MIDWEST MISERY By Adam Hirschfeld

The Miserable Musical Manifesto (Conclusion). If you missed part 1 or part 2, just click on the link.

Here’s how I sum up everything that has happened in music from the time I entered college until this very moment: ho-hum. During my college years, I lived with roommates that actually possessed albums by legendary bands (the sarcasm is hopefully obvious) The Nixons, 311, Better Than Ezra (the greatest concert review I ever read was in the Cleveland “Scene” in 1996. It stated: “At the beginning of the night, many in the audience wondered ‘Who is Better than Ezra?” As is turned out, the answer was just about anybody,”) the Badlees (although “Angeline is Coming Home” did teach a generation the word “resplendent”), and a bunch of other worthless bands that do not headline arenas now that we are in a new millennium. The 90s saw Everclear write “Santa Monica” and follow it up with a bunch of songs about Art Alexakis doing drugs or getting smacked by his father, all of which sound exactly the same. In fact, I think his father should smack him again for “Wonderful Now.” America fell in love with Hootie and the Blowfish because their music was less complicated than a four-song masterpiece my friend Brad and I created for our senior project in high school (much the way “Citizen Dick” was big in Belgium, I was very big on the 4^th floor of Mary Markley Hall at the University of Michigan). Thankfully, I’ve never done a scary ad for Burger King like Darius Rucker. The Dave Matthews Band made it big and then started writing songs that sounded a whole lot like their other songs. Plus, when I hear “Ants Marching”, I feel old, because that song is at least 13 years old. Counting Crows seemed like the biggest band in the world back in 1994. “August and Everything After” is a beautiful album from top to bottom. However, Adam Duritz and company never reached success with any follow-ups; Duritz looks like a possible Dunkin Donuts spokesman these days. If John Goodman keels over, my guess is Duritz is on their speed dial.

Radiohead released a bunch of critically hailed albums, none of which I have ever listened to. Cold Play sounds good the first time you listen to them, and then they never sound as good again. Do I even need to talk about boy bands, Britney, Christina, Justin, or any of the others? Is it bad that the hottest selling concert ticket this year has been Hannah Montana, who, in one of those things Dave Barry would not make up, is the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus?

Speaking of children’s music, now seems like a good time to point out that They Might be Giants is my son’s favorite band. No, they are not his favorite because of “Particle Man” or the “Istanbul was Constantinople” song (which taught my generation ancient European history and geography all in one). TMBG is the artist that sings both the Mickey Mouse Club House song and “Hot Dog” (which closes every single episode of Mickey Mouse Club House). The little guy has decent taste. I readily admit that I used to judge my parenting skills based on which he songs garnered reactions. Our old Saturday morning routine involved my wife going to aerobics while I stayed home and babysat. It was always easy to put on the XM Satellite Radio (via DirecTV). I am happy to report that Talking Heads was a favorite, while Michael Bolton invoked a screaming fit.

I should also mention that my wife has no taste in music whatsoever. She does not even have a favorite band. Her CD catalogue included James Taylor (acceptable), Billy Joel (suburban staple), Barenaked Ladies (fun, and really fun live), Shakira (groan), Matchbox 20 (huge groan), Jessica Simpson (groan of biblical proportions) and Creed (I’m too buys trying to avoid a religious conversion to hear their music). It’s a good thing she is both attractive and a sports fan.

Who else merits mentioning? The Strokes took the world by storm by sounding like a garage band (which is kind of how The Beatles sounded when they started). Oddly, due to the fact that the “terrestrial” radio in Cleveland has sucked for a decade, you could not hear The Strokes on the radio in your car back when they hit it big. Their follow-ups have been less successful, and their drummer appears to be competing with Jake Gyllenhaal in a starlet-banging contest. The White Stripes are an odd pairing, although “Doorbell” did convince me that every rock song ever recorded is about sex, drugs, or both (except for Creed, whose songs are all about Jesus). Silversun Pickups are interesting in a “so this is what Billy Corgan is doing these days” kind of way.

I have neglected, up until this point, to talk about the one band of my lifetime that was (or is, depending on how you think of them) arguably transcendent. They also wrote the album of my lifetime. I am of course, referring to Guns ‘N’ Roses and their uber-hit, “Appetite For Destruction.”

Klosterman reviewed the Gunners heavily in “Fargo Rock City”, and I feel no need to make a pathetic attempt to match his work. I will say that few moments were as exciting as GNR’s appearance at the MTV Video Music Awards a few years back, that is, until everyone watching realized that the modern day Guns ‘N’ Roses is Axl, some other dudes, and a freak with a bucket on his head. Maybe Buckethead is really Slash, but he’s embarrassed that Axl has gained 30 pounds of paunch and can’t hit the notes in any of his songs anymore. It’s hardly Rose’s fault. His vocal stylings weren’t meant to last past the age of 35, and even “singers” like Billy Joel have backup singers (female ones, no less) to hit the high notes for them when they get older.

But GNR could have been the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. They clearly had the talent. The two Use Your Illusion records have a number of good songs, and more importantly, manage to show an attempt to grow as a band without losing what made “Appetite” a great album that will hold up forever (something which the Black Crowes clearly could not do in my opinion). It sometimes feels as though they touched the proverbial surface, and then Axl went crazy. Axl resurfaces just often enough to remind us that “Chinese Democracy” will be released any day now (even leaking tracks as recently as 2006), and schedules tours that last three shows before Rose goes off his rocker again cancels the whole thing.

The other original members of GNR have moved on to other things. Steven Adler moved on to narcotics for a while. His replacement, Matt Sorum joined Slash in “Velvet Revolver”, a project featuring a mish-mash of stars from other bands that kind of rocks, but isn’t GNR nor STP. Izzy Stradlin went solo before the release of the Illusion albums and never produced anything of relevance (the Ju Ju Hounds is a horrendous name for a band).

But there’s Axl, trotting out the GNR name and getting all of our hopes up because maybe, just maybe, given the fact that he has spent half of my life making the album, “Chinese Democracy” will be the next Appetite, or “Rubber Soul”, or “Greetings from Asbury Park.” Because given the lousy bands floating around out there making soulless pop and lightweight drivel, Axl Rose is still our best hope. At least he hasn’t done “The Surreal Life.”

By now (shoot, if you read this column regularly, well before now), you are wondering what this column has to do with Midwestern sports. I could try to act all cool and write something like “everything and nothing”, but the correct answer is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

When I was in high school, I got ten extra credit points in Jan Morgan’s English class (Mrs. Morgan was a cool lady and a good teacher who appreciated the Misery. She wrote my college recommendation, which I saved and still read every now and again since she heaped the kind of praise on me that I need to read every now and again) for writing a parody of “Old Man and the Sea.” I think I entered it in some kind of “Bad Hemingway” contest.

Well, maybe this three-part diatribe qualifies as “Bad Klosterman.” I think it’s darn decent Hirschfeld, though.

America: feedback. Look into it. Adamh164@yahoo.com