Tobin's Tummy Pleaser

Beer is a favorite topic around our house. We still enjoy wine on occasion, but our tastes seem to have come full circle in recent months. To fully appreciate how we arrived at this renewed love affair with beer, a little history is in order.

I had the good fortune of landing in Ft. Collins, Colo., in 1989. At the time, the town was in the very early stages of a boom that would truly come alive in the '90s, bringing with it all the joys and pains of a city on the move. Two interesting things happened along the way, and to this day I haven't a clue as to why these events took place in Ft. Collins. Even stranger is the third phenomenon, which I'll mention at the end.

1. Ft. Collins was, for a time, the epicenter of disc golf (aka frisbee golf). As a college student, cheap entertainment and low-impact exercise were a welcome combo. High-end competitions were held in the city, and the sport had become quite prominent. I'm not clear on how it's doing these days, but what I do know is an old college acquaintance is responsible for essentially killing it in the early '90s. As the student body president at CSU, she saw to it that the on-campus course was eliminated. Seems she had a special place in hell reserved for disc golf players and the destruction they left in their wake. A big bummer, but such is life.
2. Perhaps more interesting is Ft. Collins' previous reign as the Kings of the Microbrew. Yes, for some years, Ft. Fun had more microbreweries per capita than any other destination in the United States. Breweries like New Belgium, Odell and H.C. Berger were among this pantheon, and needless to say, life was great.

So, here I was, a young punk just barely legal to drink, and I had a liquid goldmine right under my nose. Yes, it was a blessing to be there when Fat Tire first hit the scene. More memorable than my first sip of this once-sweet nectar was the brew that changed my life. I was having a little post-newsroom meal with my sports writer buddies (I, myself, was an entertainment reporter at the time) at a local sandwich joint called The Pickle Barrel. While in line, I heard the late, great Doug Noble order an Odell's 90 Shilling. I thought to myself, "What in the hell is my buddy Doug doing ordering some non-alcoholic crap!?!?" Of course, I was naive and at that moment a tad dim. Odouls is Odouls, but Odell? Well that's just something completely different.

Doug was quick to point out my folly, but was just as quick to offer me a taste of something that would forever change my life. Yes, 90 Shilling was my first ... and you know what they say about your first. It was the sweetest, and it remains my favorite.

So, here I was, spoiled and delirious over years of incredible beers. And when college was over, it was back to California for two years, where I met my wife and some incredible friends, and became a willing Fat Tire evangelist. Keep in mind, this was 1995-1997, which was a few years before New Belgium was selling in Cali. So, needless to say, I was the ad hoc distributor, taking cases back every time I returned from a quick visit to Colorado.

It was around this time that my wife (girlfriend at the time) found herself drinking and (gasp!) enjoying beer. Yes, Fat Tire changed her life, as 90 Shilling had changed mine. And before we knew it, we were going nuts over microbrews together. This was not unheard of by now, as the microbrew craze was in full swing.

To make a longish story not quite as endless, the upshot is my wife and I eventually grew tired of the heavy beers. Drink enough of these, and suddenly a crisp, simple Coors Light or Corona is a welcome libation. So we took a break from the heartier quaffs and began to take an interest in wine (as most adults do the older they get).

But here's where we get to the part about coming full circle. What wine taught us was how to sip, taste and appreciate a drink. This new-found appreciation coincided with an interesting trend in the microbrew industry. The specialty brew craze ended, and as a result, some brewers (craft and micro alike) returned to the basic principle of making tasty beers. They no longer had to concern themselves with attempting to establish a marriage between quality beers and broader commercial appeal. They were free to challenge the customer, push them to step outside their comfort zone, and in effect put forth some unique twists on traditional European recipes. As if by a divine force, the specialty beer industry and our tastes found each other again ... reunited at last.

I credit a little-known Boulder outfit for our personal turnaround -- Avery. These guys have really shown me something, and my beer tastebuds have come alive again thanks to Avery's unyielding quality. Few folks (even in Colorado) know of Avery, despite the fact that the brewery recently celebrated its 12th anniversary. To be clear, those who know good beer, know Avery. It's a small brewery with big beers, with 'big' being an enormous understatement. In my mind, Avery doesn't get nearly enough credit for what it's doing, and I'll happily sing its praises as Colorado's new king of beer.

