What Is The Most Iconic Guitar Of All Time?

What is the most iconic guitar of all time? Not just the greatest guitar "player," the greatest guitar period. Now, we're not just showing off brand loyalties or anything of the such, we're looking for personality embodied in the instrument itself. These instruments have become synonymous with their player, or with a song, or maybe even a sound or period of rock history. More often than not, these guitars have a pet name, a special place next to their masters, and have been modified and customized to the point they're unrecognizable to their original manufacturer. They've been broken, painted, written upon, written about, envied, copied, and more than anything become part of who the guitarist is as a musician. They provide that perfect tone, that twang, that instantly recognizable growl that separates the original from all impostors. Some guitarists have parted ways with their axes, much like a spouse or loved one. Some guitars have parted ways with their masters due to tragedy and untimely death, but remain in posterity as a memorial of what the two achieved together.

Below is a list I came up with on my own what I consider to be the most iconic guitars of all time. Again, these are just the guitars that made rock & roll history...not the greatest guitarists (although one can make a direct correlation in some circumstances). For instance two iconic players that did not make the list (Jimi Hendrix & Pete Townshend) rarely kept a guitar around long enough to develop that kind of relationship. What I'm looking for is an inseparable partnership that developed rock & roll into what we know today. Take a gander, give me your comments, a take a minute to vote for your favorite. Hope you enjoy...these are by no means ranked in any order!

1. The Gibson Les Paul. Developed by Gibson & the late Les Paul as the answer to the Fender Telecaster in 1951. Preferably plugged into a stack of Marshall amplifiers, this guitar has gone on to be the weapon of choice of greats such as Jimmy Page, Billy Gibbons (Pearly Gates), and Slash. Instantly recognizable, the Les Paul has evolved from its original prototype as "The Log" into a work of beauty and class. However, there was only one "Les Paul," which he played until the day he died.

2. Bruce Springsteen's Fender Telecaster Esquire. What a beating this guitar has taken over the past 30-plus years! Present for every performance the Boss has made with the E-Street band, and a cover shot on the Born to Run album, this guitar has become synonymous with "The Boss."

3. Eric Clapton's Fender Stratocaster, "Blackie." In the late '60s, Eric Clapton personally combined the best elements of three vintage Stratocaster guitars to create the original Blackie. Clapton's albums 461 Ocean Boulevard, Slowhand, No Reason to Cry, and Just One Night, among others, were all recorded with this mistress. Clapton auctioned the original in 2004 to fund his Crossroads Center in Antigua for $959,000.

4. The Gibson EDS-1275 Double Neck. I'm combining this particular model into one entry, because the same model was played by two different guitarist on two of the most iconic guitar-rock epics of all-time: Jimmy Page on "Stairway To Heaven" and Don Felder on "Hotel California." You can't envision either song being played live unless it's on the EDS-1275, plain and simple.

5. Joe Strummer's Fender Telecaster. A 1966 model originally in a sunburst orange finish, Strummer acquired the guitar in 1975 shortly before joining The Clash. He painted it with gray auto primer and black paint, adorned it with a stencil of the word "NOISE" and multiple stickers over the years including the famous "Ignore Alien Orders." What gave it the most personality, however, was the way the crude finish Strummer applied wore off over time and the sunburst began to reappear. By the time of Strummer's death in 2002 his Telecaster looked less like a rag-tag musical instrument and more like an auto-biographical art piece. I just fell in love with this guitar on my last visit to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame; it was completely mesmerizing to try and peek through the layers of time.

6. B.B. King's signature Gibson, "Lucille." A variation of the ES-355, Gibson launched King's signature model in 1982. According to Kings's biography, in the winter of 1949, King played at a dance hall in Twist, Arkansas. In order to heat the hall, a barrel half-filled with kerosene was lit, a fairly common practice at the time. During a performance, two men began to fight, knocking over the burning barrel and sending burning fuel across the floor. The hall burst into flames, which triggered an evacuation. Once outside, King realized that he had left his guitar inside the burning building. He entered the blaze to retrieve his beloved $30 guitar, a Gibson acoustic. Two people died in the fire. The next day, King learned that the two men were fighting over a woman named Lucille. King named that first guitar Lucille, as well as every one he owned since that near-fatal experience, as a reminder never again to do something as stupid as run into a burning building or fight over women.

7. Stevie Ray Vaughan's customized Fender Stratocaster, "Number One." A 1963 model with a 1962 neck, also known as "The First Wife," she sure did take her fair share of abuse. Stevie would kick it, pound it, bounce it, ride it like surfboard, swing it around by the tremolo...then turn around and pour all his love into it. He replaced the tremolo, using a left-handed one and turning it upside down to be like Hendrix. He replaced the pickups with those from a bass. the neck was damaged so many times it would eventually not take new frets. But, oh my Lord would it still scream for Stevie Ray! Number One has been in the possession of Stevie's brother Jimmie since his death in 1990.

8. The Rickenbacker 360/12 Twelve String. Once again, I cannot pin this guitar to just one player, so rich is the history. Developed in 1963, George Harrison obtained one of the original prototypes on the Beatles' first visit to the U.S. in 1964. Many of the Fab 4's early, biggest hits were written & performed on the 360/12, and was brought out of retirement for Harrison's comeback album Cloud Nine in 1987. Other players of the Rickenbacker 360/12 would soon favor the modified 370/12 (which had three pickups instead of the 360/12's two) - most notably The Byrd's Roger McGuinn and his disciples Tom Petty & fellow Heartbreaker Mike Campbell, who undoubtedly favored the new, "jangly" sound that would sweep the charts. The Rickenbacker twelve string will always be Harrison's equipment first and foremost though, given he used it from day one.

9. Eddie Van Halen's custom Charvel, "Frankenstrat." An amalgamation of pieces & parts picked up from Wayne Charvel and with a wicked paint job to match, The Frankenstrat truly embodies its nickname. Most notably, Van Halen installed a humbucker in the bridge position, giving it the "Fat Strat" configuration. Not many guitarists have a patent on a guitar's paint scheme, but EVH does and took the Krylon-crafted Frankenstrat design with him to Kramer who began to make guitars for Eddie in 1983.

10. The Jackson Rhoads V. Also known as the Concorde, this guitar is complicated to say the least. It is unabashedly a copy of Gibson's Flying V, which by the time Randy Rhoads had commissioned his version from Charvel was the standard in heavy metal guitars. To further muck up the situation, Charvel president Grover Jackson decided to put his name on the neck as a kiss-off to Charvel founder Wayne Charvel, who had left the company he founded in disgust in 1978. Rhodes made a few design variations, most notably the visual polka-dot design which Rhoads would become identified by once he began playing for Ozzy Osbourne. Randy lived to see 2 models come to fruition, but was unable to provide feedback on a third which was being developed at the time of his death in 1982.

I Still Know The Way To Make Your Makeup Run...(Emo(nday) Chronicles Vol. 2, Part 2.)

At last check, there was debate about the appropriateness of singing "Let's Get It On" to high school children, pizza was promised to be on the way, and I had just been asked to accompany a young lady for a smoke.

6:40 P.M.: I'm lucky enough to have actually been able to retrieve a lighter off of my coffee table before heading out to smoke with Shannon. I'm lucky because she's fumbling for a lighter as we step outside, and I can finally live my dream of lighting the cigarette that will bring a beautiful girl closer to death. I light the lighter, and go in to light her cigarette, which at first seems to startle her, but she laughs, ignoring the fact that I nearly light her hair on fire. Or, pretending to ignore it. Probably pretending. My mind flicks to what would have been had I ACTUALLY set her hair on fire. That would make us 2/2 on incredibly outrageous encounters.

