MOORHEAD, Minn. (AP) - Police arrested a man who was naked from the waist down after he allegedly assaulted a clerk in a grocery store.

Ryan Christian Parker, 34, was charged with fifth-degree assault, disorderly conduct, obstructing the legal process and indecent exposure.

Police alleged that Parker assaulted a SunMart clerk and two customers who came to the aid of the clerk shortly before noon Saturday. He fled on foot, and got into a vehicle driven by his mother a few blocks away.

Parker resisted as officers removed him from the vehicle, police said. He was taken by ambulance to a hospital for injuries to his hands.

JERUSALEM (Reuters) -- Millions of locusts swarmed through Israel's Red Sea resort town of Eilat on Sunday, devouring crops and flowers in the country's south.

In the Bible, locusts were the eighth of 10 plagues that God inflicted on the ancient Egyptians before Pharaoh, their leader, let the Israelites go.

The Old Testament is full of wisdom about what to do when God gets angry and sics the locusts on us. Having your mom drive you around town so that you can seriously menace the general populace without your pants on is more of a modern reaction. I take great solace from the Old Testament on a regular basis:

Then David sent messengers to Ish-bo'sheth Saul's son, saying, "Give me my wife Michal, whom I betrothed at the price of a hundred foreskins of the Philistines." -- 2 Samuel 3:14

The Bible is littered with these little gems. If you deliver 100 foreskins of the King's enemy, you should get his daughter; the good Lord is nothing, if not fair.

Since the indoor season is upon us, it's time for all of you to plug your "Hi-Fi's" back in and begin listening to your Long Playing Records again. The Other Side of Country is fond of posting Top Ten lists that can contain anywhere from 3 to 18 items, depending on the author's daily interpretations of the number, "10." With all the new and recent releases floating around, this list ought to change significantly from week to week in the near term, so take it all with a grain of salt.

Jack's Coming Rapture Top "Ten"

1. The Gourds, Blood of the Ram
The Gourds' music makes me pretty deliriously happy. The dirty word on the street is that they'll be here in April and July. You should start planning to go right now. Favorite song: "Spanky."

2. Neko Case, The Tigers Have Spoken
This is a live record. Neko live is something else. Favorite song: "Hex."

3. Merle Haggard, Live At Billy Bob's: Ol' Country Singer
Live Merle is the best Merle. You get that phrasing in big heaping ladlefuls. Favorite song: "Natural High."

4. Drive By Truckers, The Dirty South
Ass-kicking music for people who like kicking ass. No favorite song, listen to the whole album or don't play it at all.

5. Charlie Robison, Good Times
This record is one of those, "man, I'm glad that's over" records. You can tell Charlie is glad to be back somewhere where he once was. He sounds comfortable and confident, like the old Charlie. I saw him once at the State Fair about 4 years back, when he was still somewhat under the national radar, and he came out to the autograph table after his gig with a lowball and a big cigar, with a big ol' "man, life is good" grin on his face. This record is that Charlie. Favorite song: "Flatland Boogie."

6. Two Dollar Pistols, Hands Up!
I keep coming back to this record week after week. If you haven't bought this yet, do it. I still think it's the best country record of 2004 so far. You want country? This is it, no if's and's but's or maybe's. Favorite song: "Doesn't Matter That Much To Me."

7. Eleven Hundred Springs, Bandwagon
If you think you're some kinda cosmic cowboy dirty country cousin-kissin' sandwich-eatin' stump-jumpin' hippie, this is your gig right here. Lots of booze and joints on this disc. Favorite song: "Gina From San Jose."

8. Tift Merritt, Tambourine
I think dirty thoughts when I listen to this record. Hey, I'm man enough to admit it. Favorite song: "Laid a Highway."

9. Anchorhead, Disaster
You want Minnesota? Here it is, come an' git it! Favorite song: "Little White Church."

10. The Copperheads, This Train is Gainin'
There are probably two or three songs on this record that could be HUGE hits for one of those knuckleheaded idiots recording in Nashville these days. The Copperheads have a lot of polish and this record is a really good reflection of a lot of hard work. Favorite song: "She Lives in Dallas."

11. Split Lip Rayfield, Should Have Seen It Coming
Just plug it in and hang on. Favorite song: "Redneck Tailgate Dream."

12. Melonie Cannon, Melonie Cannon
A great little grass record. Buy it because it's more real than mainstream country, even Buddy Cannon's daughter thinks so. Favorite song: "Whiskey Lullaby."

Finally, I just want you to take this all in:

December 2nd, Jesse Dayton at Lee's Liquor Lounge
December 3rd-4th, Patterson Hood of the Drive By Truckers, solo, The 400Bar
December 9th, Reverend Horton Heat with Split Lip Rayfield at First Avenue
December 11th, Pat Green at The Fine Line Music Cafe
December 14th Chatham County Line at Lee's Liquor Lounge
December 15th, Charlie Robison at Lee's Liquor Lounge

Yeah, me too, that's what I thought...hillbilly overload...fried synapses...night after night of twangy mistakes in judgement...December is gonna be good in this town.

