Column: What's a loud band like you doing in a nice place like this?

(As originally appeared in The Guide, 7/11) — It was a strange feeling last Thursday to be on the way to a concert on Hilton Head Island and considerably excited about it. It was a surreal mixture of emotions, the same feeling you might get if you walked into your elementary school cafeteria one day to discover that instead of cold spaghetti and mystery tacos, they were serving fresh Big Macs and chocolate Fribbles.

This weird cognitive dissonance followed me all the way to the island’s new Shoreline Ballroom to see a concert by Old Crow Medicine Show, a band of young guys who play old-time bluegrass (and with plenty of credibility too — they’re veterans of the festival circuit and spent the following night opening for the Dave Matthews Band in Charleston).

My prior experience with the Hilton Head music scene had been sparse, seeing as there isn’t much of a music scene to experience— which is fine, because that’s not what people come here for. The golf, beaches and restaurants are the big draws, so the island can get away with an overabundance of classic-rock cover bands to entertain vacationers or the occasional Sublime wannabe for the younger crowds.

To find consistently solid live music, the faithful are used to trekking to Charleston (where Bruce Springsteen will be in August), Jacksonville (which hosted Tom Waits last week) and occasionally Savannah (where Cat Power, the Dropkick Murphys and Regina Spektor all stopped recently). It’s called a trade-off, people, and it’s something you come to accept living on a serene resort island. The plays, orchestra performances and art shows are aimed at an older crowd, and the rest of us sit on the beach and cope.

So you’ll pardon the skid marks I left on the ground after entering the Shoreline when I looked at a poster of possible upcoming acts on the wall and saw some names that I assumed were a mirage my brain created after three years in the live music desert.

I rubbed my eyes, and it was still there: Under the heading “In the Works” were several bands I’d not only seen, but actually driven as far away as Orlando to catch live. It was a wishlist, for sure, but the sheer ambition of going after bands like the Drive-By Truckers, Of Montreal, Z.Z. Top and B.B. King is impressive in its own right.

One name stood out as a surely a ludicrous typo: Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. These D.C.-area punks have toured small clubs nationally for years, occasionally riding the coattails of a larger band like Pearl Jam on bigger tours. And I was pretty sure that no one outside the small circle of music nerds I know had any idea who they were. But make no mistake, they will rock your teeth back into your skull.

So what would they be doing on Hilton Head?

We asked the Shoreline staff, and they said that there was indeed a good chance the band will make an appearance on the island with slightly more radio-friendly punks Against Me. The staffer we talked to said the owner has experience booking bigger acts in Columbia, and is testing the waters on Hilton Head. “We’re trying to make it a little more exciting,” she said.

When you think about it, it’s not hard to believe the island could sustain a thriving music venue. The island’s crowds are getting younger. Shows could draw from Beaufort and Savannah, which is stocked with a profusion of hipster kids, though the town is woefully underserved by music venues.

Plus, you can sell it to acts as a vacation trip, a quick detour. Call up Leo, and suggest he take a nice beach vacation to rest up from all that power political punk. Maybe throw in some golf, a few steak and seafood dinners, and you’ve got yourself a deal. This would work better, of course, if Ted Leo wasn’t a vegan. Let’s hope he likes the beach.

Related: I interterviewed Ted Leo (and recorded his outgoing voice mail message) a year ago for no apparenent reason.

A Leg up

You see strange things sitting on the beach, particularly on July 4 weekend at the busiest touron beach on the entire island. Here is where you see all the people in socks and gold necklaces, here is where you witness people sprinting across the beach with their feet shooting flames like a Bugs Bunny cartoon because they didn't realize the sand gets hot; and here is where the rinse cycle of the traffic circles deposits the contents of the SUVs and minivans who have been orbiting in a nearly inescapable loop for four hours until they realize the circle has EXITS.