6:42 P.M.: "So...ummm...I just really wanted to apologize for being a hot mess the other night. I'm not normally like that." I'm snapped out of my own mind, which at this point was visualizing Michael Jackson (rest his soul) falling down those steps after his hair caught on fire. I tell her it's fine, and then think that this is the 2nd time already this year that a girl has apologized to me for her drunken state, when I truly am understanding. And then I think of her choice of the words "hot mess". And now this is stuck in my head again. (Listen. I don't like Cobra Starship, but lets cover 2 things: 1.) Gabe Saporta was fucking SWEET when he was in Midtown. and 2.) I don't say "hot" very often, but there's not a better word to describe Victoria Asher. Other than "terrible musician". But let's stick with hot.) "So, this is all pretty interesting, you know? what you're doing." Shannon snaps me out of my own mind again. "Like, I just got out of a relationship, and music kind of helps...when it's sad, you know?". I think it's cool that she uses "like" and "you know?" nearly as much as I do when speaking. I tell her yeah, it's cool. I tell her that it's fun, but it's becoming a bit overwhelming all at once. She smiles. "You" she says, pointing her cigarette at me, "Should take up smoking". And then she laughs really, really loudly, throws her cigarette into my neighbors flower pot (LOL), and goes back inside. I stay out briefly to consider the pros and cons of me taking up smoking. The only pro is that it would enhance my bad boy image, which I've been working on. With no luck.

7:15 P.M.: I'm scoping for the pizza, HOPING my arch enemy from last week would show up, and we could have our long awaited music nerd battle while the pizza got cold. No such luck. A disaffected 20 something girl with tattoos and a look of apathy shows up. She likes my shirt. I tell her "nice ink", and then immediately feel dumb. I really DID like her tattoos, but there's got to be a less lame way of saying that. Amber shrugs.

7:35 P.M.: "Either we don't watch 500 Days Of Summer, or everyone can leave." Yes. That's me. I'm 1/2 joking, but the edge in my voice is clear. Listen, I don't like Zooey Deschanel. I just don't. There's an underlying reason, a girl that I was crazy about for a while resembles Zooey Deschanel, to be honest. In looks, and in supposed character. And I don't want to relive any of that. Not to mention, she's like a girl version of Michael Cera. I can only watch her play the same character so much (ummm...trendy/hipster wet dream) before I lose it. She was cool in Almost Famous. We resolve to watch the Cavs on mute.

8:25 P.M.: Neighbor Ashley's boyfriend comes over. I had no idea she had a boyfriend. We hit it off instantly, because he's wearing a Fleetwood Mac shirt, which leads to a discussion of what is/isn't "emo",in other genres.

8:30 P.M.: Here's what we've got. Lindsey Buckingham is definitely emo. The rest of Fleetwood Mac is definitely not (This was obviously due to some pushing on my end, but I mean, come on, the dude opened Rumours with the line "I know there's nothing to say/someone has taken my place"....DAMN.) Prince isn't emo, but "Purple Rain" probably is. Todd Rundgren, David Byrne, Pat Benetar....No. Chris Frantz, Lou Reed, Patti Smith....Yes. Notorious B.I.G., no. Tupac, yes. Kanye West, well....to be honest, probably not. Drake, Wale, Cudi...without doubt. Amber literally has a list going. This leads to an all out forum regarding the Emo direction of hip hop, that goes from my living room, to the blogs, to facebook. With the general consensus being..."It's genre evolution." Excellent. Now I can listen to Drake talk about girls, regrets, and hypersensitivity without feeling bad.

8:55 P.M.: LeBron James just dunked on Dwyane Wade. I'm catching MAJOR shit for this one, as it's common knowledge that D. Wade is my favorite NBA player. But that was brutal. Someone throws pizza crust at me.

9:12 P.M.: The first wave of people leave. Amber leaves, but not before she shows off a red Fall Out Boy vinyl that she picked up. Neighbor Ashley and her boyfriend have a movie date, and DJ, now that Amber has left, has little reason to stay. Trish DID make it over, and is glaring at me from the corner of my living room. Though I generally don't text someone in the same room as me, I text her a joke about failing to enhance my bad boy image by lighting girls' cigarettes, but possibly enhancing it by being the dude that lights women on fire. She checks her phone and laughs, without looking at me. She's back on the side of good.

9:51 P.M.: I assumed I would get a pass on mass emailing a video and story that reminds me of a girl that has broken, or is breaking my heart. Look, I'm ALL for how I've (kind of?) inspired anyone to spend Emo(nday), but that ain't my bag, babe. You're asking too much from me. I was on the brink of doing it like 4 hours ago, but thought better of it. And now I check my email for the first time since then. And there's more videos. More lyrics. More stories. It's not that it's not touching, even beautifully sad, but I can't do this.

10:15 P.M.: Chad leaves, Britney and Shannon stay. So, including Trish and Neighbor Erica, I'm the only guy left in town. I'm incredibly uncomfortable.

10:35 P.M.: Shannon thinks I'm funny. We came to this conclusion by me telling a story of the disintegration of my last serious relationship due to my immaturity. This story includes the gem where I became turned off by this particular girl due to her drinking her cereal milk. To be fair to me, this was a while ago, and I'm far grown up now. Britney has a look of horror on her face, Erica is face palming, Trish isn't surprised, and Shannon is howling with laughter. I simply get up to flip to back to side 1 on New Found Glory's "Sticks And Stones". I really need to hear "My Friends Over You". I am currently ignoring a text from my friend Courtney, reminding me how early I have to be up tomorrow.

11:11 P.M.: Shannon brings up the fact that it's 11:11. Erica points out that in the Something Corporate song "Konstantine", there's a lyric about it being 11:11. Britney points out that it's also a Regina Spektor song. I point out that it's also a Maria Taylor song, but that doesn't get me anywhere, because Spektor is far superior. Shannon wants to know who the best girl I dated was, and why, oh why, did it ever end? I laugh, and tell her to buy my book. Because I am a cross promotional genius.

11:30 P.M.: Jack's Mannequin is the background music when Shannon and Britney finally take off, and it hits me that they've been here nearly 12 hours. Shannon takes my hand, tells me again that it's soft, and hopes to see me again. I tell her that would be more than acceptable, and I mean it. Britney hugs me, and tells me to think about what she said this afternoon. I tell her I will. I tell MYSELF that I will as well.

12:01 A.M.: It's just me and Trish. Neighbor Erica fell asleep on the couch, and then dragged herself to her place, which made me briefly think of how long before her and/or Ashley notice the cigarette in their flower pot. Trish hasn't said much to me. Until now. "So, is it the music, or the misery?" I know what she's getting at, but I let her finish anyway. "Like, in High Fidelity, he's trying to figure out which came first, right? I feel like that's what you're doing here." I take time to ponder this while messing around on Erica's keyboard, softly playing out some of "The Resolution" along with the faint strains of the actual song coming out of my speakers. I know I've got an answer, don't I? what the hell have I figured out for these past 2 mondays, anyway? "This isn't a chicken/egg thing, Trish, you know? I mean, one has to come before the other here. But I think it varies by person...I don't turn to my music for sadness, but I turn to music when I'm sad." I'm impressed with myself. She's not. "So, are you sad now? or are you trying to MAKE yourself sad?" I'm not sad. At least not that I feel...sad isn't the word, it's..."Because here's the thing, Hanif"...Trish doesn't let me finish thinking. "If this isn't going to change you emotionally, then what are you doing other than putting yourself through emotional chaos for the sake of art? I mean, some people might find that admirable. I don't. I think it's ridiculous." And just like that, she dresses me down. And I love her for it.