I'd kind of like to wrap up the whole CMA thing in a pretty little bow and move on to bigger and better horizons. I sort of did the same thing last year, and there wasn't as much of a ruckus. I want to point out one or two things one last time, and then drop the whole bidness....at least for another year, giggle.

My hero Hunter Thompson, as usual, has a great quote relating to the whole lip-synching brouhaha:

Back in 1948, during his first race for the U.S. Senate, Lyndon Johnson was running about ten points behind, with only nine days to go. He was sunk in despair. He was desperate. And it was just before noon on a Monday, they say, when he called his equally depressed campaign manager and instructed him to call a press conference for just before lunch on a slow news day and accuse his high-riding opponent, a pig farmer, of having routine carnal knowledge of his barnyard sows, despite the pleas of his wife and children.

His campaign manager was shocked. "We can't say that, Lyndon," he supposedly said. "You know it's not true."

"Of course it's not true!" Johnson barked at him. "But let's make the bastard deny it!"

--Rolling Stone

After liberally quoting the CNN story with Dick Clark and Jimmy Jam, et al, saying lip-synching goes on all the time and everyone is fine with it, there really is no harm in making them deny it. I'm from the school that says those folks who bark and whine and vehemently deny things tend to be crybabies and probably have something to hide. After the Ashlee Simpson bit, the mannequins and Ken Dolls down in Nashville were probably hyper-sensitive to being accused of lip-synching, and spoiling for a fight if anyone called them to the carpet. But, I'm not an ego-maniac. Someone I respect a great deal sent this to me:

Lip Syncing - I've heard from an extremely reliable source that only one of the performances on the CMA show was lip synced. He's a member of the CMA board, but someone who I trust completely. If it wasn't true he would have just stayed silent on the subject. He refused to say who that was, but the consensus is that it was Shania.

First, fuck the consensus, it was Shania. If she wasn't lip-synching, I'll eat a 10 pound turd. But, I'll go with this, absent any other input from anyone else, I'm willing to admit that everyone else was singing live. No sweat. Doesn't absolve several of them from sucking. It was many brain cells ago, but the story on the use of voice-boxes and ProTools isn't some grand controversy, either, it's been reported a great deal in the last few years with the rise of technology in the studio...you know, studio tinkering.

But let's talk turkey here a minute. I need to address ol' Buddy's chief assertion:

If you hate all of our music so much, maybe you should get hired on to review live monkey fuckings at the zoo.

I had several friends write in and ask, "so what's wrong with watching monkeys fuck?" All joking aside, I don't hate Country music, I love Country music. But, about 90% of everything that has come out of Nashville since Garth Brooks came along has been 40 tons of hammered shit. As Waylon Jennings once said:

Garth Brooks did for Country Music what pantyhose did for finger fucking.

And let's not get too broad in our accusations: I'll be the first to admit that you probably can't go to the Piggly Wiggly in Nashville without running into 4 of the best guitarists on earth in the produce section. The studio musicians who backup the peacocks and peahens as they're "recording" their "work" and performing on the road are top notch. It would be interesting to mine these folks for 1, 2, or even 12 bands that could revolutionize the face and sound of Country music.

It all gets back to a point that I work and rework ad nauseam: THE PROCESS of picking artists and music in Nashville and producing them has become absurd. True, they look good on their album covers, the musicians playing behind them are virtuosos, and, most importantly, they sell a lot of records. But is there real substance in all of that anymore? Or is it yet another efficient, lifeless, profit-making machine that has corrupted what I want to believe in my heart is an American art form? Is there a line from Hank, to Buck & Merle, to Willie & Waylon, to Kenny, Garth & Tim? Sadly, I think not. Everybody has always been looking for a hit, but none of those early folks compromised who they were to find them, especially Hank, Buck and Waylon. See, the cynics are the people recording today. In their minds, they believe only certain things sell well, so they don't stray from those things:

"I do music that I think can do best on a commercial level." So why not put out her best and see what happens? She (Shania Twain) grimaces at the suggestion. "I don't have confidence in what I think is my best. Maybe my artistic best wouldn't be considered valid commercially."

There's a Country population out there that likes modern instrumentation on traditional sounding tunes. They work hard, they're smart, they like to shoot guns, let their kids run around nekkid in the front yard, and they don't need to be talked down to in their music. Out of everything that happened on that CMA show the other night, the worst thing of all was Chesney's song where "chevy" rhymed with "levy." That's not someone singing of a unique experience to evoke a common emotion; that's not a previous generation's songwriter inspiring a modern day star; and, don't get me wrong, it's not plagiarism either. It's simply the very cynical belief that people like hearing the same thing over and over again, and that there's nothing new under the sun, and that what's most important is rehashing old things because new things won't sell. I'm an optimist, I choose to believe differently.

And finally, I'm not some goofball, navel gazing, egomaniac who thinks what I listen to is the good stuff and everyone else is either stupid or crazy. Well, actually, I do believe that. But, realistically, I know there are hundreds of thousands of people out there who simply can't get enough of Martina McBride wailing until the windows break about babies, angels, and disabled babies who die and become angels. Sometimes you have to just give those folks what they want. But, when giving the people what they want becomes the all encompassing driving force behind every decision made, to the exclusion of what could be vital and important inputs and changes to the art form, then my friend, you're killing the music. It's as simple as that.

