The following is excerpted from my upcoming memoir/humorous essay collection, “Woke Up Covered in Bitches Again: Observations of an Internet Radio Host.” Look for it next summer at your local bar, Village Pantry checkout line, and those free book kiosks they have near where all the homeless people hang out downtown.
From the stubborn former high-school jock who swears no decent music has been written since Bon Jovi’s Blaze of Glory (because apparently Bon Jovi is the pinnacle of human artistic achievement) to that one friend we all have who won’t shut up about how literally every song ever owes its soul, riffs, and dental plan to the Beatles, we’re all guilty of some over-the-top geeky fanboy obsession with “our music.” But what’s worse? Someone who thinks their entire personality is defined by an album that fifteen million other people also bought at Walmart, or someone whose fragile ego is built entirely around a band nobody’s ever heard of because, frankly, they’re not that good? Oddly enough, I manage to straddle both camps—plus a few others in this list. So, with that confession (and a blanket apology to my friends who will now recognize themselves in this post and never let me live it down), here are my picks for the ten most annoying classifications of music fans.
10. Deadheads
The name conjures up visions of tie-dye, patchouli, and people who think showering is “selling out,” but truthfully, there’s no such thing as a typical Deadhead anymore. The Dead themselves (basically the Grateful Dead with an undead rebrand) officially disbanded back in ’09, and their fans have since evolved into lawyers, doctors, and *gasp* Phish fans. In general, these are about the nicest people you will ever meet. In fact, in the unlikely event one ever threatens to beat the hell out of you — because, (oh, let’s say … ummm … hypothetically for example) you refused his generous offer of a grilled cheese sandwich and instead asked if he knew where you could get a spotted owl burger (it was hilarious at the time, okay?) — you need only say, “Hey chill out, man. What would Jerry do?” and he instantly backs down and apologizes like Klaatu in “The Day the Earth Stood Still.”
9. Indie Evangelists
I recently hit upon the idea that indie rock, by its very nature, should be a lot more popular than it is. Let’s face it, ASCAP, BMI, and the RIAA are doing all they can to make their own music inaccessible, between shutting down venues, suing fans, and DRM software that makes “authorizing” your player to accept the music only slightly less difficult than diffusing a bomb. Indie rock is everywhere, often available for free, and is usually encouraged to be shared. It is produced by people who are more accessible, more talented, and more visionary than the auto-tuned corporate mascot/pop tart of the week. So, what’s the problem? In my estimation, it’s the people trying to get me to listen to it. You know, the secretly self-loathing, PBR-swigging elitist indie music fan who is always right — unless everyone agrees with him about his music, in which case he’s “over it” and moving on to something else. Honestly, if you want to be a taste-maker in this genre, you gotta be an early adopter. Next time, try getting into bands that break up before they even get together.
8. Metal Heads
Now, we’re not talking about the whisky-slugging, heroin-shooting, bar-brawling, roided-out meat heads in a mosh pit variety here. The true metal heads, in my experience, look just as scary, but in reality are talented, passionate, intelligent, and — aside from the ear gauges and persistent tang of goat’s blood on their unwashed leathers — are almost indistinguishable from Eddie Haskell. Consequently, this is something of a liability for them, since not only is it difficult to take anyone seriously when you’re trying to imagine sticking your finger through any one of the numerous gaping holes in their flesh, but also you assume they’re joking when they tell you that their band’s latest track, “Demonic Anal Monkey,” isn’t literally about Satanic simians with a penchant for “the other side of sexuality” so to speak, but instead are a metaphor for the deep emotional scars of the lead singer’s inner child. It makes it difficult to tell them the metaphor doesn’t really work.
7. Bluegrass Purists
There are certain immutable truths that all musicians must eventually accept. 1) You will never be famous enough to OD on caviar and drown in your backyard swimming pool because you didn’t wait 20 minutes before getting in the water. 2) You will never have groupies open-minded enough to let you perform the “mud shark” on them. 3) You will never be a true bluegrass artist. You see, in order to be “true bluegrass” you must 1) Be raised in the Appalachian wilderness by moonshiners who speak only in clicks. 2) Play an instrument carved from wood infused with Bill Monroe’s bodily fluids (your choice which). 3) Have zero knowledge that other genres of music even exist and have no commerce with those who claim differently.