12:25 A.M.: We haven't said much. Trish asks if I'm mad at her, and I'm not at all. I explain to her that I operate at this high level of hyper-sensitivity, or I try to, and through that, through trying to feel EVERY possible thing, I sometimes gloss over the bigger things. The roots of the issues, and even the fact that we're having this conversation is terrifying me. I wonder how I look to her, to Brittany (this being my favorite Brittany again, remember. The one WITHOUT classification)...am I like a psych patient? someone who has made a blueprint out of being over emotional so much that they miss the obvious things? I tell Trish about how crushed I was to let Marissa down this past week, but people are always telling me that I never say no, and it's not fair. It's not fucking fair, you know? because when I do say no, those times that I can, I'm miserable about it. So then I feel like shit because I feel like I'm saying yes for the own well being of my mental state, but then I know THAT'S half bullshit because I love people. I genuinely LOVE people. But what's wrong with me anyway? And Jack's Mannequin has been on repeat through all of this. "I can hear the sounds/of your voice still ringing in my ear/I'm going underground/but you find me anywhere I fear....." And Trish sits back, and takes in my falling apart. I'm furiously banging on keyboard keys, because I don't know what else to do with my hands, and I don't want to move too much. She sighs, and walks over to me. "Nothing is wrong with you. And I'm going to leave, because you need to call her." And then she kisses me on the forehead (which, while sweet, could also mean that she's going to put a hit out on me later.), and heads for the door. But before leaving, she stops. "Oh, and hey...you can paint me anyway you want if it'll lead to you buying more girl scout cookies, kiddo."

1:01 A.M.: I don't need to call her, because she calls me. I'm on my couch, and when my phone rings, I don't even have to check it. I answer with "So....", and Marissa responds, "you're awake." I'm listening to "21 and invincible", while feeling the farthest thing from that ("I'm in power for the hour/I guess today's gonna blow us away...") She's listening to what sounds like Cartel. There's moments, moments like this, where I think...would it REALLY be that bad if I ended up with Marissa? I mean, I could deal with the long distance thing, maybe. Maybe. We've carved out this unnaturally close relationship over guitars, pens, paper, and emotions...and I know she's thought of this as well. I don't say any of this out loud. We dance around topics, because since we're so much alike, what we've become so good at is withholding EVERYTHING until the last possible moment. Seeing who can show a glimpse of vulnerability first. No one wants to be the first to crack. This can take hours, sometimes days. And I don't know if I have the time. So we just talk about the weather.

1:28 A.M.: "I don't know how to say sorry correctly". This is Marissa, interrupting me telling the joke about that one time I nearly lit that girls hair on fire trying to light her cigarette (it happened almost 6 hours ago, and I've already worn that joke out.) She tells me she was really looking forward to hanging out, and that she hasn't been able to think about much between the music, and everything else going on, and she was hoping that I could balance that out. This conversation is spanning nearly an hour, and I haven't stayed up on the phone in a while. I tell her that I wish it was easier for me to deal with feeling like I've let her down. I get up and put in Lou Reed's "Coney Island, Baby", giving us an avenue to stop talking about our feelings and hide behind music again. "You know, Lester Bangs loved that record", she says. Of course I know that, I'm a Lester Bangs encyclopedia. I have a headache, a pressure headache. "Alright, Hey, 'Riss...listen..." I pause, not for effect, but to plot out my words. It doesn't work. "I don't know if this is crossing a line, but I legitimately miss you sometimes, like outside of whatever music stuff that we do.....or whatever...." is the best I can do. She seems shocked. "Really?", she says. My headache is growing. "I'm glad you said that first. Not because I wanted to win any emotional war...but because now I can say it too without feeling stupid."
2:15 A.M.: I'm half asleep and fully emotionally drained on my couch. I look at the time, wonder if I can do this next week, and grab my notes, and my laptop. I finally decide what I'm going to do. I choose Anberlin. "Breaking". I find the video, and send it out to all of those who sent videos today. The message: "This is for the one that got away, and the one that hasn't even started the chase yet." That should suffice. I promise myself not to dwell on conversations with girls after 1 A.M., even if it's Marissa, and fall asleep.

3:45 A.M.: My phone wakes me up. It's a text from DJ, who is notorious for not sleeping. "Hey man, what's the situation on that short strawberry blonde chick that was over today??" I laugh, as loudly as Shannon would, roll over, and throw the covers over my head. I've got to be up by 6.

(Thanks, as always to not only everyone who emailed me, hung out with me, facebooked, etc. But to these people for allowing me to write about them in such a personal light. The final week is next week. Thanks for reading.)

L.G. FUAD (The Emo(nday) Chronicles. Volume 2, Part 1.)

Texas lost the national championship on January 7th, 2010. That sucked. Shortly thereafter, I got sick. While there's no evidence that these two things were related, I'm betting they probably were. On Monday, January 11th, I was too sick to move, and had no music at my initial disposal other than Cartel's debut album, an All Time Low EP, and the last Cute Is What We Aim For album. While I don't know how it came to that, this is how EMO(nday) was born. I proceeded to send emails out to my music writing peers, bloggers, editors, songwriters, to tell them of this grand idea, and a miniature movement began. Articles, blogs, songs, videos popping up sporadically. What was initially a stupid, fever induced idea....well, kind of remained a stupid, fever induced idea. But with BACKING. Over the next 4 weeks, every Tuesday, I will chronicle (by timeline) how I spend this confusingly ridiculous day, the friends I bring along for the ride, and the grand lesson learned. Enjoy?

PRELUDE.

Wednesday, January 20th, 2010:

Somewhere around 9:30 P.M.: I'm sitting across from my friend Brittany, at a coffee shop. While last week, I mentioned knowing various Brittanys, of various races, sexual preferences, sizes, and spellings, THIS particular Brittany doesn't get a classification like the others. Well, because she's my favorite Brittany, thus her name standing alone has always said enough. (I apologize to Italian Brittany, Model Britney, Piano Brittany, and Black Brittany...) We're sitting across from each other, and Brittany, I...and I am becoming a beacon of vulnerability. Literally opening up about my shortcomings, my insecurities, my failures. Brittany has a tendency to bring this side out of me, and tonight, I'm realizing that it's because of the way she looks at me. It's almost a look of seeing through any bullshit I may or may not attempt to offer up. I bond best with girls who don't attempt to be impressed by me in the least, which is how Brittany ascended the ranks to not just my favorite Brittany, but one of my favorite people. At heart, we're both listeners, she and I, so we listen to each other. With genuine care, and true emotion. And, people come and go, interrupting us here and there (One guy even pausing to just sit next to us, and stay briefly. Not speaking. Brittany's eyes darted towards him, and back towards me, and it was hard to contain laughter.), and we're spilling our souls on these coffee shop chairs until damn near midnight. I've got to go, she should probably go, so I say various goodbyes around the shop (Let's pretend Nif is popular.), and I walk her to her car. She hugs me, tells me that we need to do this more often. I agree. She feels like I'm always busy. I feel like she's always busy, which I say partially out of guilt, because I know I HAVE gotten increasingly busy, and she's one of the few people I truly wish I could make more time for. And she's off. And I'm off, scrambling to make it to a friend's place. And I wonder if the events of the past Monday could change me. Bring me closer to the vulnerability that the select few people get to see so often. And then I laugh, and think out loud. "Maybe if we're still single by the time we're in our mid 40's I'll ask Brittany out on a date. Like, a legit date."

And then I realize that by the time I'm in my mid 40's, I'll be one of the richest, most critically acclaimed writers of my generation, and I'll be chasing women away with a rolled up copy of my latest Oscar winning script.

(Or, I'll be freelance writing in a studio apartment, and I'll be chasing down one of my 26 cats with a rolled up rejection letter from any number of publishers. Either scenario works equally well.)

Monday, January 25th, 2010:

9:05 A.M.: I wake up far later than I intended to, after an ill advised trip at 2:30 A.M. to retrieve my Blackberry from the Eastside of Columbus. The first thing I notice is that I fell asleep in my Bloc Party shirt, which reads, in insanely large letters, "LIVE THE DREAM LIKE THE 80's NEVER HAPPENED". Bloc Party, at some point or another was cool. I spend the next 12 minutes staring at my ceiling, pondering the irony of me, an 80's baby, wearing (and loving) this shirt.