One other note, when I said Pat Green "was all an act," I meant the joking about his wife part. I play Pat on my show and have seen him live many times. Budweiser and I were merely commenting on what seemed like a gimmick all of the sudden, apologizing to his wife. He apologizes for different things, but he always seems to do it somewhere during the show. It's a good bit.

P.S.--Thank you to everyone who wrote in to comment on the commentary, both good and bad. I think there are a lot of festering sores out there on the topic, and as my maternal grandfather, Marshall Raley, from Wichita Falls, Texas liked to say, "air that damn thing out and put some salve on it."

Sent : Sunday, November 14, 2004 10:19 PM
To : othersideofcountry@hotmail.com
Subject : Your cma comments

If you hate all of our music so much, maybe you should get hired on to review live monkey fuckings at the zoo. You might understand that. Nah, probably not, but you could at least hang out with creatures at the same inteligence level as you. Most of your technical comments about technical issues were wrong, indicating that you are a total dumbass or just pretty uneducated.

--Buddy Cannon (Chesney's producer) He was singing live. I know. You are full of shit.

In the words of Buddy himself, as sung by his daughter Melonie, "finally you found me, what took you so long?"

As Melonie told the Charlotte Observer:

"I picked bluegrass, because I'm stubborn by nature and I like a challenge," Cannon said in a recent phone interview.

"Plus, I wanted to represent something authentic and so much of what I hear out of country sounds like the product of studio tinkering. It's hard to get away with that in the bluegrass world. It's more real than country."

It's hard to argue with that sentiment. You can only read phrases like "studio tinkering" so many times coming from folks in Nashville before you begin to wonder what's going on down there. Luckily, there have been two really bright spots in the 615 area code for the past few years: the work Rounder Records does with acts like Alison Krauss and IIIrd Tyme Out, and the whole stable at Skaggs Family Records, including newcomer, Melonie Cannon. After spending her teenage years as a backup singer in the studio tinkering system she decries, a short stint in the Army where she was discharged after breaking her hip, and a few years raising a couple youngins, Cannon delivers a very crisp and beautiful debut record for the Skaggs label. "What Took You So Long?" penned by her father Buddy with John Scott Sherrill and Ronnie Bowman, is one of those clever turn-of-phrase love songs so aptly written by the late Harlan Howard for so many years; additionally, it doesn't contain one reference to primate sexuality. She has the perfect voice to pull off that lonely longing, and she wraps it right around Randy Kohrs' beautiful dobro part.

The highlight of the record, however, is her version of "Whiskey Lullaby," which Krauss and Paisley both performed and won an award for on the CMA's the other night. Cannon has a sort of resolution to her voice that allows her to magically bury a rough edge in a gentle delivery. I think it shows this is probably best done as a female solo song, rather than the duet style. It really is Juliette's panic at finding what she believes is a dead Romeo, isn't it? It would probably take someone with more "inteligence" than I to make the connection.

Finally, there's true grit in "Nobody Hops a Train Anymore," featuring some stellar dobro work by Jerry Douglas, pretty much widely acclaimed as the world's best picker of the instrument. Maybe there's just a little bit of a little girl running off to the Army poured into this recording, and it gives it real balls. This is another fine record from the folks at Skaggs and I look forward to spinning it on my crappy radio show.

As a post script to my CMA rant last week, it hadn't occurred to me until Saturday, while I was on the air, that Loretta Lynn got snubbed by the CMA for Van Lear Rose this year. You would think in a year that saw Gretchen Wilson play the Loretta bit to the hilt, the originator would have gotten a little love, but no. Lynn's album was cutting, dark, and real, and, she wrote all the songs; which is pretty much the same reason Wilson was given so much attention with her record. What a dynamite performance that would have been too...they could have done an old school, new school duet, and maybe had Jack White show up with the Memphis junkie band he put together for Van Lear Rose with the bombastic guitar parts. It would have been better than what we got that night, 95% of which was absolute shit. Oh well.

By the way, many "inteligent" people have learned many beneficial things from watching monkeys fuck:

Robert Goy was a professor of psychology and director of the Wisconsin Regional Primate Research Center at UW-Madison from 1971 to 1989. His seminal research advanced the notion that exposure to the male sex hormone testosterone during fetal development "organized" the developing nervous system to express masculine characteristics. This basic principle of hormone action has been found to operate in animals from lizards to nonhuman primates and is an important aspect of human development. In addition, Goy made significant contributions to our understanding of the role that early social experience plays in developing the expression of masculine and feminine behavior. For more than 35 years, Goy mentored Ph.D. students and postdoctoral fellows who have become leaders in the fields of primate behavior and neuroendocrinology. As a long time member of the NIH psychobiology research panel, Goy was a strong and consistent supporter of innovative research in this field. Many of today's established researchers benefited from Goy's ability to recognize new and exciting research approaches before they became widely accepted.

It struck me like a lightning bolt last night. While I'm given to a terrible amount of hyperbole in this space, I don't like to mix "world view" with "music" too often. Sure, I think there are some definite correlations between a fondness for mainstream pap and a certain amount of mouth-breathing numbness, which spills over into a soup of Wonder Bread� paranoia that lends itself to cultural stagnation. But that's a rant for another night.