So far be it for me to be surprised by anything that comes along. Yet on Saturday, I was sitting at Coligny (against my better judgment) and saw a man, walking up the beach, with a fake leg — complete with sock and shoe — in one hand and another sock and shoe combo in the other hand. This causes one to ask questions, none of which leads to good thoughts. Where is the person who belongs to this leg? What are they doing that they don't need a leg, or, at least, one of their shoes? And why was this man walking away with it, as, regardless of whatever activity they may be doing, they would surely require a leg upon its completion?

Later in the day, we spotted it: an old woman was walking back up from the beach, with prosthetic leg attached. Seems she had just been out for a dip in these warm South Carolina waters. And who has a problem with that? Not me. But had the guy walking up the beach been followed by a mad, hopping woman swinging an umbrella and shouting expletives in his direction, I wouldn't have been surprised either.

Things We Lost In the Smash

The items that G smashed last night, in order:
Apples
Pork and beans
Mashed potatoes
Some sort of red substance (strawberry sundae sauce, I think)
Cottage cheese
Cottage cheese in container
Potato salad
Lettuce stuffed with flour
Birthday cake (into the faces of children assembled on stage)
Mashed potatoes (again)
Spaghetti Os
Watermelon
Juice
More watermelons

Then he let other people smash things, including a cavalcade of kids he let have at a bunch of watermelons.

I'm probably going to write a column or something about this next week, but suffice it to say the show was enjoyable, particularly in the vein of things on Hilton Head that are supposed to be entertaining end up being about as exciting as burned carpet. He was crude, witty, mean, snarky, gross, silly, clever and woefully dated on issues that haven't challenged the mass paradigm since Bush 1 was vomiting on heads of state. He certainly hates the French, could do without the Mexicans, and had lots to say about "these Arabs" and "the homosexuals." Good times. Luckily, there were none of the above in the room.

But despite all those perhaps off-color comments, I was impressed that each time he went on a seemingly un-PC rant, at least it was to set up a joke. He wasn't just slinging blind comments about slutty girls or whatnot around. Example: he asked what the hell is wrong with these girls who get tattoos. "Girls, you're not supposed to get tattoos!" He railed specifically against girls with tats on their lower back, and said butterflies there were particularly stupid. This drew loud applause from some parts of the crowd, though not my plus-one Ginny, who has a tattoo of butterflies on her lower back.

Then the joke: "It's like the butterflies think your ass is a daffodil!"

This made me laugh, lightly. Had it just been a rant against girls with tattoos, I would have asked the person next to me politely why I was suddenly in my grandfather's living room in 1974.

After the show, I went closer to the stage to take a cell phone pic, where I slipped and nearly took a face dive into the plastic-covered floor now swimming in bits of watermelon, side dishes and canned Italian food products. This would have significantly changed my opinion of the night.

The Gospel According to Gallagher

I swear I will write about other things besides Gallagher on this blog. Someday.

(As originally appeared in The Guide, 7/4) — Gallagher wants to be known as more than the Smashing Comedian. This is why we spent the first 10 minutes of our interview talking about anything other than comedy, watermelons or his upcoming performance on Hilton Head Island.

Gallagher was in Atlanta on Tuesday, you see, trying to meet with Mayor Shirley Franklin to discuss his proposal for a "family reunion resort," a place specifically designed for families to visit and reconnect. (He did manage to get in a three-night stint at the Punchline, an Atlanta comedy club, as well.)

OK, there was some talk about smashing: smashing atoms. Gallagher also had plans to meet with physicists at Georgia Tech to talk about some of his subatomic particle ideas, and he does have several. America dropped the ball on doing research into the atom after World War II, he said. Why in this time of energy crisis, he wants to know, isn't America looking at atomic energy? "Isn't it America's tradition to be the pioneer?" Gallagher said.

As for helping people understand electrons, protons and the dangers of CT scans or cell phones, he's got ideas for subatomic particle action figures and Pokemon-type cards to help kids get interested.

If all this sounds a far cry from the on-stage persona of Gallagher -- the long-haired, striped-shirt melon smasher who brought prop comedy to new heights before Carrot Top even sprouted -- it really shouldn't. His stage show is zany and goofy, but it also includes some modicum of social commentary. The whole Sledge-o-Matic thing became his trademark, but underneath the watermelon bits and pound cake ("I guess it does!") was a critique of consumerism. Free thought is his call to action, and he spent part of our interview railing against people who follow blind trends or submit to the corporate mindset.

