Clarence Clemons is dead.  I never thought I’d type that sentence.  Clemons’ enormous personality made him seem immortal.  When the notes poured out of his saxophone, he was no longer a person, but a force of nature.  When I saw The Working on a Dream tour in the spring of 2009, he was clearly in pain.  He sat down for most of the show, rising only when his horn was needed.  When he put the sax to his lips, his physical problems disappeared.

I discovered Bruce Springsteen late in my musical life.  My parents were never fans, so I only had exposure to what I saw on Pop-Up Video, which was limited to “Glory Days” and “Dancing in the Dark.”  Both of them are good, but they aren’t a proper gateway.  It wasn’t until I bought Born to Run my junior year of college that I understood why Bruce Springsteen was so revered.  I felt the way his characters felt; isolated, confused and desperate to seek new horizons.  The sound was so grand, so huge.  Human emotions were blown up to cinematic proportions, which is a perfect snapshot of being in your early 20s.  You are technically an adult, but you are still searching for an identity.

Born to Run is Clarence Clemons’ finest hour.  His solos provide the hope in the bleak landscape Springsteen created.  His characters are stuck in a dead-end Jersey town, committing petty crimes that will put them in jail or kill them, but when the sax comes in, everything is going to be all right, even if it’s only for a few seconds.  Clemons often told stories of fans telling him that his solo in “Jungleland” saved their lives.  I don’t doubt it.  In my opinion, it is the most uplifting piece of music ever committed to tape.  I’ve heard it a million times, but I still get a lump in my throat.  Things are going to get better.

When I saw the E-Street Band perform, the thing that struck me was that they genuinely seemed to like each other.   The love and respect Bruce and Clarence had for each other was on full display.  When Springsteen introduced The Big Man in his over the top way, it wasn’t a rote piece of business, but because Clarence was the core of the E-Street Band sound.  As Bruce put it, “With Clarence at my side, the band and I were able to tell a story far deeper than those contained in our music. His life, his memory and his love will live on in that story and in our band.”

Many blogs have speculated whether or not the E-Street Band will continue.  Frankly, it’s not my place.  I’m grateful for the music that they gave us, and thankful that I got to see Clarence Clemons in person.

God bless you, Big Man.

Two weeks ago, Vince McMahon mercifully pulled the plug on his vision of Extreme Championship Wrestling.  The show would be replaced by WWE NXT, which would pair eight rookies with eight established stars.  At the end of the run, one would receive a WWE contract.  It’s an interesting idea, but like everything WWE produces these days, it is a flawed concept.  I tend to be pessimistic about McMahonland, so let’s start with what works.

• Emphasis on Wrestling: Goofy skits are kept to a minimum and the rookies are allowed to show their skills.  Bryan Danielson and Chris Jericho had the best WWE TV match of the year, and the fans completely bought into it.
• Vignettes: The WWE has always excelled at introducing new faces this way. Each rookie introduced himself and gave a bit of background information.
• Different Camera Angles: The camera near the announce table gives it the feel of an old Madison Square Garden house show.
• Christian as a Mentor: It’s the perfect role for him at this point in his career.  He is still involved, and has a chance to put someone over.
• Chris Jericho as a Mentor: See above, but with a strong Harley Race vibe.

And the flaws:

• Matt Stryker as Backstage Interviewer: Matt Stryker is the most knowledgeable broadcaster in the company that isn’t named Jim Ross, so having him do play by play makes too much sense.
• Heel Michael Cole: I don’t care how many snarky remarks he makes about the internet and Ring of Honor, Michael Cole is about as threatening as a box of Girl Scout Cookies.
• The Constant Ring of Honor Bashing: This would hold a lot more water if Vince hadn’t raided their roster.  He’s going after the Briscoe Brothers next.
• The Rookies Coming Out to Their Mentors’ Music: Aren’t the rookies supposed to have their own identity?
• “Daniel Bryan;” Can he be “The American Dragon” Bryan Danielson instead? Please?! PLEASE?!
• That Cowboy Guy: Unless they bring back Barry Windham’s awesome lone wolf persona, the cowboy gimmick is no longer relevant.
• Matt Hardy’s Girth: Jesus Christ dude, put on a shirt.

NXT is the best idea Vince McMahon has had in a long time.  It looks like they are positioning Danielson to win, which is a smart move.  Hopefully Vince keeps his promise and uses the show to get the next generation started.  The main event scene is stretched really thin, and The H and Batista won’t be around much longer.