Bellwether is a band I associate with the world before it went to hell in a hand basket. Let me elaborate on that. If you're reading this, you've got your own opinions about economics, morality, and foreign policy. I'm not going to insult you with a ham fisted rant on any of that. But, I don't think it's a stretch to say that there's a lot of distrust, animosity, and outright hate in the world these days. I've got a lot of ugly in my heart when I wake up on Mondays, and sometimes Wednesdays. And, for the last couple of years, I've felt like I was missing something. That something isn't very tangible either.

As I stood off to the side of the stage at the Turf Club last night while Eric and Jimmy were setting up their gear, I kept remembering about a 7 month stretch where the band played the old Sursumcorda club about 4 or 5 times, 2 or 3 years ago. These were good times, good memories. When they occurred, they were good memories; tired mornings that weren't so bad because a good night of music always cuts the fog and pain of a night spent making iffy decisions.

But today, these aren't good memories for those reasons. It hit me like a lightning bolt. I always thought Bellwether was the next big band in this town; shoulda, coulda, woulda. The talent level and the content were every bit as high and genuine Minnesotan as The Replacements, Husker Du, Soul Asylum, The Jayhawks, or Semisonic. In fact, while everyone was busy jerking off Semisonic over "Closing Time," Eric and Jimmy had written about 20 "Closing Times," each a little more deep and rich than the simple grab your coats, get the fuck out, and go get laid of Dan Wilson's basic, yet excellent tune. There was promise in those 4 or 5 nights at that little bitty club across the street from the Fine Line. Don't get me wrong, things weren't great, the attacks had happened, there was uncertainty, but, there was also a great amount of hope, a feeling of resolve and resilience. I think a lot of those feelings have changed, if not outright dissolved, maybe just on my own part. I think I'm a lot more cynical now; don't get me wrong, I'm optimistic about a lot of things in my life, but I won't get fooled again; I don't believe a lot of things I read, see, or even taste on my pink little tongue.

But an hour and a half with music that felt like an old friend made me forget a lot of that crap. It hit me like a lightning bolt. Bellwether sang about a Minnesota that I knew and loved, places, and colors, and emotions that were terribly familiar; then the world got turned on its ear in the space of two short years, and they disappeared during that time. Even if it was only 90 minutes or so, it was good to feel grounded again...on my way back round to back in the front yard again with a crooked heart. I made sure to stop and thank them for playing the gig maybe one last time. It felt great.

We're pretty lucky in the Twin Cities, because we have so many music clubs, spread out across the two towns, that offer a pretty wide range of high quality stuff. It gives us weight around the country, and a lot of up and coming musician types like to tap the sounds and artists who work here for help and inspiration. Some knucklehead who works at The Rake or The Pulse was spouting off on MPR the other day about how there's no scene here, and how there's nothing going on here like there was back in the days of the 'Mats, Hüsker Dü, and Prince. He can cling to that misguided opinion if he likes, but the fact is, there's a pretty hardcore thing going on here right now; the problem is that mainstream music, the "force" that would recognize that scene like it did Minneapolis in the 80's or Seattle in the 90's, has circled the wagons so that those types of things never happen again. Scenes are cyclical, and brilliant, and unruly, and mainstream music wants none of that. I don't begrudge you your N'Sync, your Celine Deion, or your Ashlee Simpson, but they aren't any good; they're hollow and safe, and they can be made to become anything their handlers want, because they're all deathly afraid of being poor. They, like many, have bought the idea that sales equals substance.

I'll be the first to admit that my opinion on this is probably in the minority. I've bought the idea that substance equals substance, and I'm probably some kind of alt-music dinosaur destined for my own tar pit somewhere over the by the pool tables in the Mainroom, where the coat check used to be. But, don't tell me there's no scene here right now. Don't tell me people aren't looking at Minneapolis as a frontrunner like they did about 20 years ago. First, Gary Louris has entrenched himself as some kind of guitar-playing, songwriting God among about 3 or 4 very diverse circles of upper tier recording artists, but every now and then, you'll see him stumbling across the street into the 400 Bar to catch some show...oh look, there goes Gary. Second, this Slug guy (forgive me Chris Riemenschneider) has established himself as a seminal performer and recorder of white-guy, foodcourt, hip hop, if I understand things correctly. He actually bought a van and went on tour, and gasp! performed for folks. He apparently has very high street cred, and he sells a lot of discs. Third, there's Har Mar Superstar. This guy is a bleeding edge act on the national freak scene. Finally, we have our own little weird alt-country, roots rock thing that has been going on for about 3 or 4 years; it basically consists of a lot of outstate type kids, getting together with city kids and non-Minnesota kids, and applying pedal steels and fiddles and banjos to late-career Replacments music...or something like that.

Most likely, none of this is going to show up on MTV, on stage at the Grammy's, or even on the cover of th' Rollin' Stone. The point is, those posers and shit-heels who do end up in those places will most likely steal some or all of it in their own little ways.

