It's a Concert not a Concerto

I’ve written about Wilco, and hence Jeff Tweedy indirectly, before. So if you don’t like it why are you here? Yes, I’m going to write about Jeff Tweedy again.

I went to see Jeff Tweedy play a solo show in Montreal at L’Olympia. Just Jeff Tweedy and 6 or so acoustic guitars. It was seated (read shitty) but there was a bar (read double Jim Beams). So we proceeded to drink our way through the opening act, at the bar, and waited for the headliner. We were seated well enough in advance that we didn’t disturb the precious Mr. Tweedy.

Before I go on, a bit of historical perspective. Jeff Tweedy is well known as a curmudgeon (I know). In the past, he was quite acerbic about it (read when he was on painkillers) but now sort of comes across as funny. I say sort of because you always wonder if there’s a bit of F-You in there (there likely is). I read a review of the previous night’s show in Toronto and someone from the crowd yelled “turn it to 11!” Jeff Tweedy looks at his acoustic guitars and says “I don’t have anything that goes to 11.” Pretty funny, but you know he was thinking “screw you pal” on the inside.

So, knowing this, I was tempted all night to start some witty banter (read double Jim Beam) with Mr. Tweedy. Luckily, I refrained. However, he did play one of my favourite songs (I don’t recall which – double Jim Beam) and at one point I started clapping. Again, this is a concert, with people whooping, hollering and the like. At one point during the song, others joined me in clapping. I can keep time, trust me, I paid for the lessons to learn how to keep time. But I got bored pretty quickly, as I am wont to do, and grabbed my drink and stopped clapping. The song ends and Jeff Tweedy says “I’d like to thank…” and in my head the sentence concludes with “…Mr. Mills for joining me on this song as my percussionist.” Rather the sentence ended “…whoever got that guy to stop clapping, it was distracting.”

Come ON! It’s a concert and I clapped. Heaven forbid I have some fun at a show. At least, Mr. Tweedy, you didn’t get Jim Beam spilled on you like the guy, um, nowhere near me.

The NHL Missed the Net

I've been trying to write about this in a logical yet passionate way since Tuesday evening but I can't. There is no logic and I can't remove my emotions. Yes, I'm talking about the hit that Zdeno Chara laid on Max Pacioretty in Tuesday night's Boston v. Montreal NHL game. I just can't find the words to say what I want. It's rare that I'm at such a loss for words.

In the meantime I've been digesting it all and chatting back and forth with the original curmudgeon (the OGC). The OGC suggested a post that sums it up quite nicely. I've been hoping for this for a while and now, here's the OGC:

NHL leadership stinks and the league is becoming a joke. Every time they have a chance to make a statement, they take a pass. This is the same league that hands out suspensions for vulgar gestures and flipping someone the bird. But when a guy is brutally injured, they turn a blind eye like it's nothing.

A caller to The Team 990 said it perfectly. How can players be held responsible for their sticks when they're falling on their butts and the stick flails, but not be held accountable for their elbows, shoulders and fists when in full control of their body? Only one word sums this up: bullshit.

Well put OGC. But he wasn't done. In response to this article on the Boston Herald website, in particular this line:

The true villain, though, is the architectural genius who placed that small, exposed stretch of boards, stanchions and glass right in the area between the benches and created a tremendously dangerous hazard.

The OGC had this reply:

Is that a little like blaming a rape victim because of the low cut dress she was wearing? In your world, Mr. Harris, I guess the aggressor is never at fault.