Dave Grohl and California Chrome: Haters Gonna Hate

           

    I’ve never actually quoted a Taylor Swift song before, and I may go to Hell for it – or at least whatever serves as Hell for active or former rock critics. Which in fact may be a place where you are forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for all eternity.  But here goes.

             

                Haters gonna hate.  As a gold star member of the rock critic’s club, I realize that we are a snooty bunch. Particularly those of us who began our careers in punk rock and slid into the grunge era partly by virtue of just not dying.

Back in the day the biggest insult that could be thrown was to call a band “careerist.” Remember when Kurt Cobain called Eddie Vedder that? It bruised ole’ Eddie to the core.  (Of course that was when Kurt was still breathing and not an avatar in Guitar Hero. Yes, that spinning sound you hear is Kurt in his grave. He honestly was tormented by success.)

                Seriously, this was thing. I wrote a multitude of articles about bands that sold out their art in a variety of ways that ranged from participating in sponsored tours (History note: When Coors subsidized its first rock tour it was greeted with howls . The bands that participated were roasted and pilloried for being associated with something so crass.), to commercials.  People still deconstruct every advertisement that uses a Dylan song, wondering what Dylan means by it. I suspect it means he needs to pay alimony.

                Clearly we’ve come a long way. This may or may not be a positive thing. On the one hand, sponsorships and licensing to commercials can be a financial lifeline for bands who aren’t making much money since people rarely buy music anymore. It was certainly wince-inducing when the Sid Vicious’ version of “My Way” showed up in an Acura ad last summer.

                It was also stupid product placement. I seriously doubt anybody who loved the Sex Pistols was happy about their memories being co-opted to sell luxury cars or rushed out to buy one. But Sid would have loved it.

               One of the on-going conversations in rock criticdom, is about what constitutes cool. This has come up a lot recently regarding one of my favorite people and bands: Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters. On the surface this would seem to be a non-argument.  I mean Dave was a member of Nirvana. Doesn’t that automatically make him a life member of cool? 

             

           Apparently not. After all he wasn’t the one who died young and left a beautiful corpse. (Though technically, neither did Kurt.) Dave the nice, agreeable, occasionally brilliant guy who believes -rightly so - that he should be able to earn a decent living from his music. Which is also nice, agreeable and occasionally brilliant.

          Grohl also seems completely tickled by his fame and often uses it for good rather than evil as opposed to, say, anything involving Ted Nugent. Grohl’s “Sound City” and the HBO series “Sonic Highways” are absolute love letters to the music and musicians he adores. Still he gets grief for it.

             

           No matter what you think of “Sonic Highways,” you have to admit he’s introduced a lot of people to artists and styles that they may never before have considered.  People, that’s a good thing.

           Sometimes, as with the latest Foo Fighters album, also titled “Sonic Highways” the music isn’t earth-shatteringly innovative which is a bummer . But it’s always listenable and infinitely preferable to almost everything on radio today. 

         

I’ve been hearing a lot of haters rant in another part of my life as well: horse racing.  People have just been stepping over themselves to rag on California Chrome. Chrome, as you might recall, is the California-bred horse that won the first two legs of the Triple Crown.

            Chrome has the misfortune of being co-owned by someone who is the poster boy for Hoof in Mouth Syndrome, Steve Coburn.  Coburn doesn’t know how to keep his trap shut. Additionally, he isn’t a good loser.  In fact, he is kind of an ass.

            That said, there are vast numbers of people who adore Chrome. For one thing, the horse oozes personality. Also, the owners and trainers have been beyond gracious to fans. They allow almost anyone who asks, to meet the horse and take pictures with him.  Believe me, that isn’t typical, and it has brightened many people’s lives. The connections have also donated Chrome items to auctions to benefit numerous horse charities. In short, the horse has made a lot of people really, really happy.

            Whether he should win Horse of the Year is not my call, and I can make the argument both for and against. But the amount of hate that is being thrown at him, and his devoted fanbase, who call themselves Chromies, is over-the-top and unnecessary. The bottom line is this: if the backlash was just in response to his owner’s asinine statements, it would have it would have blown over by now.

            It hasn’t. I believe that’s because, like the criticism about Dave Grohl and the Foos, Chrome is accessible. A lot of people prefer heroes, be they musical or equine, to be a little distant and remote. It gives them an aura, and makes them seem sacred.

            I for one, say screw that. Give me a nice horse that tries its damnedest, and a bandleader that does the same. That’s not to say that California Chrome is my favorite horse of all time. Nor are the Foos my regular choice for music. But I’m glad that they both exist.

            Now pardon me while I “Shake It Off.”