Anyway, my whole point in spitting this little post out was that it looks like First Avenue is going to be okay. And, First Avenue is a lynch pin to our scene's success. Maybe you've grown old and don't have much reason to stumble down there anymore. Maybe you're young, and don't quite yet know what you're missing. Maybe you're an ardent supporter, and are breathing a sigh of relief. Whoever you are, you are richer today, and every day, that this club remains open. Which brings me to a true final sign that there's a good and vibrant scene here: Chris Riemenschneider. Frankly, I wanted to chop some heads off, had First Avenue been closed for good. But, I think in some ways, the even and informed reporting of Chris R. helped me to hold my tongue and see how things worked out. A lot of my friends from other cities stop off at StarTribune.com on Fridays to read what he writes because he's got a good ear for what's happening in the music world in general, in addition to the local happenings of our little burgs. Well done, Mr. R. Viva La First Avenue.

A Running Diary of the 38th Annual CMA Awards

The magic of TiVo. Wednesday night, watching Tuesday night's Country Music Awards. Strangely, the show kicks off with a strange montage of Robert Johnson, then segues into Tim McGraw, who's obviously not lip-synching, because his four note range voice is just slightly off on the four notes they arrange every song around for him. But back to Robert Johnson...for the life of me I can't even draw a tortured, incongruous, crooked line between the two. It makes no sense. Oh well, here we go.

Oh great, Lisa Hartman Black will be appearing too.

This list of who's on is like watching the build up to a WWE event on Thursday night. Just lower the cages and watch out for the foreign object he has in his trunks! There it is! Awwww, c'mon ref!

Brooks & Dunn...Nashville's first answer to Wham! Like I said, one of these guys will retire to NASCAR, the other will be blowing truckers in rest stops someday. And oh, by the way, maybe Vince Gill isn't here because he's too fucking embarrassed to do this shit anymore.

Great, let's light up Shania first. She even reads cue cards in a wooden fashion. "Country music always comes down to a really great song," she says. I'm surprised she didn't catch on fire when she said that.

"Live Like You Were Dying" Some fat guy with bad hair wrote it with some tall skinny guy who looks like a dope. Of course, the fat guy thanks his "angels." I'll bet you an entire paycheck that's not the last time, Jesus, God, and all the angels are thanked for an award. Just a side note, I'm not a heartless bastard, I realize McGraw dedicated this out of tune gem to his dead dad, Tug, a great pitcher for the Phillies, a rare spilling of true emotion allowed by the suits in Nashville. Anyway, Tug closed out the Royals in 1980, shortly after my 12th birthday, I was crushed, fuck you Tug.

I'm warming up to this Gretchen Wilson a little, I'll admit it. But I can remember having a glimmer of hope for Sara Evans back in the day, and they've got her fucked over assbackwards these days down there, so I guess we'll have to watch and see how old Gretchen turns out. They keep panning out when she turns up the volume too, so I can't tell if she's lip-synching (and I'm watching this on a 52 inch TV). Plus, she looks a little ambivalent about the applause. Maybe they made her fake it.

Why is Toby Keith singing with his daughter? Did I mention that I don't have a fucking clue about what's getting played on shitty radio stations like K102 right now, too? Is this a hit? Or did he just say, "I'm a big star and I'm going to sing with my daughter and you fuckers can get stuffed if you don't like it." They're not faking it, but I'm not sure why they're doing it. Anyone? Buehler? Buehler?

See!!!! I fucking told you. Big & Rich in a Chevy commercial. This band is all about making fucking commercials. All you people panting over their authenticity can go fuck yourselves now.

Tribute to Brother Ray...this oughta be good...

That's it? Jesus.

Okay, I just paused the TiVo over the half-hearted half-assed "tribute" to Ray Charles, because right after that, they introduced Martina McBride. A) She'll be lip-synching, B) this will be some overcooked, overblown, piece of shit song about angels and babies and puppy dogs. I'm half-tempted to fast forward past it, but, like everyone, I'm going to stop and watch the train wreck....on with the show....

A song about a handicapped kid...great...does this lady have no shame? There should be some kind of limit on how much empathy you can piggyback your melodramatic, eager, schoolgirl choir voice onto. I think McBride currently holds the record at something like 40. Of course his mom has to work 2 jobs. Of course "Hey Jude," is his favorite song, and of course he insists on saying grace, and of course he prays for everyone but himself. Of course he doesn't have a father. Jesus, I'm going to get a fresh beer and hit fast forward. Martina McBride, we're all tired of it and you. Sing a song about getting laid for once would ya?

Nichols and Shelton..."what about Martina McBride?" What about her? Fucking move on. Nice mullets you jackasses. Do you think they put you together on stage by accident? Musical Event of the Year.

Somehow Kenny Chesney is nominated twice.

"Whiskey Lullaby" Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss. For some reason they thank country radio. Let me tell you something Brad, country radio took a flyer and were surprised yet again, when it was successful.

Here we go, Big & Rich. For some reason they have a disabled midget standing in the background, not doing anything but dancing. They're singing about how country music isn't what it used to be, blah blah blah. Here's Cowboy Troy. I'm sticking to my guns on this. This bullshit is more marketing than "musical revolution." I mean, really, what are they doing differently than Kid Rock, circa about 2 years ago? Same basic beat, bass line and melody. Same midget for God's sake. Yeah, line up and waste your dough on this shit, it's "new."