Seriously though, why can’t Bryan Danielson be Bryan Danielson?

My alarm went off at 8 AM.  I reluctantly opened my eyes and looked out the window.  It was another dismal day in Baltimore.  I grabbed the remote sitting next to me and turned the television to VH1 Classic.  As I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the image on the screen came into focus.  John Mellencamp was high stepping through a lovely field of Indiana wheat.  Cowboys were roping bulls, farmers were riding tractors.  Ain’t that America?  I have seen this video four days in a row.  Not a promising start to the day.

“At least it’s not ‘Bad Medicine’,” I thought to myself.

As I returned from the bathroom, Jon Bon Jovi was on the screen, acting cute and frisky. I spoke too soon.

Before I had digital cable, VH1 Classic was a mythical entity in my mind.  A couple times a year, Comcast would bestow a week long preview on the basic lineup.  It was such a tease.  They played videos all day long, with no commercial interruptions.  They still played the mainstream hits of the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s, but they were balanced by more obscure choices.  You’d get your “Hungry Like the Wolf,” but you’d also get “I Can’t Wait,” or “Don’t Wanna Fall In Love.”

The crowned jewel of the channel was Metal Mania, a cornucopia of leather, pointy guitars and Aqua-Net.  On the first episode, they showed videos from Vain, Tangier, Pretty Boy Floyd, Dangerous Toyz and a Quiet Riot video that wasn’t a Slade cover.  I devoured everything, and hoped that my parents would bite the bullet and get digital cable.

Two years passed.  My dad bought a flat screen TV for the living room, so we were forced to get digital cable.  VH1 Classic was included in the package and I was thrilled.  The VH1 Classic we got was not the glorious entity I viewed on the preview week, but still pretty good.  There were a few commercials, and the videos tended to veer towards the mainstream, but the vintage Old Grey Whistle Test episodes were rad.

We’ve had digital cable for two years, and I barely recognize VH1 Classic.  They only play videos in the morning, and the playlist reads like a Greatest Hits of the ‘80s infomercial.  The first week I had the channel, they played “Metal” by Gary Numan.  Now they only play “Cars.”  M never visits anymore, so I don’t know if New York, London, Paris or Munich still talks about pop music.

Metal Mania no longer plays obscure videos.  “Cum on Feel the Noize,” “Breaking the Law,” “Fallen Angel,” and “Holy Diver” are played almost every week.  An obscure video pops up once in awhile, but it’s usually something not that obscure, like Enuff Z’Nuff’s “Fly High Michelle,” or Femme Fatale’s “Falling In and Out of Love.”  The dulcet tones of Steve “Sex” Summers have not graced the network for almost a year.  Rock n’ roll might not set the night on fire.

There are still some good shows on VH1 Classic.  That Metal Show is great, because Eddie Trunk knows his stuff and treats the genre with respect.  They played the Kiss documentary, Xtreme Close-up, where Gene Simmons talks about Ace Frehley with open contempt.  Jailhouse Rock appears once in a while.  For all the quality music programming, they run Cocktail on an almost weekly basis.  I can handle that movie at 2 a.m., but not in the middle of the day.

“Bad Medicine” finally ended.  Richie Sambora showed off his guitar and Bon Jovi grinned.

“’The Final Countdown,’” I said, anticipating the next video.

Sure enough, Joey Tempest’s vacant stare came onscreen, but not the usual keyboard riff.  They played “Carrie” instead.

I’m still not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

There are three records that defined my teenage experience: Look What the Cat Dragged In by Poison, Let it Be by The Replacements and Appetite for Destruction by Guns n’ Roses.  It’s an admittedly odd mixture.  However they are significant because each of these records represent a part of my teenage personality.  Look What the Cat Dragged In was the person I secretly aspired to be.  Bret Michaels and the boys were in a fantasy world of supreme confidence and big breasted women.  Let it Be was closest to my reality. Paul Westerberg’s lyrics were sensitive, confused and empathetic.  Appetite For Destruction was the darkest record of them all.  It was represented alienation and pure unadulterated rage.