9:33 A.M.: I check my voicemail to hear that I have one from my friend Kelly that is nothing but her screaming/singing some of Dashboard Confessional's "Vindicated" into my phone. Time of the voicemail? 5:30 A.M. None of my friends sleep.

10:22 A.M.: I actually seriously have work to do today. I need to finish writing a piece for a friend of mine regarding self centered apathy. Which is irony, because everything about the practice of Emo(nday) is as self centered as possible. I don't realize this until much, much later, but wanted to express it here unless I forget. Chad calls. Says his wife wants to come over. I make a really over the top sexist joke, laced with sarcasm. Chad's got me on speaker phone. Luckily, his wife, Britney (yes. Another one.) laughs it off, and they're on their way.

11:15 A.M.: My friend Amber arrives. I don't see her often, as she's probably the sole person who can actually say shit like, "I've got to pencil you in....in a few weeks" when you're trying to set something as mundane as a lunch date. She's tiny, and is obscured by the vinyl she's carrying. I'm excited. There's Get Up Kids, Jimmy Eat World, New Found Glory, Something Corporate....we're off to a good start. She doesn't bother to say hello, I imagine she's too busy for greetings. She simply says, "So what's all this about?"

11:50 A.M.: We're listening to Fall Out Boy's "G.I.N.A.S.F.S.", which is a great choice. It was a hidden/bonus track on the pull out all the stops album, Infinity On High. You know. The album when Fall Out Boy stopped being an Emo band, and started aiming for being the biggest band in the world. The opening lines in the song are, "I've loved everything about you that hurts/so let me see your moves, let me see your moves". Amber, a beloved writer herself, loves this. D.J., who got here somewhere in between these two times, but did not warrant much mention, is even tapping his foot. While definitely scoping out Amber. I give him a look that says that I caught him looking, and ponder my chances of being able to set the two up.

12:01 P.M.: I've decided to dedicate Emo(nday) to Ethan Hawke. There's no reason for this, really. Ethan Hawke is probably what I would become if I bought my own bullshit. That said, The Hottest State is one of the best books ever.

12:27 P.M.: Britney (keep track, this one is married to Chad) strolls in with her friend, and a guitar. Funny story is this. Britney doesn't know this, but I've met this friend already. I met this friend at a party with Chad like 2 weeks ago, where she got moderately drunk, and kept saying she wanted to go to Ihop. There is no Ihop in Columbus. It was 2 A.M. at the time, and the city was blanketed in fog. We ended up at a Waffle House, next to a strip club, on the northside of Columbus. I'm unsure whether or not to bring up our last encounter, but decide against it when she grabs my hand and says, "It's really nice to see you again when I'm sober!" Britney raises an eyebrow, and gives me a look that suggests that I have a fair amount of explaining to do. It doesn't help when her friend remarks that my hands are "really, really soft". Britney explains that Chad is finishing some work, and will be over shortly. Now Playing? The Promise Ring, "Emergency, Emergency".

12:55 P.M.: Email from my boy Scottie: "Do you still hate Morrissey? I've been listening to Morrissey all morning. While looking at pictures of my ex-girlfriend. That's as emo as I get." (As an aside, I DO like Morrissey again now. But I'm not really going to sift through ex girlfriend pictures. I email him back, tell him to put in The Queen Is Dead, and put away the pictures. Good deed done.)

1:35 P.M.: We're having a jam session. I stole my neighbor's shitty keyboard, Britney is playing guitar, and Amber and DJ (sitting ever so close to each other....) are drumming on various things. We began by playing "I Do Not Hook Up", and LISTEN. The Gaslight Anthem is the ONLY reason that I know all of the words to that song. And then we ventured into a more Emocentric jam, playing what we knew of All Time Low's "Dear Maria, Count Me In", and Mayday Parade's "When I Get Home, You're So Dead"...until a debate over lyrics in the chorus of the latter ended the session abruptly. (I am swearing, and listen for yourself, that it's "Say HELLO to all the boys at the top of this table that you're under". Britney, her Friend, and DJ all insisted that it's "Say it LOUDER for all the boys at the top of this table that you're under". We refused to look it up, and I still do, in case I'm wrong.)


2:15 P.M.: DJ is being argumentative. "This whole scene is ridiculous, because it's a music scene void of any good musicians." He's still a bit sour that no one acknowledged the genius of Robert Smith last week. Britney's friend (who's name is Shannon, by the way. I can't keep not referring to her by name, especially after I've seen her drunk.) states the obvious. "Well, Patrick Stump is a good musician..." She gets a point from me. "Also, listen" I have to chime in "You LOVE the punk scene, DJ." (He does) "And there's about ZERO good musicians in that scene. It's a scene that's not about the musicians, right?" (This is flawed. Mick Jones was a good musician, so was Glen Matlock, probably Johnny Thunders, Steve Jones, Topper Headon, Tom Verlaine, so forth, so on.) But the point I want people to see is this. The punk scene was mostly average musicians that let heroin fucking DESTROY them. These kids now, yeah, they're mostly bad to average musicians, with a few exceptions....but they're already destroyed. By girls, boys, rejection, guilt, regret...No drugs needed, thank you very much. Think of the money saved!

Britney thinks that the "Think of the money saved!" joke was in poor taste, because heroin is no laughing matter. The 12 year old in me is holding back a Cobain related joke.

2:35 P.M.: Woods, my music blogging twin, emails me just as I'm stressing over not getting this piece on being self centered complete at all. It's a video of another Mayday Parade gem, "Jamie All Over", and he explains that Scottie and he are exchanging videos/stories about music that reminds them of ex girlfriends. I'm not sure I want to go down this path. "Jamie All Over" is brutal, especially if a girl named Jamie is the one who left you a victim. Thankfully, I wrote Jamies off years ago. And then he jumps in our conversation by closing his email with: "Oh yeah, Chris Carraba is a good musician."

3:12 P.M.: Chad is now here. We're listening to Dashboard Confessional's Unplugged album, and I'm talking about alternate tunings, and pointing out Chris Carraba's unique guitar playing style, when Shannon states, "I don't know. I just can't tune out his fucking voice", which raises murmurs of agreement from the room. No one is buying my "He's the king, though!! or at least the prince! He's like the Johnny Cash of this scene, listen!!!" Then I realize that the two don't correlate at all, and I apologize to Cash in my mind. Which I find myself doing often. The amount of times I have to mentally apologize to Johnny Cash is simply staggering.

3:45 P.M.: Italian Brittany calls me to remind me that it's Etta James' birthday. Paid respects.

3:47 P.M.: Marissa and I are on shaky ground. I flirted with the idea of going to visit her in D.C. this week to work on music, but decided to postpone the trip at the last minute. I would have been there now. I admit, I should have probably not made such a big thing about it until I was SURE I was going. This irritated Marissa, so much that when I decided not to go on Thursday, she declared, through mutual friends, that she wasn't speaking to me. My response to that, through mutual friends (of course, lest I be mistaken for an adult), was "Join the club, princess". We had a tentative conversation late Friday night, dished out apologies, and glossed over any bigger issues. We've barely spoken since then. Until now, when she calls me. She tells me that she knows I'm working on a lot, so she wanted to play me something that she's been working on, kind of to inspire me. She does. It's amazing. I tell her this. I can hear her break into a smile over the phone (which, no matter who it is, is such a lovely sound). She quickly retreats back into her normal mode, and snaps, "Yeah...what would you do without me?". I don't have an immediate answer.