Sure, New Belgium still puts forth some intriguing beers, but they are in a different league these days, so they aren't as free to challenge consumers in the same way that Avery is. In fact, the only real opportunity fans have to taste the experimental New Belgium drafts is to visit the brewery in Ft. Collins. I have no problem making the trip, as it's a great place and well worth the 70-mile drive. But I can't get up there more than a couple of times a year.

Interestingly, the Denver Post this week reported on declining beers sales. The big boys are saying all the right things, but the truth of the matter is these companies will never be able to deliver anything other than commodity beverages. The more mass-market you are, the less appealing your product; I wouldn't go so far as to say this is the case for all products, but it's certainly true with beer. I (and countless others) noticed the drop in quality once Fat Tire was produced at a much higher volume.

I could care less what the sales numbers say; I will forever be grateful for Avery's existence, as it has clearly demonstrated that great beer is still possible. My wife and I look forward to Friday nights, which is nothing new, but these days it's special because it's Avery night. We keep a stocked fridge on hand, always ready to pop open a Maharaja IPA, the world's best IPA, but a seasonal, so we get our fill while we can; The Reverend Quadrupel Ale, which if you like New Belgium's Trippel, is as good a brew as you'll find; or the Hog Heaven barleywine, a dry-hopped masterpiece so good that one of Avery's employees has the label graphic tattooed on his arm.



Which leads us to the third and final Ft. Collins phenomenon -- the Blasting Room. How seminal West Coast punk gods The Descendents/All and Black Flag found Ft. Fun is uncanny enough. How these guys turned this former cow town into a modern punk recording Mecca is just beyond belief. But it's true, and the hardcores of Colorado forever thank the boys for giving us some street cred.

17 Lies and Sundry Drivel

Music is my muse ... always has been. There's nothing odd about that of course. Without music, I daresay the population in general would be in a sad, sad state. I know it sounds like some after-school bullshit, but music really does have the power to change attitudes, politics and the cultural agenda.

The real question is how do you define good music? Do you rely on a complex set of variables, or are you merely measuring if it has a good beat that you can dance to? And when I say good music, I mean 'a cut above.' Those who are into music like a wide variety of songs and artists, but it only stands to reason that the very best of the best songs adhere to fairly rigid criteria.

Unfortunately, when it comes to embracing new music or getting excited about the latest rage (whether mainstream or underground) I'm pretty much a snob. Each day, publicists are pushing a lot of repetition, underworked tunes, weak production, sorry writing and shallow lyrics, so to break out and demonstrate something better than the also-rans is quite an accomplishment.

Now don't get me wrong -- I have my share of pop artists and guilty pleasures littered about my collection. I have no qualms about buying into the nostalgic quirks and popular hits of my generation, but what we're talking about here today are the tunes that do more than merely find their way onto future decade compilations.

By my definition, truly great music should transcend standard formulas, push sounds in a new direction and combine the critical elements of instrumentation, vocals and lyrics. Put a different way, I find that a ton of songs satisfy some of the criteria, but very few hit all marks. And oddly enough, what often separates the men from the boys (or the dross from the classics) are the lyrics. And let's be honest -- lyrics either suck or they are works of art.

We could go on for days about how music speaks to us, but the bottom-line question is "what does a song really say?" Consider some examples:

John Lennon "Imagine"
This is an obvious one, and I hesitate to use such a simple example. But 'simple' is precisely the gem of this one. Like many of Brian Wilson's lyrics, Lennon was a master of turning everyday reflections into poetry that will last for decades, if not centuries. One could argue that this song wouldn't be quite as special if written during a different era or set against different music. They'd be right, but at the end of the day, what defined this song's greatness was the lyrics.

Radiohead "Airbag"
And then there are the lyrics that confound and compel us. Radiohead might not be the best example of this, but they certainly fit the bill. An excerpt from Airbag:

In the next world war
In a jack knifed juggernaut
I am born again

In the neon sign
Scrolling up and down
I am born again

Again, the trend here has to do with lyrics that complement a song. I've heard that some lyricists will listen to a song over and over again, and eventually the lyrics will spew forth almost on their own. Whatever the case, Airbag wouldn't be the same if Thom opted to write "The store was closed/no beer for me tonight/I'm sober again."