6. Proggers
Mostly comprised of middle-aged, socially inept, computer nerds, the average prog rock fan requires that all “good songs” be composed in a time signature that cannot be mathematically proven, be no less than 17 minutes 38 seconds long (unless sub-divided into “movements”), and have a completely irrelevant and obtuse title that, as an in-joke, misquotes mythological, medieval, or 20th-century bohemian literature. The most dangerous thing you can do to a progger is express any kind of interest in their music, as this will instantly trigger a veritable regurgitation of obscure trivia about the artist in question … and the session players … and the sound engineer … and if they’re a true fan, the janitor on duty at the studio that day. Mercifully, most know full well that your attention span ticks down like Jack-in-the-Box playing in 11/8 once you realize your error, and will thus spew this information at you faster than Rick Wakeman’s solo in the final movement of Journey to the Center of the Forest God’s Sylvan Temple of the Ancients.
5. Freedom Rockers
It seems strange to say that one of the defining moments of my life was while “relieving myself” in the 1st turn men’s restroom at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. The “troughs” there are legendary. To think that I was making use of a stainless steel tub that had been used by hundreds of thousands of other men (and a few women while I was there) over the decades. There, on the historic walls, great minds of the ages exercised their First Amendment rights and left wisdom for a captive audience representing a true cross-section of America. So, what holy litany, what philosophical thesis, was permanently etched on that stone so that others may bask in wisdom and take up arms in a righteous crusade?
The human race is apparently doomed to be ruled by people who think that there hasn’t been any good music written in the past 40 years, isn’t it? Q95 rocks, man!
4. Singer/songwriters
Once confined to smoky coffee shops, laxed laws have allowed these sensitive souls to now infest every craft brewery and gastropub within a 20-mile radius. The singer/songwriter is easily identified by hair color about three shades too dark to be natural, spray-on hip-hugging jeans, cats-eye glasses, and a plaid shirt with plenty of exposed cleavage. (The girls dress similarly, but you can usually distinguish them by the addition of a knit cap.) Singer/songwriters perform the same four-chord song for 45 minutes straight (we’re not fooled by the capo, by the way) and then complain that they’re not fairly compensated for the time they spent practicing. Meanwhile, they’re holding up your drink order because they’re too busy asking the waitress for their fourth glass of water.
3. Nickelback Defenders
Okay, admittedly, these aren’t all bad. A sizable percentage, in fact, are Franzia-slugging MILFs who’ve been grinding the bar stools at Applebees to How You Remind Me since 2001. Respect. The problem is their husbands. Once high school football stars, now balding beer-bellies, these dudes think no barbecue is complete without “Silver Side Up” blaring loud enough to cause hearing loss three suburbs over. Yes, everyone knows Nickelback is basic. Yes, they’re still the 11th best-selling band in history. Which means somebody here bought that CD. Own it, Chad.
2. Parrotheads
Once upon a time, you couldn’t swing a margarita glass without hitting five Parrotheads in Hawaiian shirts. Now they’ve mostly migrated to Florida, where climate change and Viagra shortages keep the flock thinned out. Their legal rap sheets have shifted from public nudity to minor DUIs, and, in the case of one local mayor, beating up girlfriends in the parking lot, but they’re still annoying as hell. Last week, due to the rising service fees imposed by TicketMaster, even the Audubon Society gave up and said, “Screw it, let nature take its course.”
1. DMB Fans
I really want to like Dave Matthews. For a minute there, I think I actually experienced an emotional reaction to one of his lyrics. Turns out I just misunderstood him. I would, however, like to thank him for providing his Fire Dancer logo in the form of easily-spotted window decals. This means we may now identify DMB fans safely from parking lots, without actually entering bars they frequent. These people are unique in their single-mindedness — and lack of knowledge about the existence of any other music. Do not engage these people, do not look directly at them, and above all, do not let them get control of the jukebox. They aren’t content to stop with one song. They must apparently recreate entire setlists … often back to back … you know … for comparison. “Do you think ‘Crash Into Tree (47-Minute Yodel Version)’ fits better before or after ‘All Along the Watchtower (But This Time It’s Jazz Version)’ or should ‘Where the Hell Do You Think You’re Going? (Tuvan Throat Chant Version)’ go there? I suspect it’s the latter, since the whirring sound coming from Hendrix’s grave must become distracting after a few minutes. Frankly, there’s not enough pot in the world to get me to sample objectively, however.