"Whiskey Lullaby," performed. Thank God for Alison Krauss.

What the hell show was Lisa Hartman on again? She's milked more out of her marriage than most. Wasn't she an actress once? Is she a singer now? Clint always looked overwhelmed.

Single of the Year. "Live Like You Were Dying" What's with all the black clothes? Somebody tell the producer his hair replacement looks terrible.

Here we go. Shania. I'm having a party, etc. Totally fucking lip-synched. Three dollar bill city. She's used to prancing around, but he looks like someone handed him a half pound of shit and told him to make a Michelangelo out of it. She's so fucking horrible. Fast forward.

Wham...I mean, Brooks & Dunn. To be fair, I've always been impressed with Ronnie Dunn's voice, but the cynical, dollar chasing origins of this duo are legendary, so that's always colored my view. Fast forward.

Ok, all of the sudden someone is singing about Victory in the Lord. Horizon Award, must be a newcomer, singing about the good lord. Ah, Josh Turner. Got to sing one bit of his song and poof. Could have been the best performance of the night but we'll never know. Ah shit, it was probably going to be terrible.

Okay, pause the TiVo. A second commercial featuring the musical stylings of the jingle writing team of Big & Rich. Fucking posers. Followed closely after by a Target commercial for Toby Keith's "Greatest Hits 2." There was a 1? These people should all be fucking ashamed.

Kenny Chesney. I'm worried, because is there anything I can say about his ass clown that I haven't already? Okay, pause the TiVo, he's singing a song that has "chevy" rhyming with "levy." Maybe tonight's theme should just be, "do these people have no fucking shame?" He leans back everytime he has to sing loud. Just for the sake of argument, let's assume he's NOT lip-synching...here's your guy right here. The rumor that floats around is that he's tone deaf, and he throws fits when his engineers ask him to re-record parts. That's why all the earpieces on stage, and all the harmony singers. Probably a voicebox built into the amps. Just rumors. But back to the show, 3 1/2 minutes of solid cliches. Thanks Kenny.

Reba. She's acting out every line she sings, reminding us she has her own sitcom somewhere in UHF hell. Is it syndicated yet Reba? Fast forward.

Lonestar to present some award. Best Vocal Duo. Who's the big dumb fucking geek in Lonestar with the bleach blond hair and black leather pants? Somebody put him out of his misery. Brooks & Dunn won by the way. Fast Forward.

Alan Jackson. I've gotten to meet a lot of country radio people since starting this gig, and I've been told by more than 3 people that Jackson is a thoroughgoing asshole. I don't care either way, really. But one is an anomaly, two is a trend, and three is the truth where I come from. This isn't a bad performance, but, Fast Forward.

Randy Travis and the hot blond from CSI: Wichita. I think Randy Travis is drunk. You ever think he wakes up and exclaims, "we're fucking married?" He is, he's friggin drunk. Best Album. Kenny Chesney wins. Fast Forward.

Sara Evans. Okay, let's inventory. Lost a lot of weight. Nose job. Remember her old nose? Kind of the "girl next door" thing? She was kind of chubby and cute. This new nose has taken some of that sexy twang out of her voice too. They fixed her teeth too. Told ya, chewed her up, and they'll spit her out if she doesn't reach a million units on something soon. Poor girl. Fast forward.

George Strait. The sound guys are ruining this because they've been producing lip-synchers all night and now they have to do a live performance. George's voice has always been a little more storyteller than opera-singer, but it sounds weak here. Oh well, Fast Forward.

Teri Clark. All girl band. Oh, now I get it. Girls lie too. Are they going for a Bangles thing? Strings of cliches about how "we like some of the same things." This song brought to you by "panic." Yes, when some white trash girl named Gretchen scores a big hit about being a redneck girl, the first thing you should do is get an all girl band together and copy it slightly and hammer the point into the ground. Do these people have no shame?

Pat Green and Phil Vassar. Right now the crowd is asking, "who?" Now I get it, the Pat Green thing is all an act. Anytime he gets in front of a microphone, he apologizes to his wife. He's done it everytime he comes here, and he just did it on live TV. Female Vocalist of the Year. Martina McBride. Angels, babies, and puppy dogs. She's from Kansas, fucking embarrassing. Fast Forward.

Willie. "For the Good Times," by Kris K. My love for these two men's music is unabashed. This is going to get ruined for me somehow, there's too many wildcards in this auditorium. Faith Hill overplaying "Help Me Make it Through the Night." Hey Cantwell and Friskics-Warren, wanna take it back? Way to fake it Faith, you couldn't understand that song if it were spelled out for you in crayon. Randy Travis, "Sunday Morning," wishing lord he was stoned...I'm tellin' you, he is stoned. Kris K deserves to be in the Hall of Fame, his songs are the greatest. "Lovin' Her Was Easier" is still one of my five favorite tunes of all time. "Back in the day when the music was what mattered, and it was all that mattered." You tell 'em Kris.