Jellyfish "All Is Forgiven"
And then there's just straight poetry. To pull lyrics together in the way Jellyfish did is simply uncanny and uncommon. You know you have something special when the average joe on the street can enjoy lyrics simply by reading them ... no music, no accompaniment ... just the words. Consider:

truth and avarice
encircle his words like a barber pole
twisted and useless
till they disappear in her camisole (goodnight alibi)

throw away your daggers and pills
cause everything's still forgiven, forgiven
though he bit off the nipple of human kindness
all is forgiven

Few humans have this gift, which is why I tend to tip a song's scales one way or the other depending on the quality of the lyrics. And all this talk of lyrics brings up a relevant point. As it relates to my posts, I've opted to avoid obvious titles. I do this as a tribute to artists who are brave enough to avoid the standard titles that are based on a line from the song. There's nothing wrong with the standard approach, but I've always had extra respect for artists who label a song based on what comes to mind, and not so much what the song is about.

Obviously where this post is concerned, I've said nothing about 17 lies, but one could argue there's sundry drivel here. :) Most often, the titles will be pulled from something random yet relevant from the day's events. In this case, my wife was watching some new show on MTV about finding the next covergirl for Seventeen magazine. Needless to say, I find all this reality crap to be just that. It's just fitting that in a conversation about defining great art, we juxtapose it with a shining example of all that sucks with today's culture.

Arrogance vs. Confidence

I've been thinking about conducting a random poll among friends and colleagues. The question? What does it feel like when you finally acknowledge you're wrong? Problem is, there's no good way to ask that question.

I've battled for years with thinking I know everything, when the truth is I know a little bit about a lot of things. Some topics I'm more versed in, but I'm no master in any one area. Even in writing and editing (my one true talent), I'm far behind the folks who actually call themselves a writer or editor. Chalk it up to a guy who had too many interests to bother with excelling in a single field.

Interestingly, despite my occasional cocky, know-it-all behavior, I'm like most folks with the same insecurities. Arrogance, to me, was always the sign of a very insecure person, and I suppose I'm somewhat guilty in that respect.

Be that as it may, I've yet to reach the point where I lump myself in with everyone else. More often than not, I shake my head in disbelief in watching the decisions people make, the lack of reasoning and common sense they exercise, and their insulting blank stares that seem to illustrate they really are completely unaware of their own stupidity.

But then I take a moment and wonder where I fit in with all of this. And while I know and acknowledge that I'm not infallible nor near as sharp as my mouth sometimes advertises, I cannot and will not back away from the stance that the overwhelming majority of Westernized beings are no more than living, breathing, consuming automatons who have lost site of what's real, courtesy of the lies they buy from the media and big business. Capitalism is great, and I won't walk away from it, but it ain't gonna eat my soul for breakfast.

So where does that leave me, and folks like you who are at least enlightened enough to realize the game for what it is? Obviously I can't speak for you, but here's what I know to be true about myself:

1. I'm still a slacker by nature, which means it's rather convenient for me to play armchair philosopher when it suits me.
2. I have enough confidence in the work I do and the life I lead that I won't hesitate to hand down my opinion as a mandate.
3. No, I most certainly do NOT know everything, and I think that's a problem.
4. By recognizing that I don't know everything, I sometimes fail to step up with confidence, speak my mind and take a position. Are you beginning to see the problem with this duality?
5. On occasion, I've been known to be wrong, and for the life of me I can't figure out how it happens.
6. Eloquence is not an excuse for mediocrity.

Do you recall the scene in Good Will Hunting when Robin Williams' character says something to the effect of "well at least I played a hand"? This sentiment is a defining statement in my life, and as it relates to the daily dirge we all face, I think it illustrates the primary difference between those who have it and those who don't.

I cannot stand Jennifer Lopez, but goddamn did she work her ass off to get to where she is today. Gwen Stefani is all Hollywood these days, but she's still the same kind and grounded suburban geek she was in the '80s, and few can question the hard work, stress and long hours she and the No Doubt boys put into their craft.

Bottom line is it doesn't matter how smart or talented or articulate or right you might be ... it don't mean jack if your brilliance lives in a vacuum. I mentioned Ben Franklin the other day, and I can't imagine too many people were more prolific than he was.

Clearly the issue here is I've done little with the gifts I've been given; the hostility and arrogance are likely defense mechanisms telling me that I'm still the shit. It's almost like drug addiction ... the dealer and his product are going to tell you what you want to hear, for the sole purpose of keeping you on as a customer. A lot of things in life are like that, which means the real challenge is to call bullshit for what it is.

Keep in mind I started this blog as a tool to expose the elements that purport to undermine us, and the truth is we're as guilty as anyone or anything in that endeavor. I could see where being jaded and eloquent would serve you well (anyone think Chomsky fits this description?), but add in a healthy dose of apathy and perhaps you have more in common with the homeless drunk down the street than you do with any of your anti-heroes.