4:18 P.M.: I'm on my floor in my kitchen with my laptop. There's various chatter in my living room, but I'm immersed in my email. Woods has started a trend. My inbox is flooded with friends, and friends of friends sending me emails of music videos/lyrics that remind them of an ex, in the worst way. This isn't the can of worms I wanted to open. There are various other cans of better things that people can open, why do we always go for the worms? My friend Eric: Cute Is What We Aim For's "Lyrical Lies". My friend April (who is an ex of mine, as well...): Pierce The Veil's "Kissing In Cars" (I know (think?) for a fact that this song doesn't remind her of me.) Scottie shoots out a random Something Corporate song. Everyone is asking for one from me. I lightly bang my head against my kitchen wall, thinking that I've created not just one monster, but a small group of them.

4:32 P.M.: Britney comes in, and sees me curled up on my kitchen floor. She towers over me standing up, so now she's REALLY looking down on me (literally/figuratively.)...she joins me and my laptop in a heap on the floor. Tells me my neighbors, Ashley and Erica just walked in. Britney is my age, but seems so much older, and always has. I don't know if it's because she's married/settled, while I'm single/drink everything out of the same mug that I've owned for a year, but I can accept her easier because she's 25 going on 72. She glares at me. "You know, Shannon thinks you're cool". I curl up even more, "Britney, come on....not now." I've got it in my head that my married friends, Britney and Chad primarily just want everyone else to be in a relationship. Britney seriously invited me to a speed dating "thing". Seriously. She lets up, somewhat. "I mean, Nif, you're a decent guy, people seem to like you...and I'm not questioning your happiness, but it's almost like you're intent on staying single for the sake of enhancing your art. And you're missing out." She sighs and picks some lint off of my shirt. "I just don't want you to ever sell yourself short, romantically, you know? There's not a lot of guys like you out there." She stands up, takes my hat, puts it on her head, and skips off. Chad's lucky, and my kitchen floor is cold. I go back to join my friends.

4:50 P.M.: I'm messing with my guitar, and Ashley and Erica are looking at their Xangas. If no one remembers Xanga, it was a hilarious blogging site that everyone in 9th grade probably had to talk about boys/girls/everything emotional that you would never say out loud. Amber, who hasn't spoken much lately, shyly says that she still has one. That she updated like last month. The entire room collectively turns and stares. "Ummm...you guys wanna see it?"

5:15 P.M.: Sparing details, listen. Amber's Xanga is damn hilarious. I search for mine (again), and come to terms with the fact that it's been deleted. Thankfully.

5:30 P.M.: We're immersed in another jam session. Neighbor Erica has my guitar in hand, and says "hey, does anyone know all of the words to "Sugar We're Goin' Down?...or am I the only one?". Room breaks out in laughter. Chad says, "What are you, kidding? even DJ knows a line to that" (This is accurate, once we break into playing, DJ chimes in with everyone else on the line "drop a heart/break a name")

6:10 P.M.: I'm texting Trish, trying to get her to stop by. She was not too pleased with how she was portrayed last week. To make it up to her, I told her I would order two boxes of girl scout cookies from her little sister. It's basically a win/win for me, as I love Tagalongs. She'll think about it. I contemplate going over to her house and throwing rocks at her window. Because I'm sooo endearing. But, then I realize, in my neighborhood, a 20-something black male throwing rocks at a window will probably end with a discussion with the law. Police just aren't romantics.

6:30 P.M.: Pizza's on deck, Amber is twittering, DJ is on his Mac, and I'm getting ready to email a video out to the (small) masses that are demanding a window into my heartbreak. I'm interrupted by Britney's voice in my kitchen, saying, "I don't know. I just think that it's kind of an inappropriate song for a group of high school kids..." I check in, to see that they're watching the video of Patrick Stump playing an acoustic performance at his old high school, which Woods emailed to me. The song in question? "Let's Get it On". I agree, but mostly because people should stop covering Marvin Gaye in general. We all share really horrible uncomfortable jokes about high school. And "Getting it on", when Shannon looks up through her laugh, brushes hair out of her eyes, looks at me and says, "Hey, I know you don't smoke, but, I'm going to go smoke really quickly...wanna hang with me? I hate sitting alone outside and smoking..." I'm seeing a trend.

(Part 2 of this will come later tonight.)

You Can't Spell Divorce Without Over. (The Emo(nday) Chronicles Vol. 1, Part 2.)

When we last left, there was talk of pizza being ordered, I was stressing over working on a grand article on Fall Out Boy, and my friends were annoyed, confused, and endeared to the trend of EMO(nday), all at once. It was a wild afternoon. And now for the conclusion of how I spent EMO(nday).

JANUARY 18, 2010:

6:15 P.M.: Papa John's gets here, and not a minute too soon. Delivery guy is wearing a Nirvana shirt. This puts me in an uncomfortable position. It's a cool shirt, but he looks like the kind of guy that put the shirt on this morning just so that people could say "Oh, Cool shirt"...he MIGHT not even dig Nirvana, and he might be one of those young punks that only knows half of "Smells Like Teen Spirit". He's staring at me. I'm staring at him. We both know what's about to go down. Music nerd one upmanship, on the way. Do I test his mettle? Do I see if he can name me a Pixies song? name drop My Bloody Valentine? look, it might seem a bit extreme, but Avril Lavigne aside, I don't want any posers in my musical promised land, and Kurt would be outraged if he saw the way he was being marketed these days, so I owe to SOMEONE (maybe Dave Grohl?) to say something. Or at least, no matter what I do, not to say "cool shirt".

All of this mental warfare took literally 30 seconds. My other neighbor, Ashley bounds over, sensing pizza, looks at my new arch pizza enemy, and says, "Nirvana? Cool shirt". Validation. And from a member of the opposite sex, no less! We exchange looks. Mine says "Next time, pizza man." His says "That's the first time a girl has talked to me in months. I win the battle AND the war, jackass". I tip him extra.

6:30 P.M.: Trish has a friend coming over. I'm leery about this, so I say as plainly as possible, "Patricia, listen. I'm not trynna be set up." Using her full name means I mean business. And I kind of do. I have a lot of kind hearted girls as friends that mean well, but also like to pawn their friends off on me. Since this is cleared up, I throw my pizza crust at DJ, and put in the first All American Rejects record.

7:15 P.M.: I think the All American Rejects are at worst, a serviceable band. Hell, if it weren't for the Flaming Lips, they might be the best band from Oklahoma. (I mean, obviously up for debate. For Love Not Lisa was a pretty cool outfit, and I guess the Gap Band is KINDA from there. I mean, Charlie Wilson is from Tulsa. Anyway.) I always felt like they should have been bigger. DJ, for once, agrees with me. We sing along to "Swing, Swing"....because everyone under 30 knows at least one line to that song. I've got no fact based proof for this except for I was at a party this one time, and someone put that song on, and shit got out of hand in the best way possible. I've got a few lines punched out on my laptop for my Fall Out Boy article, and I'm feeling pretty good.

7:45 P.M.: Text from my friend Tracy: "I think I might have just requested "Screaming Infidelities" on every radio station in the Central Virgina area."

8:00 P.M.: DJ has had enough. Once the last track on the All American Rejects album spins (Correctly titled "The Last Song"...), he declares he's out. He's been a trooper. "Nif, man, I hope you get everything out of this that you want." And he's off. I tune out my phone vibrating, look at Trish, who is picking nearly everything off of her pizza and think out loud...."What DO I want out of this?" She shrugs. "Hopefully not a girlfriend." Point taken.

8:30 P.M.: Trish's friend arrives, and we don't take time to introduce ourselves by name. She's heard a lot about me. I've heard absolutely nothing about her, as evidenced by the fact that I don't know her name. I feel guilty for this, and vow to find out as much about her as possible. She's cute, but not so cute that I'm intimidated, writes poetry..."sometimes, man"...and has a Patti Smith button on. She bought over the first 2 My Chemical Romance albums, once she heard about the day. NICE.

