CMJ is easy to love. Here's what we love to hate.
* The Hive Mind
Is that a cell phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me because you heard about me on Twitter? Buzz is an inevitable force of music 2.0 but sometimes it feels like it's all we have - does anyone remember music? Your crummy band is a hashtag.
* Overscheduling
We want to see everything and it's just not possible. Even last night at Public Assembly, it was between Cloud Nothings in the front room, Light Asylum in the back room, and La Big Vic in the loft. That's just at one venue. How are we supposed to make even more complex decisions when our therapists won't pick up after midnight?
* Official Vs. Unofficial
Anyone who's "run the marathon" before knows the true gems aren't even listed in the handy guide that's stuffed in your paper-towel "gift bag." The worst part of this is trying to find the best ones, not to mention figuring out how to pay for them all. Which brings us to our next point...
* The Worthlessness of Badges
Congratulations. You've either spent rent on the $495 laminated hall pass, or someone's deemed you buzzworthy enough for a badge. Think you can just flash that bad boy for entrance to any club in town? Shut up. You're the rent-a-cop of indie.
* Your Band Is Terrible
Your afro-beat electro-doom disco crud isn't worth scraping off the roof of my dog's mouth. Rock 'n' roll is dead - you drowned it in reverb.
* Too Much Free Booze
It's become an expected trope of even the more pitiful showcases to offer an open bar of some kind. But when headlining acts aren't hitting stages until 3 a.m. and we can have all the free Stoli we want, how can any promoter possibly expect us back at the venue by 11 a.m.? We're only functional alcoholics because we can't afford to be non-functioning drunks.
* My Feet Hurt
Gratis shoulder massages were dished out last year at the Purevolume House. Shoulda been feet - Did you actually go to CMJ? So much walking, so much standing. This year, because of the rain, the #1 goal isn't buzzbands, it's avoiding trenchfoot.
Fight me: how bad am I at music?
