Artist: The Heavy Guilt
Song: Mixed Messages

I have often been fascinated with what is an apparent trend in independant music these days. The big band. Now I’m not talking about a big band like the kind that Cab Calloway or Duke Ellington would have had back in the day. I’m talking about a big band in a far less necessary sense. Think Parliament, only not really in the same ballpark. Not even close. I’m talking about a big band in the sense that the size of the band is completely unecessary. Bands like The Arcade Fire, and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Bands that look like at some point on the road to “success” they decided they had a few extra frioends that werent really too talented, but that could be in the band too. Like D’arcy from the Smashing Pumpkins. Well, it’s ok if she can’t play. we will just stick an instrument in her hand and teach her some very simple things and nobody will know the difference. Afterall, she is a girl, and what could be cooler than that in my band?! I know the rebuttal here too. I mean who, other than the songwriter, can really say who is or is not necessary to the performance of a piece. I also am acutely aware of the style vs substance debate, in which one could argue that these employee bloated outfits are that way because it is an intrinsic componenet to the style that the band is going for. which is fine. but it all seems like a distraction to me. The more people there are doing things that the majority of the audience probably doesnt think they could ever comprehend, the more likely I am to think this band is full of shit. It is like a musical red herring of sorts. Maybe if I am so overwhelmed by stage presence, I will be oblivious to how little is actually going on musically.

That is the first thing I noticed while discovering the video for “Mixed Messages” by the band “The Heavy Guilt”. You have at least 6 guys on stage. Which at first, is fine. To be fair, this is not as big of a red flag to me as it is for other bands like the aforementioned. Especially considering there are only 6 guys on stage here as opposed to 9 or more. However it is still an example of the kind of musical misdirection I am talking about. You have what is essentially a very straightforward three or four chord pop song. But then you have these other guys prettying it up essentially. Take their percussionist for example. You guys really have to give this guy a full cut of the door at the end of the night? Do your wallets a favor and drop him. Not necessary. He may be a brilliant musician. He may be the son of William fucking Winant and the world’s second greatest percussionist for all I know. But he still seems powerfully disposeable. I half expected them to ask the sound guy mid-song for more shaker in the mointors. In fact, the more I listen to this song over and over again. the more it becomes clear that everybody in this band is totally expendable except for the guy singing.

Speaking of the guy singing, you think he regrets anything in life? Because it sounds to me like he feels like he hasnt ever done anything right, and he wants us all to know about how sorry he is for it. This is exactly the kind of unimaginitive tripe that I expect to hear from bands that think they are cooler than they really are. I’ll bet this dude looked at his lyric sheet when he was done, saw he had successfully started practically every line with the words “I wish”, and really felt like that was clever. Ooh! look at how I’ve been able to sum up a failed relationship by rattling off a list of emotional contradictions. Perhaps it is my own emotional retardation that forces me to look at things in such a negative context, but I can’t really do too much about that. Any song written by a man that sounds this much like something that would come out of an Alanis Morrisette or a Taylor Swift, is not something I can take seriously. Not to say that emotional sincerity is something that I can’t handle or automatically reject, but I’m having a hard time coming to grips with the fact that anyone could listen to this guy boo-hoo about some girlfriend (or boyfriend, or maybe a family member? It’s just much easier to assume the lyrics are written about a woman, because to cry this hard about anything else would be even more emasculating than this song already is) and take it seriously, and be like all “yeah! this is my fuckin jam!” So to The Heavy Guilt, I say I hope this gig, and this song are netting you a windfall of pussy. The warm caress of an intemperate groupie in the middle of the night can really dull the sting of the realization that your music is pretty fuckin thin.