I was discussing Appetite for Destruction with a friend not too long ago, and he told me that “Appetite isn’t as good as everyone says it is.”  If you look at it from a completely musical standpoint, he’s right.  “Anything Goes” and “You’re Crazy” are filler, and pad the album before the album’s highpoint, “Rocket Queen.”  However, Appetite for Destruction isn’t a purely musical phenomenon.  Axl Rose expressed feelings that I didn’t know how to express, especially in the genteel landscape of suburbia.

I discovered GNR  during the summer of 1997.  I had just begun to discover my musical identity.  I bought my first KISS album the summer before and conveniently forgot to return Van Halen I to my best friend.  I loved those two records, but my taste still consisted of the top 40 hits that most of my friends were listening to.  Everything changed after a cookout.

My family belongs to the Baltimore Country Club, one of the most exclusive clubs in the country.  I always felt out of place there.  Kids would stare at me, run away because I was going to “run them over” and exclude me from all their activities.  The 1997 Back to School cookout went pretty well at first.  I was throwing a ball around with a few guys, playing Frisbee and having a good time.  Then one of the kids decided that he wanted to play football on the volleyball court, which was made of sand.  I asked him if we could play on the grass, since my chair couldn’t go in sand.   He refused, and the entire group of kids left me in the grassy field.  I watched them play football in the sand.  The ring leader flashed a triumphant grin and taunted me.  The DJ was playing “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band.  I didn’t have any opinion of Dave, but now I hated him.  He represented exclusion, snobbery and cruelty.  I decided that I would find the polar opposite of Dave Matthews, something that would scare those prep school assholes to death.

My parents took me to Borders Music the next day.  I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I wanted the polar opposite of the Dave Matthews Band.  After looking around for a few minutes, I found it.  The cover depicted five skulls on a crucifix.  The five guys on the cover looked like total scumbags.  My parents were reluctant to let me have it, but after some smooth talking, they relented.  I still remember what the clerk said as he rang me up, “This was the first record I ever bought.”

When I bought Appetite for Destruction, I wasn’t oblivious to GNR’s existence.  They were a staple of 98 Rock’s playlist, but I was too wrapped up in KISS and Van Halen to pay attention.  I’d heard “Welcome to the Jungle” a million times, so it didn’t have much of an impact.  “Welcome” is an iconic opening track, but “It’s So Easy” is what blew me away.  My stereo didn’t have a CD player, so I was forced to rely on my Sony Discman.  It’s a good thing, because if my mom heard “It’s So Easy,” I would have lost my Appetite for Destruction. Axl said exactly what I was thinking, but didn’t have the balls to say: “You think you’re so cool…why don’t you just FUCK OFF!”

It was complete catharsis.  I repeated that speech word for word inside my head whenever I saw that kid.  I was able to funnel my anger through Axl, because he could say things without consequence.  Teenage angst is nothing special; the entire nu-metal scene depended on it.  Axl was different from Fred Durst and Jonathan Davis because there was depth to his anger.  Many critics have discussed the coda at the end of “Rocket Queen”, where Axl professes love and undying friendship to the object of his desire.  I think that says a lot about the teenage mentality.  You are angry and pissed off most of the time, but when you get past the anger there is an untapped vein of sensitivity.

Appetite for Destruction was one of the first albums I ever reviewed, for my high school paper, The Griffin.  I’ve written about it many times since then, because I think it needs to be reevaluated every few years.  When I was a teenager, it was an accurate reflection of the anger I felt.  When I was in college, they were the heir apparent to The Rolling Stones.  When I listen to it at 24, it’s a fascinating portrait of a volatile man.

I’ve never replaced my copy of Appetite.  The disc is marred by fingerprints, smudges and scratches.  The cover has been missing in action for years.  I’ve bought  Born to Run, Purple Rain and London Calling many times, but I can’t bring myself to replace Appetite for Destruction.  There’s too much history written on it.

“Michael Jackson is the greatest recording artist of all time.” –Diddy

In the past 48 hours, I have found out just how much Michael Jackson meant to people.  In recent years, I tended to downplay his importance in American culture, because I didn’t really comprehend it.  The outpouring of grief over the past two days is like nothing I’ve ever seen.  The only thing I can compare it to is the death of Princess Diana a decade ago.  Millions of people have lost their Elvis Presley.

For many people, Michael Jackson is the beginning of their musical education.  Thriller was the first record they ever bought, or they fell in love with the Jackson Five.  MTV has been crammed with modern pop stars proclaiming, “If it wasn’t for Michael Jackson, I wouldn’t be here.”  I understand the grief, and I certainly appreciate the influence.  However, I cannot and will not pretend that Michael Jackson is the greatest recording artist of all time.

