Carl Begai

Jive Bunny.

Two words combined that are enough to make my brain itch uncomfortably, like poison ivy on one’s naughty bits. It feels like there’s a bug walking around between the inside of my scalp and my skull; it shouldn’t be in there but I can’t get it the fuck out.

Folks old enough to remember cassette tapes as a form of audio entertainment will recall the Jive Bunny phenomenon. The actual name was Jive Bunny And The Mastermixers, a moniker worn by a glorified mash-up project in 1989 spearheaded by a medley entitled ‘Swing The Mood’. It featured instantly recognizable ’60s tunes smooshed up against and mated with Glenn Miller’s classic ‘In The Mood’, all remixed, spliced and remixed again into dance-able tracks of varying length. Not quite techno; just classic melodies poked and fluffed into swing-ish updatedness so as to draw anyone with too much booze in their system onto the dancefloor.

Perhaps you see where this is going…
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A close friend of mine recently suggested I check out a Canadian band he’d come across in his travels. We’re always sharing our musical discoveries, so I trusted his judgement when he pointed me in their direction. I wasn’t “Why-in-the-hell-aren’t-they-signed?” bowled over by what I heard, but they didn’t make me feel like I’d just wasted my time wading through the usual MySpace layout hiccups to get to the audio samples either. What really grabbed my attention, however, was the band’s biography. In a nutshell, if my presence on that page had been a scene in a splatter film I would have been ripped apart by a bag of exploding adjectives.

It was two or three paragraphs shovelling the required industry bullshit about how much the band rawked and smoked and was the best thing since ketchup-flavoured Crispers. The piece was loaded down with so many descriptives and flowery turns of phrase that it read like a car salesman’s Scrabble tournament. I couldn’t get through it without laughing. (continue reading…)

I love boobs.

Yes, it’s true. Like any healthy heterosexual male or a woman that loves women, I have a great respect for chesticles of the female variety. I consider Anvil’s anthem ‘Show Me Your Tits’ a classic and I’m always ready to sing along with and add to ‘99 Words For Boobs’, drunk or sober. I am also in total agreement with 3rd Rock From The Sun star Kristen Johnston’s assessment that they do in fact have more power when they collide.

This little tribute was brought on by something of a serious nature, however. A friend recently drew my attention to a couple clips on YouTube featuring Bif Naked performing a short live acoustic set (with Machine from Death Match Union and ex-Neurosonic frontman Jason Darr) at a breast cancer charity event in September 2008. It’s significant because Bif was undergoing treatment for breast cancer herself at the time. Watching those clips (see below) I was reminded of the interview I did with her back in May 2009 – after she’d been given a clean bill of health, knock on wood – and how forthcoming she was with the reality of going through chemotherapy and everything that went with it. She didn’t paint a pretty picture, and in the end my jaw was somewhere on the floor. I wouldn’t wish what she went through on my worst enemy.
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The other day I was getting my daily fix of online music news and stumbled upon an article on Yahoo! discussing the new music poptart Ke$ha. Seems the sweet young thing, according to Nielsen SoundScan, racked up some huge numbers for her first digital single ‘Tik Tok’ prior to the release of her debut album, making her something resembling a big deal (click here for the info). Curiosity piqued, I tripped on over to YouTube to see what the fuss was about and was suitably appalled. The young lady is easy on the eyes, sure, but I found myself wondering yet again what it is that makes people buy into someone that is quite obviously devoid of talent beyond her nose piercing.

What set me off was the fact that all the vocals on the song are auto-tuned. Not just a little bit, either. There isn’t a single tone that comes out of the girl’s throat – or any other orifice for that matter – that wasn’t process cheesed by a computer before going to tape (yes, I said tape; I’m old school but you know what I mean). And it’s not just the one song; I did some checking and it’s the whole bloody album. From where I sit in the Castle Of Know-It-All Arrogance this is one of those things that is unforgivable in music, and the folks responsible don’t deserve the financial windfall that has and will continue to come their way.
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With 2009 coming to a close I found myself thinking back 20 years, trying to remember what kind of crap I was up to then and comparing it to the nonsense I’m into now. Following are a few random comparisons between past and present. Enjoy …

1989 — “Holy crap. A real live gorgeous girl talking to me. I think I’m gonna pass out.”
2009 — “Holy crap. I have a girlfriend and friends who are girls, and they’re all gorgeous. That whole ’sell your soul to the devil’ thing really works…”

1989 — Alice In Hell.
2009 — Alice still in hell, aged well, still awesome.