You know, now that I think about it, I have done a complete 180 on the band members. It is the singer who should be kissing all of the other guys asses. Without them “distracting” the audience, as I have put it. The dude that is whining would not be playing even at Winston’s but would be relegated to busking for coins at a fucking public transit center somewhere. Congratulations boys, on being able to latch on to someone that you can elevate to the point that you probably have a genuine shot at fame and fortune! This kind of shit really sells records! May you, the supporting cast of “The Heavy Guilt” recieve a windfall of pussy and money, and offers of artistic merit that is at least twice that of which your frontman receives. As you gentlemen are the Karl Rove to his George W Bush. The smoke, thunder and holographic projection to his “man behind the curtain”. The Edgar Bergen to his Mortimer Snerd. May all aspiring musicians enjoy the fortune that you fellows have!

DISCLAIMER! – “Mixed Messages” is the single, solitary song by “The Heavy Guilt” that I have heard. In my reference to the band, I speak as if this song was the entirety of their output. It is entirely possible that this song is the exception to the rule, and their other material may blow me away. Therefore, I reserve the right to at any point in the future reverse, alter, or modify my opinion of this or any other band.

Anyone remember that Silversun Pickups song “Lazy Eye”? Dig deep now, despite the fact that it’s probably coming immediately into concious memory, I’m sure you remember it. Fm949sd played the shit out of it like 2 or three years ago. Got it? I knew you would remember! This song “Le Pony” by the band Italian Japanese totally reminds me of this song. Only a little less angry at the end. So I’m just going to review that song by the Silversun Pickups, because let’s face it, the two are pretty much interchangeable.

Since I have worked so long and hard at alienating myself from society and it’s followers, I have become quite the music snob. As a music snob, I pretty much revile listening to the radio. For every hundred songs they play that I’m totally not into, they play one that’s surprisingly semi-tolerable for the amount of time I am stuck in the car with absolutely NOTHING else to listen to. For my dollar, in San Diego (college stations not withstanding) there are only three radio stations worth listening to. 89.5fm KPRI, 88.3fm KSDS, and, of course, 94.9fm KBZT. I most frequently choose 949. Now, flashback to like the fall of 2007. “Lazy Eye” by the Silversun Pickups is being played like every 15 minutes.

There is a very weird kind of phenomenon that occurs to me when there is a song on the radio that I like. Well, sort of like. It’s like, I like it, but I don’t really like it. If I am in a situation where I am listening to the radio not because I really want to, but because it’s either that, or listen to my brain’s ceaseless inner monologue which is a harrowing and rewardless experience indeed. Come to think of it, most of the things I do in life are a desperate attempt to get away from said monologue. So I opt for the radio. Well, what do you know? It’s “Lazy Eye”! Well, I guess I kind of like this song, so I turn it up. But half way through the song, I realize that even though I’ve told myself that I like this song, I find that it isn’t really actually doing anything for me. Like I’m not really responding to it, I’m not being pushed into anything intellectually or emotionally by it, it’s not really challenging, or unique. I begin to feel a bit shallow for trying to tell myself that I liked it.

You see, it’s not that it’s bad. It’s just that it’s not good either. When I listen to music that is good, my whole body responds. My soul and my mind are both captured by the things that this song or this piece of music is doing to it. The places it is making me go. And I just don’t get that with “Lazy Eye”. It’s as if the melody and the lyrics and the production and all that stuff is simply less offensive or off putting than the majority of the other crap that they play throughout so much of the day because it’s what most people like, so it’s what makes them the most money, so it’s what they must do to continue to do what it is that they do. I’m not faulting the radio station here, I know how shit works. It has always seemed to me that the guys at FM94.9SD do their best to try and cover all their bases, and include programming that will appeal to even the most jaded asshole like myself. The kind of asshole who only likes shit that simply won’t pay the fuckin bills. So as I don’t connect or respond to it, despite the fact that it doesn’t make me want to punch my fucking radio right through my fucking dashboard, I can’t possibly really like it. And like I said it is a gut feeling that I can’t shake. It will rouse me in the night like a bladder infection when it is dissatisfied with my attempts at self delusion.