When I first heard that Jackson had died, my first thought was not “How sad,” but “Here comes a tidal wave of hyperbole.”

Michael Jackson is a perfect gateway into music.  His best work is complex, yet totally accessible.  The dancing, the outfits, the image is larger than life and easy to latch onto.  It’s easy to see why a generation of entertainers patterned themselves after him.  The problem is that their musical education begins with Michael Jackson and goes forward.

When Diddy claims that Michael Jackson is the greatest artist of all time, he shows an astonishing lack of musical sophistication.  He doesn’t understand that saying someone is the “greatest” doesn’t really mean anything.  All great artists borrow from their influences and then take it a step further.  For example, Michael Jackson is a combination of James Brown, Jackie Wilson and Fred Astaire.  Elvis Presley is a combination of The Statesmen, Hank Snow and Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup.   No artist is completely organic; they are directly or indirectly created by their influences.

If there is a “greatest artist of all time” out there, I humbly nominate Louis Armstrong.  Why Louis Armstrong?  He basically invented American singing, introduced the concept of the solo, and every musician who came after followed in his footsteps.  Yes, he was influenced by King Oliver and Buddy Bolden, but their records are hard to come by.  Besides, Armstrong played on most of Oliver’s important recordings.   Every single artist has been ripping Armstrong off for the past hundred years, whether they know it or not.  Unfortunately Miley Cyrus will never purchase a copy of Hot Fives and Sevens, because Armstrong isn’t exactly a photogenic man and the film clip for “I Covered the Waterfront” doesn’t have any pyrotechnics.

By the same token, Thriller is not the greatest album ever made.  Yes, it sold a metric ton of records.  Yes, I am aware that Eddie Van Halen played the solo on “Beat It.”  Yes, I have seen the video for “Billie Jean,” several times today in fact.  No, I cannot write a better song than “Wanna Be Starting Something,” which is probably why I became a critic in the first place.  Now that I’ve answered all your questions, I can continue.

Somewhere along the line, the word “popular” became equated with the word “good.”  Thriller is a great record, I’m not denying that.  However, I can think of 100 records that are superior, including Off the Wall.  Because Thriller has sold 40 million records, people tend to overlook that it is quite uneven.  It contains three classic songs, one good one and the rest is filler.  It is an enormously important record from a cultural standpoint; it’s just not in the same league with Blonde on Blonde, Revolver, Kind of Blue and Pet Sounds.  Michael Jackson set out to make the biggest record of all time, and he did.  Unfortunately, when you set out to make an ultra- commercial record, art gets pushed aside (see also: Born in the USA).

If Michael Jackson is your favorite artist of all time, that’s great.  If Thriller is your favorite record of all time, that’s fine too.  If you think MJ is bigger than Elvis ever was, God bless you.  However, don’t proclaim anything to be the greatest unless you have the facts to back t up.

Michael Jackson is dead.  The media claims to be  sad, but they are salivating.  They finally have something to cover besides Gov. Sanford and the conflict in Iran.  An American icon has died and a celebrity obsessed culture is called to mourn.   I’m just as guilty as the mainstream media.  I posted a brief statement when the story was confirmed, unsure of how I felt.

This was a precarious position to be in, since it is my job to care about such things.  It’s weird, because I’m a very emotional person.  When Joey Ramone died, I was sad for a week.  I cried for George Harrison, Dimebag Darrell and even Robbin Crosby.  Michael Jackson eclipses them all, and I hadn’t  figured out my emotional stance.

When the Los Angeles Times confirmed his death, I was shocked.  My whole body felt thick, as if it was preparing itself for grief.  I played “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough,” “I’ll Be There” and “Ben.”  The thickness went away. My mourning period was over.  Meanwhile, Facebook was exploding with grief.  I understood how people felt, but I couldn’t identify with their grief.  People were talking about what a masterpiece Thriller is, and I flippantly thought “It’s not even the best Michael Jackson album.”  Maybe my friend Brendan was right.  Maybe I do hate everything.

