Happy Christmas

Okay, me? I'm not a religously traditional celebrator of Christmas. In my former life, we celebrated St. Nicholas Day (a Dutch tradition carried over by my Indonesian side), but not with so much fanfare, and with a complete detachment from any religious significance (due to my Muslim/Jewish background. Strangely, Hannukah never came up...wait, no, I did go over to my friend The Octopus' house for Hannukah dinner a couple of times. Mmmm, latkes...). So here I am in Catholic/Protestant land (the Catholics cheer for Glasgow Celtic, the Protestants for Glasgow Rangers. I like the Rangers cuz they have a long-haired fella on the team, but to avoid any controversy, I claim allegiance to Partick Thistle, the local bush-league team. Y'all just don't know what it's like to be a Football (that's soccer for you fans of the sport with the people running in to each other then taking 10 minute breaks) fan here. Dangerous stuff. One day I'll post about the small riot that erupted at the pub 3 floors below my balcony) during Christmas. Very different indeed. See, I also grew up in a town with many many Jewish folk who made up (and still make up) the bulk of my friends. Later I lived in Portland, the city that doesn't believe in God, and lived generally with a godless bunch, so nothing there either. And now, frickin' everybody here celebrates Christmas. I don't even think you can get Chinese food right now. The upside to this is 2 days off, for Christmas and the subsequent boxing day (which near as I can figure means eat everything in sight aside from the box). Work has improved significantly, and I now enjoy my coworkers more than the bunch at Hideous Villanous Mu-sick. So, on that note, I bid you, my 3 or 4 readers (who by and large will be getting individual notices of Christmas cheer) a very Happy Christmas.
Time for some tacos.

Work still sucks

Throwing off the cloak of corporate emplyoment, today I found that...work still sucks. While it irritated me to no end to know that every decision being made around me at HMV or Guitar Center or Illuminations or the Nuclear Regulatory Commission was being handed down by very wealthy people in very nice offices far far away from where I was working, there was a certain efficiency and organization inherent to these companies that made it much easier to be an employee (that and guaranteed hour-long lunch breaks). Not so at Biggars, where today I was repeatedly humiliated for not knowing how to do my job, which was not so much a result of my own incompetence, but rather that my employers just sort of plopped me down in the thick of it, with one other guy out "sick" and only the warehouse manager to assist me. And man, let me tell you, people who don't play rock/jazz instruments can be a crabby, self-absorbed bunch. I even had one lady on the phone ask if she could speak to someone who "knows what they're doing". I almost told her to fuck off and that I had been selling instruments for much longer than the fools I worked with, and was similarly tempted to hang up on her, but I just took it. I've never felt so down after work in my life. I even sold well, when the occasional guitar customer came in. But man, horn players and violinists and such can be a crabby bunch. So suffice to say I'm continuing to seek other employment while toughing it out for the meantime at Biggars. Maybe tomorrow, when they'll hopefully be fully staffed, will be better. Maybe not. If I didn't know that this job will still be there in January, I might've gone crawling back to HMV. I'm hoping if I stick it out for a little while, I can use the fact that I am currently employed at a guitar shop to get a job at the one right near my flat, which only sells guitars and basses (and way more of the real shit I might add. Who ever heard of "Westfield" guitars?). Oy vey. I want a new job already. This is a bad sign.

Everybody hates their job, nobody got any sleep

I have a backlog of posts that need final editing to be presented here (namely a rant against Band Aid 20/British pop music, and my tribute to "Ain't nothin' but a G thang", plus an as-yet unwritten tribute to Dimbag Darrell (RIP)), but thanks to popular demand, I've decided to take this breif moment of free time to say:
F*ck you, f*ck you, f*ck you, you're cool, f*ck you, I'm out!
Yep, the time has come for me to escape the bad-music laden world of HMV (Heinous Music Variety?) for the greener pastures of small, family owned, independant, full-range (i.e. pianos, trumpets, guitars) local musical instrument shop Biggars. Got the call Monday night, negotiated Tuesday night (almost getting caught by a coworker), thought about it Wednesday, accepted during my lunch break Thursday, did a large-ish employee purchase Friday morning, came in later for my shift later Friday and told the boss "I have something to tell you that you probably aren't going to want to hear". Thankfully, my contract stipulated that I was only obliged to give 1 day's notice (which said boss forgot in a brief moment of displeasure). Tomorrow is my last day of Britney, Kylie, Natasha F-ing Bedingfield, and all the rest of the pop tartlets that haunt my mind. Starting Monday, I'm one of the good guys again.
Nail in the coffin? Tuesday, before my negotiation session, while at the till at HMV, a woman comes up with the incredible "Songs In The Key Of Life" by Stevie Wonder. In response to my commending her purchase, she admitted that she hadn't even heard of Stevie, and had simply asked another employee to direct her to "that blind guy who played piano".
No more of that, thank you.
Here's to reasonable hours, sundays off, and instruments at my disposal all day long.

Feeeeeed the woooooooooorld....