8:45 P.M.: My Chemical Romance, to me, are so interesting because they came out of Jersey. A music scene that I generally live, but there's nothing New Jersey about them, at least not aesthetically, and also nothing really in their music. I mean, unless you include the overblown superdrama of The Black Parade. But I've come to realize that Black Parade, as a record, a movement, or whatever the hell else it was, wasn't emo at all. It was just as overblown as humanly possible. Like, come on. By the end of that, even the critics that LOVED that record (and there were a lot) ended up hating My Chemical Romance. But their first two albums were insane. Keep in mind, we haven't nailed down a definition of "emo" as of yet, and in my working on it, I keep drawing blanks. But when I listen to their second studio, Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, I think that's the sound of it. It's not a necessarily good album. I mean there's some gems, namely "Thank You For The Venom", but the music isn't great, Gerard Way isn't a fantastic vocalist, and the lyrics. OH THE LYRICS. "Pain in my heart for your dying wish,
I'll kiss your lips again." And "the damage you've inflicted, temporary wounds I'm coming back from the dead and I'll take you home with me, I'm taking back the life you stole" I'm starting to think nothing is more Emotional than NOT dialing it down, when dialing it down makes perfect sense. I briefly consider scrapping the FOB article, and writing about My Chemical Romance instead, but then I remember how much the Black Parade ended up pissing me off.

9:30 P.M.: Trish's friend, still no name nailed down, wants to go outside to smoke. Instinctively, and probably because I could use the fresh air, I follow her out. I don't smoke, but I don't mind lighting the cigarette of a pretty girl. It's an odd coupling. I always envision pulling out a match, all smooth, and sparking it somewhere manly, like across my bare arm, and lighting the cigarette that will bring an otherwise beautiful girl one step closer to possible death. Instead, she asks "Got a lighter?" and I fumble around before going back into my apartment to get one. I'm not James Bond. Not even the Pierce Brosnan version.

9:32 P.M.: The friend shakes her head, blows smoke in my general direction, and asks, "So, what's your deal? are you on some kind of emotional quest through music or something?" Huh. She's direct. And perceptive.

10:00 P.M.: What started innocently, at the suggestion of Trish Friend (who will be called that for the remainder of this.), became wild. So, I post a few select emo-centered videos on the facebook wall of a few friends. What happens next is somewhat touching, and all at once over the top. My Facebook wall becomes the landing point for all of the music of 1999 until about 2004. Even my friend David, who has no tolerance for such a movement chips in. I shared the EPIC fight club inspired video for "Cute Without The E" on his wall, due to his love of Fight Club, but his disdain for Taking Back Sunday wins out. Forcing me to play my Ace early, and give him Brand New's equally epic video for "Sic Transit Gloria", since he loves Brand New. Who Doesn't?

10:20 P.M.: I'm inspired, writing a mile a minute, and convincing Trish Friend that the video for "Cute Without The E" is one of the greatest videos of the past 10, NO! NO! past TWENTY years! I'm so into this! Trish has long since retreated to the neighbors to discuss how crazy I am and listen to Daughtry.

10:57 P.M.: My Facebook wall looks like the soundtrack to a mix CD I made for every girl in college. My buddy Justin calls me. Says that he could get me a shirt that says "Jesse Lacey is God" THIS WEEK. I respectfully decline. While I find it outrageous that such a shirt even exists, I must say, I'm pretty sold on the fact that Jesse Lacey, while incredible, is probably NOT God.

11:30 P.M.: The Facebook onslaught has died down, my buddy Luke slipped in a little Secondhand Serenade, a band that I had forgotten about in all of this, my friends Nick and Bekah had a brief spat about what's REALLY Emo, and in the end, I had a lot of videos to watch, and a lot of moods to ponder. But I also had a brunette on my porch, smoking. W.W.C.C.D. Well, since Chris Carraba doesn't have these problems, Shouldn't I ask, What Would Patrick Stump Do? Yeah, he's probably as awkward as I am, just with a lot more money. I awkwardly poke my head outside, make the stunningly deep observation that it's cold (Yes. In January, in Columbus, Ohio...it gets chilly at night.), and dive in. She starts, "I know what kind of guy you are"....and I brace myself, because that's never good. "You've got this Morrissey/Pete Wentz complex" I chuckle lightly, not only because I've heard it before, but because I've literally had my work criticized and torn apart using that as a basis. I respond, "Oh, you mean....hypersensitivity seen as some kind of spiritual achievement?" Her eyes widen..."EXXXactly!" (typing it like that is the best way I could get across how she actually said it, with an EXXXtreme emphasis on the first syllable. ) "You're probably at least a little smart, you can write, at least I think you can probably write, you're cute, in an endearing kind of way...but you're the kind of guy that reaches a level of emotion that most girls probably can't deal with." She's direct. Because I can't deal with direct girls, I make a joke. "Did my DVD collection give it away?" it should have. That thing is ridiculous. Do I REALLY need 2 copies of "Pretty in Pink"? Probably not. But there's no way in hell I'll pass up the "Everything's Duckie Edition". She laughs, says, "You'll probably make some girl really happy. Someday.", finishes her cigarette, says it's nice finally meeting me, and bounds off.

12:05 A.M.: Marissa calls. I ask her if a girl telling me that I'm destined to make some girl really happy someday is the same as a girl asking me out on a date. Her response? "You definitely need to get some fucking sleep". I'll take that as a maybe.

1:01 A.M.: I've listened to Something Corporate's "Konstantine" twice, and I'm in a state that's not really down, but it's not really up, either. And I dig this song, man. I dig it because it's 9 minutes long, but so fucking what, you know? This dude has a story to tell, and he's not going to let you, or anyone else cut him short, and THIS is Emotion, THIS is what I've been searching for all day. It's all there, the lyrics, the longing, the fact that you look at love as something entirely bigger than yourself, and the fact that you're willing to spend nearly 10 MINUTES explaining that to someone over a piano. I know it's overblown, I know. But what else is there? I text Italian Brittany because I know she's up, and it simply says, "I think I figured out what I want to get out of this." In response, she calls me. But I don't answer. Mostly because having too much self-realization defeats the purpose. And I've still got 3 more weeks to go.
1:30 A.M.: Fall Out Boy notes completed, I wander over to the neighbors, remembering that Trish is still over there. They're watching Donnie Darko. I tell Trish that her friend was cool, but a bit direct. I then ask if this is all ridiculous, that I dragged people into this, that I'm not going home to an awesome wife, or even a mediocre girlfriend (or even studio equipment) like my friends Chad, Jason, and DJ. And make no mistake, I greatly enjoy my life as a single person, because I'm happy with my life. But I just want to make sure that I'm not missing something. Erica looks me up and down, and I know I look like a wreck after a day of writing, pizza, records, and realization. "Well, you're missing that those guys are happy because they found someone, or something to love that loves them just as much. You love pretty freely, but I'm not ever sure it comes back to you. It's a battle, but if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I scribble this down on my way back next door, and then I think aloud, to no one in particular, "NO...if you can't beat them, you don't join THEM. You join the alternative to them, you team up with their closest competitor, and you take them down...." I have no idea what this means. I've been up far too long.

2:30 A.M.: I'm sleeping on my couch when Trish comes over, after having far too much wine, to get her purse. She tells me my neighbors are awesome, I get up to walk her home, which is thankfully just across the street, and she hugs me and says, "You're hilarious." I'll take it.

3:30 A.M.: My blackberry buzzes to wake me up. Getting a call at this hour irritates me, so I ignore it, but then see that I also have an email. It's from DJ, and it's the full lyrics to "Mint Car", with the subject line: "ROBERT SMITH IS A FUCKING GENIUS." What a day.