While I was overthinking my position, Touré, an editor for Rolling Stone, was on Dateline.  Touré is one of the best music writers in the world, so I was interested to hear what he had to say.  He was doing the usual celebrity death interview with Ann Curry, and then he claimed that Michael Jackson was bigger than Elvis Presley.  I felt the rage boil up from the bottom of my stomach.  Did he really mention Michael Jackson and Elvis in the same sentence?  I was livid, preaching to my poor friend Shaun, who suffered through another sermon of pro-Elvis propaganda.  When Shaun went to bed, everything came together.

I am passionate about Elvis Presley.  I have almost everything he’s ever recorded. I’ve seen every movie and plan to visit Graceland some day.  Elvis died before I was born, yet I feel an emotional bond with him.  I don’t have that bond with Michael Jackson.  He made some great music and was a legitimate cultural force, but the love isn’t there.  This has nothing to do with the scandals that tarnished his reputation; I’ve always felt detached from him.

People are comparing Michael’s death to Elvis and John Lennon.  In terms of magnitude, that’s about right.  However, he reminds me more of Judy Garland.  Both were brilliantly talented children, blessed with a beautiful voices and impeccable dancing skills. They were pushed into showbusiness by their parents, and gave up real childhood in the process.  Both of them spent a lifetime looking for real love and acceptance, and never really got it.  They retreated into reclusive fantasy worlds to compensate, occasionally popping up for a comeback.  The weirdness drove the public away and they both died alone.  When somebody dies, the world finally realizes what it has lost.  I don’t know what that says about the human race, but it certainly isn’t flattering.

Paul Westerberg and I became friends when I was 16.  I’d like to say we met in Reptilian Records or Record and Tape Traders, but we met in a Best Buy.  I found a copy of Let it Be haphazardly placed in the wrong section.  I’d never heard of The Replacements, but I was intrigued by the cover.  They were wearing plaid flannel and beat-up Converse, my uniform at the time.  The photo wasn’t contrived or airbrushed, just four guys hanging out on a roof.  I didn’t know anything about this band, but they used a Beatles title.  The Beatles were sacred cows in my home, in most homes.  This took balls.  I bought the record without reading a single word of critical praise, without a single, without a music video.  I’m proud of that.

When I pressed play, I saw myself.  Paul Westerberg was not a rock hero bragging about his conquests.  He was awkward, unsure, nervous, neurotic, pained, exhilarated, horny, thoughtful, alienated, introspective, romantic, self-absorbed, bored, passionate, and fucked up.  So was I.  So is every 16 year old boy.

I remember hearing “Unsatisfied” for the first time.  When the song faded out, I played it again.  I must have played it 50 times in a row.  My dad banged on the door and told me to play a different song.  I played “Unsatisfied” again.  It was the first time I listened to a song and said “This guy knows exactly how I feel.”

No other songwriter has captured adolescence as perfectly as Paul Westerberg did on Let it Be.  Most songwriters focus on the angst and alienation, forgetting about the other emotions.  Westerberg wrote about them all.  “Sixteen Blue,” “Unsatisfied,” and “Answering Machine” get the most attention, but what about the nervous optimism of “I Will Dare”, or the dumb bravado of “We’re Coming Out?”  If Let it Be was focused solely on the angst, it would be a Staind record.  Kids would eventually grow out of it.  Westerberg’s willingness to explore the sweet sides of teenage life gave Let it Be depth.  If “Favorite Thing” wasn’t there to balance “Unsatisfied,” it wouldn’t sound as authentic.

Critics of Let it Be claim that it is an uneven record.  They say that “Gary’s Got a Boner,” “Tommy Gets His Tonsils Out,” and the cover of KISS’ “Black Diamond” detract from the album’s power.  Let it Be is an uneven record, but adolescence is uneven too.  For every poignant moment, there are five stupid ones.

On the surface, Let it Be seems like relic from high school, the kind of record that you grow out of when you grow up.  On the contrary, it still feels fresh.  I think it’s because it’s a record without any pretension.  Westerberg has a lot to say, but he never set out to be the voice of a generation.  The Mats just went into the studio and happened to make an iconic record.  If they had planned to make a Big Artistic Statement, it could have been a disaster.  Instead, they just made a record and put it out.  They probably got drunk afterwards.

Let it Be is one of the best records of the 1980s, yet most people haven’t heard it.  Maybe people are turned off by the title, or maybe the Mats have completely fallen off the radar.

If you are a teenager, buy a copy of Let it Be.  Paul Westerberg is a great listener.