[I started this one a couple of weeks ago and haven't had time to finish it until now. Ignore the directly-work-related stuff and focus on the points about British pop music]
Oh dear god, make it stop.
Last Monday I got to work, and here in the UK that means it's time to start pimping the new Band Aid 20 "Do They Know It's Christmas" single. Now, I'm not THAT old, but I do distinctly remember this the first time around. So, admittedly, the first playing of the new version was...intriguing. Oh listen to Chris Martin's understated, um, understatement leading things off. Ah, and that must be Dido in the follow-up spot. And playing the role of Simon LeBon, this time we have Robbie Williams. And then, um, um, ummmmm, some female pop singers (Sugababes I'm later told. Sugababes. Who comes up with this shit? And what, were Girls Aloud busy? Thank Britain for Led Zeppelin and Radiohead. Fuck 'em for Pop Idol and everything that looks or sounds like the Spice Girls/Sugababes/fill-in-obviously-attractive-but-lacking-in-talent-girl-band-name-here). So all in all, the first listen through indicates a more subdued entity overall, with typically tasteful Nigel Godrich production. That was the first listening. Then there was the next 3 hours straight. 3. Fucking. Hours. In my past I've listened to the occasional song on repeat (usually in the interest of transcription). But 3 straight hours of an all-"star" remake of an all-star charity single, and fuck it, I'm ready to let Africa starve. It got to the point where all I had to look (listen?) forward to was Dizzee Rascal's 4 lines in the midst of Justin "I'm Better Than Bono, Oh Wait, No, I'm In The Effing Darkness" Hawkins' wailing. In contrast, we've also been playing the (UK only) DVD of Live Aid, which includes the videos for the original DTKIC as well as our (that is the American) sister song, We Are The World. Man, Quincy got his ass handed to him on a plate by the "I Don't Like Mondays" guy. Seriously, how can Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, et al. sound so much worse than Paul Young and Boy George (well, we did also have Cyndi Lauper, which docks us a few thousand points).
This all leads to my current commentary on the state of pop music (I actually mistakenly typed "poop music" here, maybe I should have kept it), particularly here in the British Isles. I was discussing today with my Malaysian coworker Jigga the differences between American and British music. He was inquiring as to which I liked better, and I responded that I don't have a preference since it's very apples and oranges. Americans seem to strive for innovation and breakthrough, while Brits honour and perfect upon musical history. I added, though, that British crap is far worse than American crap. Sure, we've got our pop crap, Britney and Beyonce and whatnot, but seriously, you Americans reading this have got to thank, well, not god, but somebody, that you have what you do. The aggressive capitalist market in the US seems to filter out the REALLY bad. I mean, sure, Ashlee Simpson made a record, but so did JC Chasez and Joey McIntyre, and neither of them is making another (Justin Timberlake can keep making albums as long as he likes so long as they maintain or improve upon the quality of Justified). Here, though, is a whole 'nother story. On the plus side, there's Robbie Williams. That's right, the entire plus side is the British predecessor to Sr. Timberlake. On the downside is every-fucking-thing else. Take, for example, the aforementioned Girls Aloud. 5 girls who sing bad lyrics (or, alternatively, Chrissy Hynde's good lyrics badly) and sound like one girl singing bad lyrics through Pro-Tools. Seriously, say what you want about Destiny's Child, but at least they sound like 3 people creating harmonious crap. Girls Aloud could just as easily be one person (maybe plus some dancers). Why why WHY must there be another attempt at the Spice Girls. We did that, it sucked then, it sucks now. And now, after further research, I've discovered that Girls Aloud is a manufactured band, meaning they were assembled through the tv show "Popstars" which is like our "Making The Band" but without Puff Daddy and all the fighting. Surely the British industrial complex deserves better.
Then there's the UK answer to Ashlee Simpson, Miss Natasha Bedingfield. Granted, she's from New Zealand, but she wouldn't be famous if it weren't for the UK. It makes me wish this island would sink (well, not really, maybe New Zealand could sink instead). Dear god, make her stop RIGHT NOW. You missed when you put her brother in a car wreck. It was Natasha you meant to get. (her brother, Daniel Bedingfield, is a similarly talentless hack who was recently in a car wreck) Natasha's M.O. seems to be yelling (yelping?), in something close to the key of her backing track, the. most. insipid lyrics since Right Said Fred (and without the cheek I might add). Try this on: "Read some Byron, Shelly and Keats, recited it over a hip-hop beat...I know I had some studio time booked, but I couldn't find the perfect hook..." All in a pained dog-having-its-tail-trod-upon yell, on top of a syncopated beat that would only be considered hip-hop should the world never have been graced by Grandmaster Flash, Dr. Dre, Kanye West, and pretty much every other respectable hip-hop beatmaker (hell, Li'l Jon would be ashamed of this). It's so wretched I can't even begin to describe it in accurate detail.
It's not all bad here though. That Franz Ferdinand tune "Michael" is groovin' in a sleazy, Stones-y sort of manner. In fact, I've grown to actually like one HMV favorite, th Scissor Sisters. Oh wait, they're from New York. And my old bandmate/roommate has been on about them for months. So I guess they don't count.
AAARRRRRRRGH!
I'm so looking forward to a job where the only music being played is dependant on me having an instrument in my hands. On every level really.
Pop pop goes the weasel, the weasel.