January 7, 2003

***The Litter Box***

EVERY ONCE IN a while I wish I could meet my guardian angel, if only to slap him on the back and let him know I'm grateful he's lurking about. But guardian angels seldom turn up in the flesh, and on those rare occasions the visited usually crank out a book or make an inspirational cameo on Oprah. At the very least you can count on a drunken phone call to Art Bell detailing the powwow. So maybe it's better the old boy keeps pulling the strings while I blissfully stumble through a better existence than I deserve. While I can't claim to be the luckiest guy in San Francisco, I imagine I'm right up there in the higher echelons of fortunate sons.

The reason for all these warm feelings, you ask? Well, for starters, I actually get paid to write about music. Mull that over and you come to appreciate what a weird concept it is. I mean, everyone has an opinion, and anyone can voice that opinion, so theoretically anyone can be a music critic. Even Gina Arnold. Yet I get paid in American dollars to deliver my two cents on a weekly basis. If you happen to be one of the regular e-mailers who are puzzled that a dolt like myself is allowed a platform from which to spew twaddle, consider how grossly overpaid I am. It's absolutely infuriating! Yet here I sit claptrapping away. What a country.

The real kicker to all this (not counting the free junk that comes with the territory: CDs, singles, T-shirts, beer, Christmas cookies, etc.) is the open-armed acceptance I've received from the gang here. As I've written a time or two, the Bay Area has an absolutely appalling track record when it comes to backing the local product. Thus bands need to get the hell out of Dodge to make a splash, or rest content in the knowledge that somewhere out there they are revered as something special. Just not on the home turf. It's weird to live in a city where people you once looked up to as Big Deal Rockers are just flesh and blood slobs not too far removed from yourself. All my onetime West Coast heroes are now my brothers-in-arms and pals to boot. How wonderful is that?

The point is that I expect 2003 to be pretty much the same as last year. At least I hope so. Local bands will send me stuff and I'll run to my editor's office, practically speaking in tongues and throwing words like "genius" and "best" around. Or I'll walk into a club and transform into a giddy groupie during the second band's set. To be honest, I encounter previously "undiscovered" gems on a weekly basis. Last week it was the Beatcombers (the singer was missing and the dudes still nailed three-part harmonies!). The week before it was Firecracker. Who knows what next week will bring? I can hardly wait.

All I really know for sure is if my angel ever does decide to show himself, I so have the first round.