So the bottom line pretty much is that “Le Pony” like it’s father “Lazy Eye” before it is ultimately tolerable at best. I think it could potentially be very successful, and possibly do good things for the band in terms of the “advancement” of their career, but I guess in my own retarded way, I define success a little differently. It is that very marketable, milquetoast nature of the song that makes the largest contribution to it’s failure artistically. Boring, predictable, calculated, and inconsequential. Girls will love it because he is cute, guys will like it because girls will be there. In the long run it’s just another tiny pebble in a never ending ocean of utterly forgettable and disposeable “alternative” or “indie” singles. But who knows, maybe that’s how Italian Japanese defines success. And if so, then by all means, congratulations boys! All I’m sayin is, make room Von Bondies, you’ve got company coming.

The video for “Four Letters” is the gripping saga of the band “Writer”. A band that is comprised of at least a well-bearded young man, and his not so well-bearded friend who also double as self-help gurus and addiction specialists. The short film is about Writer attempting to save an aged, pedophilic ex water skiier from his own demons. Out in their boat, having a grand time doing what these guys obviously do best: having fun, Writer, the best of friends find themselves distracted by the sight of a man, a would-be reformed hedonist with a penchant for immaturity, sitting on a pier with a seriously underage girl. Who, at the hands of the old man, seems about to potentially become the victim of a heinous assault. The sex offender is suited in a wetsuit, implying that possibly at one time, this man had professional aspirations in the world of water sports. His sullen demeanor however indicates that he has not been able to follow his dreams as he has become a victim of his own insatiable child-lust. He sits on the pier, dejected, between the two termini that have governed his life: extreme water sports, and very young girls. Fortunatley, our friends from Writer are on the case!

As the man’s resolve to stay on the straight and narrow path crumbles before our very eyes, he gets up and makes the most frightening and desperate attempt to tackle the poor girl. But Wait! Just off the end of the pier, something catches the man’s eye. It’s the local San Diego sensation “Writer”! Using evey ounce of his strength, the man decides not to pursue the target of his immoral libidinousness, but rather to hurl himself out off of the pier, into the water, where Writer awaits. Sensing the impending danger, Writer reacts swiftly, by tossing that handle, the one that only those who waterski can profess to know the feel of, towards him. It is the life preserver of hope that they have thrown to him. The dangling carrot of a normal existance. Freed by handicraft from the sexual proclivities that haunt and torment him. Those demons that threaten to send him right back to jail. Desperatley, he grabs onto the handle, and the captain hits the high gear!

Zooming out into the vast expanse of aquatic canvas that lay ahead, the boys tow their sexually maladjusted stalwart at a breakneck pace into the void of freedom. The pervert is born again, as he is baptized in the frothy wake of Writer’s amphibious chariot. The man lays upon the water, prone, as if being held down by the weight of his own sick and illegal compulsions. Yet his resolve to be a better person has not been completely crushed, as we see him spin and writhe underneath the weight of his vice. Desperately, the man tries to break free of his own twisted programming, until at last! The man rises to his feet upon the very water that Writer has been trying to cleanse his soul with! A confident smile erupts onto his face, as he is filled with the joy of liberation. So exuberant is our protagonist that he begins attempting tricks and acts of professional flair.

Alas, this is where Writer’s true modesty becomes painfully apparent. For even they, as benevolent and just in their words and deeds as they are, claim not to be perfect. Even they sometimes face challenges that prove difficult to surmount. In his zeal for what he percieves to be his parole from his own psycological prison, he tries to do too much, too soon. Tries to run before he has even re-learned how to walk. He, like Icarus of legend, has tried to fly too high. A panicked expression mars his once cocksure countenance, as he releases that handle, and crashes backwards and at a hundred miles an hour into the water. His demons have re-consumed him. Like the alcoholic fresh out of rehab who thinks he can handle a night at the bar, he has had a complete and total relapse into debauchery. Despite their swift, and righteous efforts to save a man from himself, success was not to be in the cards for Writer this day. The final shot is naught but a metaphor for the entire scenario. The little girl hooks a tiny, helpless fish, who dangles at the end of her line, and her mercy. Gasping for breath in a world in which he doesn’t belong. The little girl smiles fiendishly, as she has won. The man’s passion for the prepubescent, has become his own personal hell and his ultimate undoing.