Bye, Bye Bird

My neighborhood, or at least my little piece of it, is in mourning. Bird died last Sunday afternoon.

Bird was a Guinea Hen. She showed up on my street literally the week after I moved into my half-rural half-suburban ‘hood.  That was three and a half years ago.

For those of you who don’t know much about Guinea Hens, they are large birds – much taller than chickens, but slightly smaller than my Brittany dog. They have lovely black and white polka dotted feathers and squawk with the velocity of a fire engine when they're upset.

            When Bird  first showed up, she was the talk of the neighborhood. That's how I met most of the neighbors. We would meet in the evening and propose theories about where she'd come from.

            Some people believed that she had escaped from a flock on a nearby street but those Guinea Fowl were just a myth. Others thought she’d been dumped when her owner noticed the feral chickens that also call our street home. That's possible.

      

            It didn't matter; the neighborhood took to her, and she to us.  Bird started hanging around the houses at the top of the hill, and one of the homeowners began feeding her. There was a brief debate about what Guinea Hens ate; the consensus was chicken food. Someone suggested buying the cheapest available brand, since she probably wouldn’t survive on her own for very long.

               

           They were wrong. Bird thrived. She was a wily creature. When a pair of coyotes moved in and decimated the local cat population Bird was clever enough to roost in tall trees where she’d be safe.

           I never saw her fly, exactly. For one thing, she was far too bottom heavy for serious aviation. In the mornings when she came down from the tree where she'd spent the night, it wasn’t exactly the smooth glide of say, a pelican over the ocean. She just sort of fell down fluttering her wings and screaming until she hit the ground with a feathery plop. She'd then shake herself off and waddle off toward breakfast.

                

           She stayed close to the house where she was fed, but would run from one side of the street to the other, checking for bugs and ticks, which to the everyone’s delight, she adored. I’ve not had a tick problem since we both arrived.

                

           Bird became quite tame. She never let any human touch her, but would often spend her mornings snuggling on one side of a fence while my neighbor’s fluffy dog slept curled up on the other, the two separated only by a piece of chicken wire. They were about the same size and it was adorable.

               

           She got to know me and my dogs as well, which makes sense since I’d see her three times a day. Neither of the Dane’s acknowledged her existence – to them a bird is a bird, no matter its size. 

           But the first time Poppy the Brittany saw Bird she was dumbfounded. Poppy knew Bird was a bird and she likes to chase birds. But Bird was almost as big as Poppy. Initially when we’d approach, Bird would scuttle away chuckling to herself and waving her bright blue wattles in irritation.

               

           Then it became a game. I’d say hello to her and she’d zoom out from where she'd been hiding. She’d never get close enough to be eaten or chased, but it was enough to confuse poor Poppy.

               

            I wouldn’t call Bird smart. She had a tendency to simply stop in the middle of the street and just stand there, like she had forgotten where she was going. Drivers became used to slowing down and steering carefully around her. There was no choice because sometimes as they passed her, she would let out a shriek and run as fast as she could to the other side of the road.

               

          About a week ago I was walking Dalai and saw a middle aged woman anxiously trying to shoo her into a neighbor’s yard. Bird just stood there and blinked at the woman, who looked perplexed. “Someone’s bird got loose!”  lady exclaimed. “Do you know who it belongs to? I saw it in the street and was worried!” I explained that Bird was wild but the neighborhood mascot. The lady looked stunned. She thought Bird was a peacock. When I corrected her, she seemed disappointed, but personally I think Bird was prettier than a peacock. Thus reassured, the lady got back into her car and drove away. I’m sure she had a great story to tell her friends that night.

               

           Last winter I worried a lot about Bird. It was cold and we had weeks of horrible winds. Every morning when I’d walk the dogs I was afraid I’d find her cold battered corpse. But there she’d be. A little disheveled perhaps, but still clucking.  Those polka dotted feathers weren’t just a fashion statement after all.

           The heat of the summer didn’t seem to bother her either. While the dogs and I would pant down the street, Bird would luxurate on a fence in the shade after drinking and bathing in a neighbor’s water feature.  

                

          About two months ago the city repaved our block and removed the speed bumps. When the bumps were there, people had no choice but to slow down and pay attention.

          But last week, right in front of the neighbor that fed her, a dolt yapping on a cellphone ran over Bird. The stupid girl driving never even slowed down, and certainly didn’t stop, though she had to have known she hit something. Bird didn’t have a chance.

                

         I still look for her every time I drive or walk down the street.  I think about buying a Guinea Hen or two and keeping them in a pen in the yard, but it wouldn’t be the same. Bird was a free spirit, and she moved in just when I did.  I know she was just a Bird, but I miss her terribly.