1989 — As of December 1st I’m legally allowed to drink in the United States.
2009 — “Boy, these Americans are clever. Moose piss sold in beer bottles. We’re heading back to Toronto tomorrow, right?”

1989 — Children Of Bodom frontman Alexi Laiho is a Poison fanboy, has learned every lick on Look What The Cat Dragged In and dreams of being like guitarist C.C Deville minus the poofy blonde wigjob.
2009 — “This next song is called ‘Vai And C.C. Wish They Were Me’. GRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!”

1989 — Finland according to North American metalheads – “Like, Vikings live there, right?”
2009 — Finland according to North American metalheads – To make one (1) internationally successful metal band: Just add water (Note that vodka may be substituted).
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All this talk about Tiger Woods going off to play extra holes on the back nine with most of America’s female population got me thinking about how his wife must feel. Having been married and likewise screwed around I have an idea of what she’s going through on the inside, although the pain and sense of betrayal are undoubtedly worse for her given hubby’s popularity, his bullshit squeaky clean image, and the media’s need to splatter every little bit of info all over this side of the universe.

Like Woods, my ex-wife was (is) an idiot. Looking back on it now I shake my head and wonder “How much stupid did they put in that head?” Not because the relationship going to hell still bothers me – nothing could be further from the truth – but because there are rules about self-absorbed ego-bitches being allowed to fraternize with decent people. Or at least there should be.
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Being as I’m a proud Canadian with ridiculously excellent taste in music , I thought I’d offer a brief update on several hoser-related activities with regards to new releases, tour dates and general ass kickings. Lots going on with my Canuck brethren, as you’ll see…

(For those of you that don’t know what a “hoser” is, it’s used here as a term of endearment to describe my fellow Canucks. The official scientific explanation, assembled after several hours of watching Bob & Doug McKenzie, can be found here).
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I’m one of those know-it-all people that believes no matter what your favourite type of music might be, embracing other genres is a good thing rather than a sign of weakness. I figure the vast majority of people think the same way, even if many will never admit it for fear of being humiliated in front of or by their peers for liking something no one imagined they would. Everybody knows a Lord Tuffguy Doodness III; the bad-ass music cop who will scream about the glories of _____ metal to the ends of the earth and denounce anything other than his choice of noise as baby food for toothless wimps, yet he owns the entire Beatles catalogue, listens to Michael Jackson when he thinks nobody’s around, and would give his left testicle to see Christina Aguilera in concert. If only he wasn’t so bad-ass. Folks that hide this other side of their quite obviously healthy musical taste are doing themselves a disservice.

I was recently reminded of just how valuable and rewarding having an open musical mind can be.
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Back in 1996 I attended seven shows on Iced Earth’s first European tour in support of their fourth album, The Dark Saga. I wasn’t a huge fan of the band, but having Nevermore on the bill as a support / co-headlining act made the tour time well spent. Admittedly, even though Nevermore dominated every night Iced Earth put on a solid show and The Dark Saga grew on me in spite of being the trendy album of the moment. Overall, a great touring package and some pretty incredible experiences over that two week period.

A couple shows in, however, I noticed that there was an unusually large number of women in the audience. “Unusual” because Iced Earth’s traditional metal sound and Nevermore’s neo-thrash insanity wasn’t known for attracting large numbers of the fairer sex. But there they were, night after night and boob to elbow, headbanging and screaming their approval at the stage. At which point I realized what it was that had a large majority of the ladies hanging around the backstage door, the tour bus, and crushing into the first few rows for a closer look.

The hair.
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Creativity is a wonderful thing. Whether it’s writing prose or poetry, painting, music, putting little bottles in little ships in bottles, being able to take a thought or an idea and bring it to life is impressive and quite often an inspiration to others. It is not, however, an exact science. Not everyone has the ability to create and succeed. Not everyone should take a stab at 15 minutes of fame, or even 15 seconds. YouTube offers more than enough proof of that.

I recently discovered the negative truth about creativity and inspiration first hand. Nineteen minutes of gut-churning tongue-biting agony served up from the back of a bus by the Three Stooges and an acoustic guitar.
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