Keith Urban. Never got it. Fast forward.

Dierks Bentley. The crackerjack sound guys have fucked up a vocal again. If everyone would have just lip-synched, they could have saved a lot of numbskulls a lot of work. Fast Forward.

SheDaisy and Buddy Jewel. They make the chubby one stand on the end and the pretty blond one gets to talk first. SheDaisy was another failed Country Music copycat experiment. I'm still not sure what their talents are. Funny, they came along right after Wilson-Phillips. Male Vocalist of the Year. Keith Urban. He's Australian and he's crying. Fast Forward.

Julie Roberts. I'm just going to say it, any vocal that started off smoothly in this show is a lip-synch, and the others are real singing. Julie's lip-synching a song about ballsy woman, this year's theme in country. I wonder if it sank in last night with Gretchen Wilson how she caused the great independent woman oversaturation panic of 2004 in Nashville. Who wants to bet she starts singing about angels on her next album? Fast Forward.

LeAnn Rimes and Joe Nichols. Anybody else see LeAnn and think "Judy Garland?" She's flirting with him, very Judy. Maybe she's drunk off her ass too. Horizon Award. Gretchen Wilson. You knew that was coming. She thanked Sony. The only "thing" she thanked by name, Sony.

Montgomery Gentry. Bad start to the vocal, real singing. He's even adjusting his mic. This is funny because they're trying to out-Big & Rich, Big & Rich; or wait a minute, maybe Big & Rich were trying to out-Montgomery-Gentry them. I'm telling you, this is all half-baked Hank Williams Jr. shit, a la Kid Rock, et al. I mean, does he have to wear the big wide brimmed hat every time he performs? Did anybody notice that Big put his special top hat on to perform at the beginning of the show, then switched back? Doesn't anybody just grab whatever's on the bus anymore? It's all fucking scripted, about as spontaneous as the Bush's or Kerry's having sex.

Jim Foglesong. It's his fault. He signed Garth Brooks and they're putting him in the Hall of Fame. I always wondered whose fault it was. I'm going to make a Jim Foglesong Sucks t-shirt, I just wonder if anyone will get it.

Rascal Flatts. Before I fast forward, I want to...awww forget it. This is too easy. These guys suck so much it's beyond words. Fast Forward.

Jamie O'Neal and Darrel Worley. Vocal Group of the Year. PAUSE. Alabama is a nominee? They aren't dead? Fucking A, will these guys just go the fuck away? Haven't we all had enough? RESUME. I wouldn't walk across the street to piss on any of these groups if they were on fire. Rascall Flatts won of course. What bullshit. What's the difference between these assclowns and Mr. Roboto Styx? God that was painful.

Here's Shania again. Reading the cue cards again, wooden, lifeless. Someone get a defribilator. Of course she's introducing a "super star" lineup of male performers to destroy "Hey Good Lookin'." Kenny Chesney completely misses the beat, key, and words the two times he's tried to chime in so far. The rumors appear to be true. What a fucking joke this is. Is this what Hank Williams died for? Alan Jackson, if he really is the asshole everyone says he is, looks embarrassed to be up there. Kenny Chesney blows it again. Someone turn off his mic. That was pathetic, they just collectively set country music back about 50 years.

Dolly and her big boobs. She's actually funny and lively and colorful. I just rewound back to Shania introducing the train wreck to compare. How can folks see a ball of fire like Dolly, then spend billions of dollars on a phoney, plastic piece of shit like Shania? I'm lost. Entertainer of the Year. Kenny Chesney. Toby Keith and Alan Jackson shake his hand like it has shit on it. He's crying because he's talentless and he knows he finally put one over on all of us. They cut him off. If anyone can find out who the director and producer of this show were, I want to send them a present. That was awesome. Fuck you Kenny Chesney.

That's all I got. What crap. I give up. Again.

From CNN.com:

"It doesn't make the least bit of difference," Dick Clark, America's oldest teenager and the creator of the now-defunct "American Bandstand," told The Associated Press.

"Every motion picture you've seen, every 'American Bandstand' you saw, most of all MTV you see, it's all lip-synched," he said. "(What's important is) the impression you get as an audience. If you're pleased with what you saw, who gives a hoot how it got to you?"

Fuck you Dick Clark.

Producer Jimmy Jam, who's worked with artists ranging from Janet Jackson to Usher, said he too was surprised over the Simpson incident -- surprised that it was such a big deal.

"I thought everybody knew that everybody lip-synched," he said. "I just thought when you went and saw Britney Spears, you knew that she lip-synched the whole concert. ... They're seeing a show, and to them, that's what a show is."

Fuck you Jimmy Jam.

Not for everyone. R&B veteran Patti LaBelle, known for her booming voice and creative improvisations, lamented that "the whole world is so phony today so people are accepting it. People are loving phonies."

Patti LaBelle, you go girl!

Steve Leeds, a former record executive at labels such as Virgin and Universal, offers an explanation: "People want to hear what's on the record. You've got to supply that expectation with whatever's necessary. Studio wizardry is definitely part of a live music show today."

Fuck you Steve Leeds.