(Thanks to all people that contributed to Emo(nday), in any form. 98% of this is accurate as notes would recall. The 2% is simply the room for error. I just realized that we ordered Pizza from Dominoes.)

Your Boyfriend Sucks @ Taking Down Christmas Trees. (The Emo(nday) Chronicles, Vol. 1.)

Texas lost the national championship on January 7th, 2010. That sucked. Shortly thereafter, I got sick. While there's no evidence that these two things were related, I'm betting they probably were. On Monday, January 11th, I was too sick to move, and had no music at my initial disposal other than Cartel's debut album, an All Time Low EP, and the last Cute Is What We Aim For album. While I don't know how it came to that, this is how EMO(nday) was born. I proceeded to send emails out to my music writing peers, bloggers, editors, songwriters, to tell them of this grand idea, and a miniature movement began. Articles, blogs, songs, videos popping up sporadically. What was initially a stupid, fever induced idea....well, kind of remained a stupid, fever induced idea. But with BACKING. Over the next 4 weeks, every Tuesday, I will chronicle (by timeline) how I spend this confusingly ridiculous day, the friends I bring along for the ride, and the grand lesson learned. Enjoy?

JANUARY 18th, 2010:

9:30 A.M.: I am just walking into the Martin Luther King Day breakfast, an event that holds significance to me, and one that I felt like I needed to highlight, not to start us off with me on some kind of pedestal (trust me, honey, even if I was, that thing crumbled before noon.), but because as far as events that ACTUALLY speak to what a day is for, I don't know if there's a better one. I run into an old music teacher, ask him what he thinks Dr. King would be listening to if her were alive today. He chuckles, and says "Probably nothing new..." Yeah, I dig it. I can't get behind the idea of Dr. King turning his Swag on. (Though, with all he accomplished, was it ever off?) Pause for cool MLK related youtube video.

11:15 A.M.: Leaving the breakfast, I ring my two music nerd friends, Chad and DJ (though, not to be confused with the legendary DJ that this site has made moderately famous) Chad is married, and DJ sits in a homemade music studio 99% of the day, so I rarely see them, but "listen, it's Emo(nday), and we're doing this right, so get a record player and get to my apartment ASAP!" My two comrades are not as motivated as I am. Chad mumbles something about running with his wife (I bite my tongue), DJ wants to know what the hell Emo(nday) is and what's wrong with me, Chad mentions something else about picture frame shopping (my tongue is literally bleeding at this point), but they both consent to come over for a little while. Minor victory.

11:45 A.M.: Everyone of the opposite sex has that friend that they claim is "like a brother/sister" to them, when in reality, they just say that to cover up any romantic tension that will eventually arise, due to the unnatural closeness of their relationship. I've got Marissa. My occasional muse, would-be dream girl, and mostly thorn in my side. Both of my sides. She's talking into my phone, but I'm only 1/2 listening. The other 1/2 of me is listening to the first Get Up Kids record, Four Minute Mile. Forget what you think about Chris Carraba. These guys are the Godfathers of what we've grown to know as Emo. This album, their first album did for Emo bands what The Velvet Underground and Nico did for...well, everyone. Anyone who heard this album started a band. The lyrics blend clever metaphors with self deprecation, something that a guy named Wentz has a master's degree in at this point, and the hooks are oh so catchy. I'm also focused on starting an article titled "How Fall Out Boy Will Save Your Marriage" (Yes. I'm shocked that someone thinks that any kind of creative control for me is a good idea too. I only do what I can get away with?), and I tune back in only in time to hear Marissa snap, "So, how long am I going to have to endure you acting like a jackass over music that didn't get you girls in college??" I only muster a slight chuckle, and write it down in my notes. After a slight silence, she says something else."Ummmm....Hanif?...that actually wasn't a rhetorical question."

12:38 P.M.: DJ gets here first, and we're now listening to the Fall Out Boy debut, Take This To Your Grave. "Damn, I forgot how good this was." Oh, my friend Trish said that. She's here too, she got here somewhere between my conversation with Marissa, and my 2nd cup of tea. Trish is model thin, and her eyes, hair, sense of humor, and heart are equally dark. She makes me laugh, has great taste in music, and thinks I'm a neurotic headcase. DJ doesn't get Fall Out Boy. Here's the thing. I've got a love/like relationship with the guys. I saw them in 2002 in Chicago before they were big. Hell, before they were even medium, and I hate to be the "Before they were popular" guy, but screw you, I've earned it. I saw them with maybe 35 other people. I've seen 10 of those people rush the stage during the epic break in "Saturday". I've seen Pete Wentz ram his bass into a brick wall repeatedly, until it cracked (ummm...the bass, not the wall.) I've seen Joe Trohman jump off of a speaker into the crowd. So, forgive me. I still LIKE Fall Out Boy, I'll be sad when they don't come back, but I don't know if I can love what they became. Yes, Patrick Stump has developed into a fantastic singer, and a creative producer/composer. But if you would have told me in 2002 that Joe Trohman would grow a terrible fro and become even less of a factor as a guitar player, that Wentz would marry the girl who got famous riding the coattails of her similarly talentless sister, and that Andy Hurley would stay silent through it all, wearing the "this is just a paycheck" look on his face? I wouldn't have guessed it. (Except probably that last one.) I saw them in Chicago again late 2008, and while it was close to the same (the boys put on a hell of a show in their hometown), it was just too arena-ish, but this was sweet. Still, I owe a debt to Pete Wentz, and this album is partially why. Our lyrics have similarities, and I remember listening to the line (in "Saturday") "Well, I've read about the afterlife/but I've never really lived", standing up, saying "HOLY SHIT", and rewinding it at least 4 times. The first self realization of Emo(nday): I've tried to write lyrics as flawlessly as he did on this debut album for a while. Sometimes I get near it. On Cork Tree, he got too full of himself, on Infinity on High, he got too caught up in outdoing himself, and on Folie, he finally, maybe, came to peace with the fact that he's that guy. Pete Wentz is that guy that had all of this stuff inside for years, and when it finally came out, it all came out at once, and by the time Take This To Your Grave was finished, he was zapped. I'm trying to explain this in my defense of Wentz to DJ, who's only response was, "Dude, I don't know what you're talking about, but "Grenade Jumper" is the only song on this record that doesn't fucking blow". Agree to disagree (about DJ being smart.)

1:15 P.M.: Email from my buddy Woods over at The 21 gun salute. "Yo, I got some Taking Back Sunday B-Sides dude!!!!!" Yep. He's in the spirit.

1:30 P.M.: Chad stumbles in covered in sweat. I inform him that he's not sitting on my couch. He inquires about why he's here, and I don't know if I have a solid answer.
1:45 P.M.: Taking Back Sunday's first album, Tell All Your Friends. One of the best breakup albums of all time. Again, I think I'm alone here. "Nif, this sucks." This is Chad's opinion. "I don't get why he's screaming at me, and he sounds on the verge of tears." Both valid points, but he's on the verge of tears because some girl just broke his heart, and probably because he knows that this is the last album of his band's that critics will even accept as halfway decent. Both good reasons. What TBS' record does, the role it plays, is that most everyone within my generation can at least relate to it. Chad doesn't get it, I tell him it's because he's married. Which makes no sense, and the disdain with which I say the word "married" is shocking, even to me. Having married friends is new to me, and I love Chad's wife. LOVE her. She made me those peanut butter cookies with the kisses in the middle (um. hershey kisses. Let's be clear.), she's sweet. But my point is, Chad no longer knows about rejection, because he's got someone who is going to love him probably unconditionally, forever (if he's lucky)....Maybe he just can't appreciate Emo(nday) due to that. I make a note to ponder this later.

