I know what you're thinking: Since when is exercise a guilty pleasure? But bear with me for a minute here. I've spent the past few years of my life enmeshed in the world of rock 'n' roll. The underbelly, if you will. Pretty unhealthy place. When I'm not writing about bands, I'm playing in one. It's the type of music usually performed by wispy, androgynous, stick-figure boys who stay up all night smoking and drinking too much, even -- gasp! -- inhaling every now and again. The only difference with me is, when the haze passes, I'm up at the gym the next day . And the next day. Compulsively. Now, the natural enemy of rock bands everywhere is the steakhead, those overly muscled guys in white baseball hats famous for their insensitivity to the nuances of indie rock, fashion, and all manner of taste. In the rock scene, where looking the part means almost everything, you can imagine the disconnect I feel. Almost as if having muscles were some betrayal of the rock 'n' roll code. But ultimately, like most artificial constructs, style is pretty meaningless. I can promise you, listening to Morrissey or the Decemberists or Cat Power will still break your heart, whether you're alone in your bedroom or in the middle of a bench press.
Theirs (Ryan Frederiksen of the Seattle punk band These Arms Are Snakes )
Third Eye Blind
Do you remember that movie "Can't Hardly Wait" ? Yeah, me too. I couldn't wait for another Third Eye Blind (you heard me) song to come on the soundtrack, because I think they just put every damn song on there from that self-titled masterpiece. I even went so far as to claim "I was out of my head" on a trip to New York just to justify buying it. I needed it. I defy you to listen to "Never Let You Go" [from the album "Blue"] and tell me that's not a brilliant song.
These Arms Are Snakes play the Middle East Upstairs tomorrow night. Doors at 8; $10 in advance, $12 at the door.
Got a guilty pleasure you'd like to share? E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org.