For years, I thought the point was to do it better than the next guy, and if you couldn't make it better, don't bother. But now I realize it's really all about just doing it. Period. Damn those Nike bastards were right.

Mother Nature Is Pissed

You ever get the sense that not all is right with the world when the number of natural disasters jumps off the page in a short timeframe? I'm not the type to set my watch by the metaphysical forces of the universe, but I do believe in the concept of karma. And when Mother Nature decides to get busy, I listen.

Think of the state of the world, and then tell me that there isn't something more to nature's violent reaction as of late. Compare the war in Iraq, continued strained international relations, terrorist activity and lingering corruption with disasters such as the tsunami in Asia Pacific, the Gulf Coast hurricanes, Latin America mudslides and the earthquake in the Middle East and India.

I don't see coincidence. I see Mother Nature, and she's pissed.

One of my favorite artists, Björk, once said that humans are pretty arrogant to think they could do anything to destroy Earth. Mother Nature need only shrug her shoulders to be rid of us all. How true.

To me, the recent activity suggests that our karmic balance is just a tad out of whack. Too much hate, too much war. Abuse of power, greed, fanatical rage, neglect and ignorance are breeding a black cloud that seems to choke much of what we see and hear. Sure, part of this has to do with living in a media-dominated era, but I don't doubt that Mother Nature is stirring for no other reason than to put things into perspective and spawn a much needed attitude adjustment across the population.

Personally, I see little value in the lives we lead in modern society. Everything revolves around competition, and life is simply a game we play as something to distract us between birth and death. Don't get me wrong ... competition is good, but more so as a diversionary tactic, not as a driving force. In a commercial society, it's damn maddening: Choice A vs. Choice B, and all the reasons why we rule and they suck.

We've fundamentally shifted the focus and the rules over the years to the point where very little reality actually exists. Can you imagine someone such as Einstein, Magellan, Ben Franklin or Da Vinci in today's society? I'm not talking about whether these folks would fit in or not; I'm asking if there's room for brilliant minds anymore. Can such a person even rise to prominence these days?

Remember, this is the quick fix world, in which we laud two guys who sleep under their desks while inventing one of the first guides to the world wide web. It's the fast-food, drive-thru phenomenon where two Stanford grads are freaking geniuses for turning that guide into a supercharged index. Yes, all great contributions, but not why we were given the gift of life.

I suppose I do little to demonstrate how life should really be spent. I'm as caught up in it as the rest, but that doesn't mean I don't see it for what it is. Perhaps it's time we had the balls to push the dregs aside, rather than putting them on a pedestal for praise. Easier said than done of course ... it's almost a violation of physics to suggest we could put on the brakes and reverse course without losing the lion's share of our purchase.

Then again, Mother Nature invented physics, and I'm sure she wouldn't hesitate to send us ass over tea kettle without blinking if she felt we were beyond saving.

You can count on me mamma ... I'm listening.

Zines an' t'ings an' t'ings

I woke up this morning thinking about the days I spent as a teen producing a fanzine with my childhood friends. It was high school in the Bay Area, and our scene of choice was metal -- speed metal, death metal, thrash ... you name it. Keep in mind the year was 1987, and no one was more important in the Bay Area than bands like Metallica, Testament, Death Angel, Exodus, Vio-Lence and countless other acts who played constantly at the various clubs across the Valley. More than a few crazy nights were spent at venues like The Stone (San Francisco), The Omni (Oakland) and the Mountain View Theater (an old renovated movie theater cum concert hall in the South Bay).

Among the most memorable evenings was an '88/'89 show that Death Angel headlined at The Omni. All the brass was in attendance, as it was James Hetfield's birthday. So the 'tallica boys were there, along with friends from Faith No More (Jim Martin, if memory serves). Prior to this evening, we had made attempts to snag an interview with Metallica for the zine. We'd already interviewed the scene's up-and-comers about 100 times each, so we were looking to one-up ourselves. Unfortunately, those attempts were thwarted, quite swiftly I might add. I recall one evening in which our pal (and fellow contributor) Trip was brushed aside by Hetfield with a short but hard-to-misunderstand "Don't bother me. I'm drinking."