Especially in light of the recent, allegedly temporary, closing of First Avenue, it's important to shine a light on this little bit of our pop culture. I once saw a guy sing roughly 3 terrible songs about his ex-girlfriend, sitting on a homemade swing, playing a ukele in the Entry, but, he wasn't lip-synching, and I'm 99.9% sure that nobody I've ever seen there was either. There's a line of psychology that says abnormal behaviour, in an abnormal environment, can appear normal. Seems like kind of a truism, but the thrust of the point is that if a drunk guy wanders into a room full of drunks, no one's going to really notice if his pants are around his ankles. This is exactly the same kind of sick thinking behind this whole lip-synch issue. Trotting out corpses like Dick Clark to say "everybody does it and the old stuff is considered classic now," is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

The next time you plop down $85 to sit in the front row for a big name performer who does a lot of dancing along with his or her show...after paying $10-$20 to park...after spending $15 on the latest CD...after spending $20 on the t-shirt...after spending almost exactly the same amount on the person next to you so they could join you...ask yourself if you care that they're faking it. And while you're at it, look closely next Tuesday night at the Country Music awards show that's going to be on TV; there's gonna be a whole lotta lip-synching goin' on on that show for sure, and for two reasons: 1) most of those people are plastic to begin with, and 2) the dirty little secret in Nashville is that most of them can't sing a note, tone deaf like a drunk New York alley cat.

Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music, football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all.

--Hunter S. Thompson, Rolling Stone

First Avenue was closed indefinitely and its employees were let go Tuesday after the nightclub's operator filed for bankruptcy.

Allan Fingerhut, the founder of Minneapolis' most legendary music venue, filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy on the club at 1:30 p.m. Tuesday, two days before his company was supposed to vacate the premises.

Fingerhut was evicted by First Avenue's landlords over unpaid real-estate taxes and rent. Two of those landlords are former managers Steve McClellan and Jack Meyer, who plan to start a new company to run the club.

Exactly how long it will take the two ex-managers to take over was unclear. Fingerhut said he does not plan to give the liquor license necessary to operate the club. New liquor licenses often take two months or more to obtain.

Fingerhut also does not want to hand over the name of the club, although the name is now part of the assets that are part of the bankruptcy trust.

"First Avenue might pop up again someplace else in the city," Fingerhut said, hinting at the possibility of putting the name over some other music club.

--Chris Riemenschneider, StarTribune.com

A year or so earlier I had been to the Sky River Rock Festival in rural Washington, where a dozen stone-broke freaks from the Seattle Liberation Front had assembled a sound system that carried every small note of an acoustic guitar--even a cough or the sound of a boot dropping on the stage--to half-dead acid victims huddled under bushes a half mile away.

But the best technicians available to the National DA's convention in Vegas apparently couldn't handle it. Their sound system looked like something Ulysses S. Grant might have triggered up to address his troops during the Siege of Vicksburg. The voices from up front crackled with a fuzzy, high-pitched urgency, and the delay was just enough to keep the words disconcertingly out of phase with the speaker's gestures.

--Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I don't have a lot of coherent, or even relevant, thoughts today. But, one thing is clear to me on this bright, Minnesota, November afternoon: many chickens are coming home to roost. Scores of people are showing their hands, and every bet is a head-to-head, all in, table buster. In four, two, or even one year, there will be nowhere to hide for the chip leaders; they have set themselves apart, and are dictating the rhythm of the table. Even a fool knows there's something to be said for having some of your plans, strategies, theories, and philosophies locked up in the back room, where they can be hatched out of public view, and, out of the public discourse. When you let it all hang out, you're telling us, "this is all I got." And, if by some mishap, bad turn, or bad luck, all you got isn't good enough, well then friend, it's your fault.

But, let's talk music for a minute. I'm a dangerous radio personality/blogger/idiot right now, because I woke up this morning feeling like I had very little left to lose anymore. If and when the beautiful, smelly, black building at 7th Street and 1st Avenue re-opens its doors for live music and frivolity, I will go there, and happily spend money while my aural senses are assaulted by the sometimes marginalized music I love. But, note this, I have a very keen interest in where this "new" First Avenue might pop up; that is to say, which club or building takes on the name "First Avenue," if Fingerhut is allowed to move the name somewhere. I would like to ask the participants involved to not even fucking consider for one second re-naming The Quest to First Avenue; A) because the Quest is on 2nd Avenue, and B) because it's sacrilegous. The Quest is a shiny penny, operated as yet another loss-leader in a monolithic empire aimed at driving what little culture we have in our music six feet underground and covered in dirt. However you look at things, there has to be a point in this country when money and power take a backseat to the product they're suppposedly supporting. No matter what plastic goblins like Celine Deion, Michael Jackson, and Mick Anselmo say, music is about stone-broke freaks setting up lush outdoor sound systems.

On a lighter note, trying to find the bright side in today's news for some of my more despondent friends, remember this: there's a lot of Nixon in this President, and not just because about half his cabinet were low-level hatchet men for Tricky Dick back in the day. Sixty-eight to '74 were some of the best music years in world history, so maybe if you're really mad and you know 3 chords, you'll make something new and exciting for us all. In the meantime, keep your local liquor store on speed-dial and try not to jaywalk.