend. It's just a dream, sure, but you are still a terrible, terrible person. The only thing that can stop the voices from telling you what a selfish waste of space you are is to drown them out with the lyrics to something you'd memorized long ago either by choice or by force.

Some days you invoke Nas or Guru and run through the lyrics of "It Ain't Hard to Tell" or "Mass Appeal" over and over again just like you used to do during cross-country races to make up for lack of Walkman. Other days, your mind won't let you choose. It's The Lord's Prayer whether you like it or not.



Q: Are you a cold-blooded killer or just Catholic?

A: Just Catholic.

Posting help

A few of you have mentioned encountering problems when trying to comment. Hopefully, this link has the answers. http://help.blogger.com/bin/answer.py?hl=en&answer=42399

Treasure hunt: "Before your time" mix

For some reason, today I'm feeling nostalgic about songs that mean nothing to me. While flipping channels and eating some homemade fried rice, I came across that Visa ad with Morgan Freeman and the aquarium featuring "Tuesday afternoon" by the Moody Blues and I almost started weeping. Why? No idea.

Up a few channels to HBO territory and Footloose is on; despite being momentarily distracted by Sarah Jessica Parker's unfortunate 80's hair, I nearly swooned to Foreigner's "Waiting for a girl like you." Again, the reason why is totally beyond me.

Now despite the fact that both bands were before my time (and not in a cool way like Led Zeppelin or Joy Division or the Beatles but rather in the way that makes me ask myself "Why the hell do I like Foreigner and the Moody Blues?"**) I have happy memories of other songs by them, namely "Nights in White Satin" and "I Want to Know What Love Is." But there is no reason that these two particular songs should be triggering any kind of emotional response. Unless...

What if both songs were evoking not a specific memory per se but rather the feeling of an era that I would never be a part of, one that had come and gone before my time?

Without further ado, this very first treasure hunt will call upon you to create a playlist that adheres to the following guidelines:
-The songs must have been popular "before your time."
-The songs need not be cool. Get a few cool tracks on there, sure, but the more dorky and terrible songs your list includes, the more likely I will be moved by your honesty. Think prog rock, metal, and hair bands.
-The songs needn't call to mind a specific memory but they should evoke a weird, weepy wave of nostalgia about a time that you didn't actually experience, a time that was just beyond your reach.

Here's mine):
1. Crazy Train (Black Sabbath)
2. More than a feeling (Boston)
3. Waiting for a girl like you (Foreigner)
4. Open Arms (Journey)
5. Closer to the heart (Rush)
6. 18 and life (Skid Row)
7. Aqualung (Jethro Tull)
8. Don't Fear the Reaper (Blue Oyster Cult)
9. You Can Do Magic (America)
10. Time of the Season (The Zombies)
11. Crimson and Clover (Tommy James and The Shondelles)
12. A Whiter Shade of Pale (Procol Harum)
13. Tuesday afternoon (The Moody Blues)

The person who submits the list I like best will get a free copy of my new book! Just put your answers in the comments section, I guess.

**Yes, I know that it's not totally fair to the Moody Blues to compare them with Foreigner. Still.