On this particular evening, we figured we'd hit up Jason 'Newkid', with him being the freshman of the band and all. And although not as harsh in his response, a clearly uninterested Newsted replied, "Yeah, I don't know. You'll have to talk to our manager." Whatever! They hadn't even scored big yet with "One" and were still years from the Black Album, yet the local zine punks had become too unimportant. C'est la vie, right?

Before I get much further, we should probably return to the topic at hand -- the zine itself. It was dubbed Monthly Fire Starter (whichever of my friends came up with that is a genius ... best name ever for a metal fanzine). This thing was a true labor of love, as I guess most zines are. Friends illustrated the covers, the five or six of us wrote sophomoric show and CD reviews, we conducted some fairly comical interviews, and it was all done using the most basic tools of paper, scissors and tape. Crude, but that was its appeal, and in many ways I miss its simplicity and how poetic that approach was.

The zine wasn't my idea. As someone who prides himself in being creative, I'm never THAT GUY -- the one who comes up with a great idea and puts it into action. I've always been a hanger-on, which is okay with me for now as I've always done a decent job as contributer. But what's interesting is I never set out to become a zine contributor, yet here I am nearly 20 years later, and I still write for various publications. Consider the history:

After graduating high school -- and after the metal scene and MFS had run their courses -- I was off to college in Ft. Collins, Colo. Not the most likely place to start a zine, but I missed that creative outlet and how it kept me connected with local music. So, I made the decision to start up The Collins Files. It followed the same low-budget philosophy as MFS, and relied on fairly similar content. This time, however, we included creative writing pieces and poetry from local scenesters. I was even somewhat successful in getting local merchants to subsidize the project via advertising, although most often the production still cost me some cash. The second issue seemed to be the biggest success, perhaps as a result of the condoms we put in each issue. Again, another great idea that I didn't dream up.

By then, my interviewing skills had evolved from absolutely pathetic to so-so. Looking back, I'm happy with that progress. And the timing of the zine was just about right ... Ft. Collins was at the beginning of its population boom, so the scene was just beginning to take wings. Bands like The Jonez and Lord Groovey and the Psychodelic Zombiez became household names; west coast melodicore pioneers All visited the city and played there many times, so much so that they eventually decided to make Ft. Fun their permanent home (and thank god for that ... where would we be without the Blasting Room?). Alas, The Collins Files lasted only three issues, but it was well worth the time and trouble. I then went on to become an entertainment writer and editor for the college paper, The Collegian (I even got paid for a change). It was great to keep this line of work going, as I had even more opportunities to meet and interview some of my favorite bands. In 1993 alone, I interviewed Fishbone, No Doubt, Tool and Jellyfish. Plus, I had the pleasure of teaming up with a classmate to write a weekly literary series called "Sceneboy and Syriah." I'd have to say it was one of the better periods in my life -- a time when responsibility and early career success were beginning a new and happy marriage.

Again, not by any dedicated action on my part, the zine jobs kept coming. After college came an online ska zine. I wrote CD reviews for a few issues, then jumped ship to another ska zine, this one called Skatastrophe. These guys were pretty serious ... not only online, but a full glossy print version as well. Good stuff, and great experience. I was back to doing it for free, but I never could walk away from free CDs and concert tickets; it's almost impossible to walk away from that type of hookup once you have it.

Which leads me to today and my work with KaffeineBuzz.com. My buddy Paul from San Jo hooked me up with the editor, Kim Owens, and I've been writing for Kim for more than two years now. Strange how time flies. By now, my interviewing skills have become decent enough to pass for something that resembles real journalism. With Kaffeine Buzz, I've had the opportunity to chat with Scott Ian of Anthrax and Les Claypool from Primus, among others. More importantly, I've listened to a ton of new music at a time when the music scene remains at its least prolific.

Ironically, despite nearly two decades of doing this stuff for fun, the one person from the old MFS days to actually make something out of this whole zine business was my good friend Jonathan. For a number of years now, he and his Santa Cruz buddies have been producing one helluva zine -- Concussion. I'm not sure if he would consider it a zine or not, as it is a fully tricked-out magazine with national distribution, decent advertising revenue and pretty broad appeal. It's focus is slick too -- skating, surfing, snowboarding, music and art. It's the last true rag of the West Coast hardcore, and I take my hat off to Jojo & Co. for sticking with this labor of love. I'm sure he'll tell you it hasn't been the easiest thing he has ever done, but I'm told nothing worth doing ever is. It seems I've yet to believe this, hence my lifelong roll as contributor vs. innovator.