This song and it’s video are a powerful rumination on addiction and being a victim to one’s own vices. With Writer shedding a light on just how human and ultimatley vulnerable we all, including themselves, are. And at just about three minutes and thiry seconds, this mothefucker is primed for doing gangbusters on mainstream radio, isn’t it?

Welcome to this here blog, which is a component of this website that you are currently visiting bemonikered betterwatching.com. Glad you have found your way here! Now comes the tricky part: getting you to come back. Which, my dear friends, is something I fear you may not want to do. Once you have sat in, and let the foul, disgusting, greyed, brackish waters of this emotional swamp steep for a bit, you may find that you dont quite like the taste, or the way it feels quite as much as maybe you hoped you would. Or, conversely you may find yourself identifying with the kind of lewd, classless, self-loathing, perverse, bush league complaints that will generally (probably) be the proverbial meat and potatos of this infantile bitchfest.

Alright, so the webmaster told me I have to fill about three paragraphs or so for these entries, or it’s not gonna count and I don’t get credit. So I hope you guys like the word “very”. I think I can kill at least one by bullshitting about myself. I came to this website by way of a former professional relationship with involved member(s) who felt I was impressive enough, or offensive enough in print to be worth publishing. I guess it’s sort of like the old axiom “there is no such thing as bad press”. Or the poigniantly astute Macaulay Culkinism “once it’s in print, it’s true”…. Anyways thats me. Selfish, bitter, temeritous, and not afraid to fight about it…. in the most distant, non confrontational, non personal, and probably cowardly way.

The purpose of my being here is to add some sort of occasional color commentary to some of the various doings and goins on in our beloved, sleepy little town of San Diego. Or at least so I’m told. Looking at one or two of the other San Diego-centric blogs I came across on teh interwebs. This may or may not actually happen. I can’t exactly predict where I might end up, or what might have me chomping at the bit to complain about. I may or may not include photos, links, and/or downloadable material. I will try though, when those sort of things are applicable. The focus will probably for the most part be “the arts” on some level, but who knows. Certainly not me. I am as much of a novice at writing as you had probably already guessed by reading this.

So lets pretend I am an alien to this world. Lets pretend I have just arrived from whatever fine planet or galaxy it is I originally hail from. I have come to this planet, and specifically this town for the purpose of acting as sort of a musical ambassador. I have been sent to listen to and appraise a portion of the “original” music from San diego, and then to provide some sort of Judgement based on my extraterrestrial experience. For the sake of argument, lets pretend I never tried and failed to be part of the “San Diego scene” and thusly am not bitter, hateful, covetous, nor envious, and my own puerile emotions have no impact on these matters. I simply react. I don’t know these bands, I’m not friends with these bands. I’m also not enemies with them. Think of me like San Diego’s own version of Uatu the Watcher. Only it’s more like Uatu the Listener in this case. And a Watcher with a potentially more acidic tongue than the real Uatu ever had. You see, I’m just an alien to your planet. My reactions are innate, but by no means all encompassing. What I mean is that What I say about any song and/or it’s accompanying video is not necessarily how I might feel about other or all output by that particular band, or any other for that matter. It’s just my immediate reaction to what I see and hear. So I hope there are no butt-hurtings that will result from my diatribes. In fact, if I say you suck, it’s not because I dislike you, it’s because it hurts me to see or hear something suck, and so really, I am just trying to help. It’s like tough love. I hurt, because I love. If you look at it that way, anyone I mention here should be really thanking me for doing so, because I only have all of our best interests at heart. So, with that out of the way…

It looks like I underestimated my potential verbosity when it comes to talking about myself. I got four paragraphs out of it! Wait, does this one count as five?….