2:35 P.M.: I love my neighbors. We get along great. I live next to 2 girls, Ashley and Erica, and we have a great neighbor relationship. Except that they listen to bad music, very loudly. They do it during the day, so there's REALLY no harm, but Daughtry? I also promised them I'd help them dispose of their Christmas tree last week, and have yet to follow through on that. I did leave a funny note on their door, though. I am listening to Taking Back Sunday at a pretty shocking volume, "Great Romances Of The 20th Century" as it were, and Right when Adam spits out the line, "You know I'm not one for complaining...", Erica comes into my apartment (we don't knock anymore, which is admittedly more dangerous for me than it is for them...), and yells, "HEY! CAN YOU TURN THAT THE FU-.....oh, hey....is this Taking Back Sunday?"

We've reeled another one in.

3:30 P.M.: DJ is kind of like that guy on Anchorman. The guy who says "I Love Lamp" just because he's looking at it? He tends to make these grand statements regarding music, with little backing, just because it was the last thing he heard. So when he states "I don't know, I just think Robert Smith is the greatest lyricist of all time", I roll my eyes. Chad says what I'm thinking. "DJ, you don't REALLY think that, you're just saying that because you were listening to "Letters To Elise" on the way over here, weren't you?" DJ is caught. He then argues why I'm not writing about The Cure instead of Fall Out Boy, and Trish agrees, he's got a point. "Who is more Emo than Robert Smith?" Ok, I get it. And I LOVE the Cure. And I DO think that they were at the forefront of what was Emo in the 80's. I mean, the only thing that wasn't black in the video for "Just Like Heaven" is the frighteningly pale skin of Robert Smith. But were they REALLY that sad? I mean, by all accounts, the dude wrote a lot of love songs. Plus, I mean, besides being weird as all hell, Robert Smith never really struck me as anyone who was emotionally attached to ANYTHING. His lyrics (keep in mind, I LOVE the Cure, as stated earlier. I just need to keep saying it, so you'll believe me as I pick them apart), are usually solid, but not sad. Marissa has, and continues to call him a "Hallmark Lyricist". Meaning, that yes, lines like "Spinning on that dizzy edge/I kissed her face and kissed her head" could be in the next Hallmark card Chad gets for his wife. I consider all of this, and submit that the Cure are nowhere near Emotional enough to have a stake in this day. DJ goes nuts, and continues his "ROBERT SMITH IS THE GREATEST SONGWRITER OF ALL TIME" tirade, until Erica asks the ever burning "You think Robert Smith is a better songwriter than Paul McCartney?" question. People ponder this in silence, while I think of if Paul McCartney has an Emo bone in his body. Probably Not.

4:15 P.M.: Email from my Italian friend Brittany (I know more Brittanys than almost anyone in America, so I break them down by culture, eye color, and in some cases, whether or not my friends have tried to hook up with them.), that simply says: "ALLLLLL TIMMMMMEEEEE LOOOOOWWWWWW!!!!" and then has a link to possibly the most fun/hilarious emo video ever. I start to feel better about where this is headed.

4:45 P.M.: Chad' s wife calls, and talks to me. I assure her that Chad is no less of a man than he was when he left her this morning, which for the most part is true. He's been slumped in a miserable sweaty lump on my couch for the past 2.5 hours. And he cuts out, says he'll call me later, with a look in his eyes that says "Thanks for wasting my holiday, and I can't wait until my wife sets you up with one of her friends."

5:30 P.M.: Boxcar Racer. The short lived Blink-182 side project that released one classic album, and then disbanded, as Tom Delonge said that the band "Served it's purpose". Trish chimes in, "Nif, why are we listening to this? you hate Tom Delonge." Well, "No...I don't hate Tom Delonge" (This is true.) "Well, you definitely said that Tom Delonge sucks!" Well, "No, I never said that!" (This is not true.) "When did I say that?" (I said it at her house, just last week.) "Nif, you said it at my house, like last week!" Alright. She's got me. What it is, is this. I think Angels and Airwaves is a joke. I think that anyone who took that mockery of a band seriously should seriously seek help. I think that Tom Delonge gained this God complex due to this entire generation worshiping ANYTHING that he put out, and Angels and Airwaves is just a joke of that entire generation, but they STILL ate it up. So, when I said I hated Tom Delonge, THAT was my basis behind it. I really think Tom Delonge is kind of amazing. I never admit this. Trish loves Angels and Airwaves, so I don't tell her she should seek help, instead we watch some of their videos, which shuts her up for a while.

5:45 P.M.: Text from Marissa: "Ok, you've got me. I'm listening to Cartel." I probably love her. But we're DEFINITELY ordering pizza. It's going to be a long night, and I've just barely finished my notes. Trish is on the phone inviting her friend over, DJ is on the phone with Papa Johns, and I've got my head in my hands on my counter. W.W.C.C.D.

(What Would Chris Carraba Do?)

(*I'll tell you what he'd do, he'd win the hearts of fresh faced teen girls. I'm not that good looking.)

(Part II of this coming later tonight.)

The Lomax Effect on Modern Music

Some of you loyal readers may have taken note as of late the inclusion of dates naming John and Alan Lomax in RHT's "Today In Rock History" and their relationship with blues legends such as Leadbelly and Muddy Waters in the early 20th century. I've taken a great interest in uncovering exactly who these gentlemen were, and why they are of great import. What I've come up with is more questions than answers, however.

John Lomax, and his son Alan were preservationists of American folk music, first and foremost. John Lomax, a Texan, was particularly interested in cowboy songs but through a relationship with a black man early in life also had a curiosity in the folk songs of that culture as well. During The Great Depression, being an unemployed banker & former professor sought funding from the U.S. government to pursue his dream of cataloging American folk music. Whether or not his obsession was born out of a need to preserve American folk songs or repudiate claims of European scholars that all folk traditions are born of experiences passed down from the "motherland" and not learned from current situation is debatable. Lomax's son Alan would soon join his father as they were funded by the Library of Congress to record and catalog the music of the South, most notably that of Black America. During their travels, it is well documented their relationship with the legendary Leadbelly, whom they "discovered" at Angola Prison in Louisiana. The Lomaxes would make countless recordings of soon to be revered names such as Jelly Roll Morton, Woody Guthrie, Muddy Waters, etc.

It is troublesome as you read more into what the Lomaxes accomplished that while their intentions were good, somewhere they may have strayed from their mission in some respects, especially John Lomax. His relationship with Leadbelly became somewhat a travelling circus & side show, something I'm sure Lomax regretted in hindsight as he had become Leadbelly's "manager" and took him out on tour. Also, as earlier stated it is really unclear what the "end goal" was of the Lomax's odyssey. Was it solely to preserve or to prove a point that American folk music was born in America as a result of the trials & tribulations of everyday life? It is for certain that they were more in depth & thorough than anyone ever before their time in seeking out the roots of American music. It is also certain that Alan Lomax had the foresight to recognize their findings were the source of Rock & Roll music that was to take over not only America, but the world. An avenue also interesting to explore would be the rise of "protest songs" in the early 20th century and the Lomax's relationship with the genre. There were strong ties to Woody Guthrie & Pete Seeger, and Alan Lomax was investigated quite a lot by the FBI and J. Edgar Hoover for his "leftist" views and relationships.

Also confusing is the lack "preservation" of the Lomax works. Neither has been inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, although Alan Lomax did receive the National Medal of Arts from President Reagan in 1986 and a Grammy Trustees Award for lifetime achievement in 2003. John and Alan Lomax are indeed an enigma, and I'm hopeful more will come out on their studies in the future. It would make for an intriguing motion picture on it's own, even though some of the selections from O! Brother Where Art Thou? were Lomax folk findings.

If you are interested in reading more on the subject, instead of my ramblings, I suggest you read this article I found which does the topic far more justice than I ever could: Our Singing Country: John and Alan Lomax, Leadbelly, and The Construction of an American Past by Benjamin Filene, 1991.