I could work harder at it, if I chose to pursue it as a profession. Maybe my talent level on the guitar could eventually lead to something, given enough work. I highly doubt it. I have seen talented musicians before, and I simply don't count myself among them. I make no false pretense about this. I mean, holy living fuck... have you heard me try to sing before? You're blessed if you haven't. And I TRY. Ask my roommate if you need validation about that one.
I respect anyone who chooses this as their profession - the work of their life. My profession sucks, and I can't wait until I carve out a niche for myself to improve this particular station of life. I chip away at this, with great enthusiasm and vigor, on a near-daily basis. Anyone who chooses music as their means of making ends meet is equal parts crazy and fucking insane. On the one hand, I can respect the passion inherent in making that decision. On the other hand, there is a degree of fucking delusion that I simply cannont wrap my head around inherent in following this particular path.
No, my talents are different. All aspects of my work - from here until eternity - will deal with the careful handling and prodding of people. This is what has resonated most clearly within me, through all of my life experience. My love (or gift, as it may be) is not to tell stories - it is to break down, understand, and (having taken my best swings at the prior two steps) subsequently, in any shape or form, help people to help themselves. I shy from no one, and I do my best to relate to everyone. Rarely does this approach fail...
That being said, FUCK RYAN BINGHAM. And fuck his hillbilly New Mexico friends.
My distaste for country music should be noted prior to the telling of this story. It has been my belief, for as long as I have been trying to understand how all of this shit works, that country musicians are the phoniest of the lot. This could be a result of nature, or nurture. It doesn't fucking matter. It is a genre to which I simply cannot relate. Ever. Whenever I am confronted by a country fan, I simply do my best to isolate that from the rest of their personality and judge them on the rest of their traits. What more can you do? For me, this can be a task in itself. I've never actually met a person who makes this kind of music in person. I've met rock artists, hip-hop acts, alternative acts, acoustic acts, and so on and so forth... but never a live, in-the-flesh country musician.
So tonight, I met some friends out for cocktails after a long day off of doing mostly nothing, aside from a random photographic journey and a couple loads of laundry. By around midnight, I was three sheets to the fucking wind and my car was parked somewhere where it hopefully will not be towed. That story will continue tomorrow morning, and hopefully with a happy ending. My bravado secured by the knowledge of an impending sober cab, I stepped outside of our drinky hole for a smoke. A gang of foreigners came across the street from a local concert hall toward the bar we were posted up at. I had one other member of my party of around seven with me, who promptly disappeared (roughly half way through the encounter) as he chased in a nubile young blonde back into the bar. I knew they were foreigners by their lack of regard for Minnesota's laws against indoor smoking.
Their group consisted of one dude in a wheelchair (handicap unknown), a Mexican-American dude wearing a blue shirt tucked into his ridiculous belt buckle and sporting a Pedro mustache, a few other nondescript white guys who were all wearing black t-shirts, and a pompous-looking dude with a suit coat of some kind who was wearing a white leather (faux leather?) cap with - get this - a fucking feather sticking directly out from it. Bored and hammered, I decided to investigate who these dudes were.
Guessing the chump in the pimp hat was probably the ring-leader in this particular circus, I asked him how his night was. He said he had just got done performing at the Varsity Theater and was enjoying his night, generally. My first impression of him was that he was a self-absorbed douchebag. He seemed incredibly proud of his accomplishment and what have you. Thoroughly unimpressed, I told him that the Varsity was a great place - there are only two places to perform stand-up comedy in town, and that was definitely one of them. I don't recall exactly what was said afterward, but the conversation turned quickly to his musical career as a nationally recognized country music act and not as a stand-up comedian. I would later observe others in his party explaining this to the bouncers of the bar as they were threatening to remove him from the place for lighting up a smoke inside the friendly confines. He introduced himself - sans handshake, which is always a bad sign - as Ryan Bingham.
I, of course, have no idea who the fuck Ryan Bingham is. I got the sense that they'd never been to Minnesota, so I told him about some of the great local acts we've produced. Not in a way that takes any credit for them, mind you, but in a way that I felt adequately portrayed some civic pride. The best (most commercially succesful) independent acts that have come from Minnesota in my life have been hip-hop acts. I talked to him and a couple of his man-groupies (as there was not a female within earshot of this conversation) about some of the better venues in town. One of them mentioned that he was a huge Prince fan - a sure sign of absolute cluelessness. Not a knock on Prince, but come on...
The conversation continued, mostly revolving around the faux-superstar who was passing through our wonderful city this evening. In the rare occasion where I'd be asked a question, I'd be simply cut off and interrupted with some story about how he was a self-made star. He seemed to me to be curious and delusional about his talents and the power of his personality.
Annoyed at this and finished with my smoke, I told them I would check them out on the internet and hoped that the next time they came through town that they would be playing at the Triple Rock or First Ave or the Entry or some similar place.
How did I mean it to sound? Well, fuck, you know me. I was hammered. The backhanded compliment is a complicated thing. It is equal parts art, science, and salesmanship. In order to attain the desired effect, you must nail all three.
Maybe it was the tone of my voice, or my obvious irritation with their douche-baggish behavior, but Mister Bingham took this compliment as a grievous personal affront. He began gesticulating madly at the ground, pointing at an imaginary worm and saying that "this is where I came from! What are you trying to say?" He was convinced I was trying to call him out on something. What the fuck it was, I had no idea. But I had obviously struck some kind of nerve or insecurity.
His ethnic friend stepped to within three inches of my face and asked me what my problem was. I told him I had no fucking idea what he was talking about. Ten feet away, Ryan Bingham was speaking in the third person about himself, loudly and to no one in particular, and how he couldn't believe the nerve of some talentless ass-clown as myself (paraphrasing). He was starting to go off the fucking handle. I feigned innocence, because, as I looked around, I saw no friendly faces. And this motherfucker seemed perfectly okay with attempting to pound my head flat.
I felt lucky, so I offered my hand in handshake position - as if offering a truce - to said ethnic friend. Sometimes, in life, you have to cut your losses. The offering of a truce can be a great way of accomplishing such a task. In other circumstances - such as this one - it merely inspires greater levels of grandstanding and bravado.
I was reminded that I would do well to go inside. I defiantly told him that I was not finished smoking. Realizing my cigarette was long gone, I fired up another.
I never got a handshake from any of them.
Luckily, there were some cool heads in his party as well who talked the ethnic dude out of said hammering. By cool heads, I think I mean "dumb rednecks who don't know an insult when they hear one". Somehow convinced that I had no ill intent, the situation dissolved.
I was definitely drunk, generally pissed off and up for it, but not while vastly outnumbered. I had a thoroughly entertaining conversation with a bystander about this later (thanks, Ruby!).
"Lemme holla at you... so I'm half-white, right, so I gotta help you white motherfuckers out sometimes. It don't matter how much you don't like the dude. You are outnumbered. So you can't be talking shit like that with no one around you. It sucks, but you just gotta shut your mouth, man. And that dude's an ASSHOLE."
Somewhat paraphrased, but definitely an accurate description of my thought process.
The remainder of the night passed without incident. But if any of the (admittedly few) readers of this space are Ryan Bingham fans, know this.
1.) He is a self-absorbed asshole.
2.) His friends are hillbillies.
3.) He can't take a fucking joke.
4.) The country accent in the songs (which I grudgingly looked up on YouTube) is fake. Just as it always is with country music.