"People think I'm odd because I have passions. That's what's missing today in everyday life," he said. "If you're smart or kind of passionate about an idea, they think you're kind of silly. Americans are supposed to be individuals who want to express themselves."

To that end, Gallagher still does about 100 shows a year, in between making online environmental videos under the name Uncle Earth and working on other film projects. "I'm working my way down," he said. But, he says, at least he can work on some of these side projects at each stop.

"I like traveling. I don't mind having a deductible reason to fly to these towns," he said. He's been to Hilton Head before early in his career, as a roadie for musical comedian Jim Stafford, who played a small bar in 1974.

In his heyday of TV specials, Gallagher poked fun at the absurdities of culture and language, asking, for instance, why we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway and why cargo goes by boat but a shipment goes by truck. He said he's evolved his act over the years because comedy always must surprise.

"Comedians have to push the envelope of what's acceptable to get a rise out of the audience," he said. "People are so stimulated these days, so it's hard."

He cited a few examples of such overstimulation: kids with their underwear hanging out, girls with gaudy tattoos and parents who buy cars larger than members of the military drive.

"That's what I do: I poke at people and show them what they're doing. I'm supposed to be an uninvolved third party that gives them a fresh view of their life."

The props are still part of the show -- and he has the ones he's used over the years stored in Los Angeles. He makes his own Sledge-o-Matic and has several of them stashed in airport baggage ("I think baggage handlers recognize its my luggage and keep it").

His hallmark smashy-smashy bit also is still part of the show, but now he lets kids or other audience members come up and swing the mallet.

"It was the next step to take," he said. "They want to say that they not only came to the show but they got to smash. You've got to change with the times. You've got to add new and exciting things."

Why I Buy Clothes at Thrift Stores

Because stores sell things like this:
That's $285 for a pair of jeans. Jeans covered in paint. Jeans covered in paint that will probably be worn by someone who has never done a day of manual labor in their life. Jawesome.

Don't Call Us Office Drones

Thanks to Colin McEnroe of The Hartford Courant for reminding people that newspaper jobs aren't supposed to be like regular 9-to-5 rat mazes. He wrote last week about, you guessed it, the general sense of malaise that is driving journalists into alcoholism (well, further into alcoholism) over the past few months. Other reporters may hate some of these, but McEnroe hits on the essence of the business that I know I and other reporters signed up for when we felt the rush of our first stories. Some of my best nights have been in the newsroom until midnight or later. Also, I hate getting up early:

1. REGAIN YOUR SENSE OF URGENCY. One problem with newspapers -- not just The Courant -- is that they're often a little a boring. They go for days and days without a "Holy S--t!" story on page one. There are ways to address this. One of them is to put the g-d paper together at night. If you're a morning newspaper and there aren't a hell of a lot of reporters and editors in the building at 11 p.m., something is wrong. The building should be damn near empty until 2 p.m. and full until 11. But somewhere a long the way, newspaper jobs gradually started to resemble other white collar jobs. They lost some of their romance and replaced it with comfort and security. We all wanted to go home to the suburbs, have a glass of wine, interact with our spouses and kids. Much better for our lives but probably not for newsgathering. (Meanwhile, cable news and the internet actually tightened up the news cycles -- people now expect to be updated fast.) If the news staff is going to be an elite strike force, it had better include a lot of workaholics and night owls.

The next suggestion I think deserves more credit than people realize. Some papers have requirements for their reporters to live in their coverage area; we don't have that, but there's definitely an advantage to be a member of the community you cover — you find out tips and background info when you're out at the bars on a weekend, you see the same traffic delays and drainage problems that your readers do and you have an important sense of connection to your community:

2. A FEW OF YOU MUST MOVE TO HARTFORD! When I started out at the Courant, you know how many Courant reporters lived in Hartford? Most of them! I could give you names and names! A whole bunch of us lived on Zion Street, of all places.Three or four different staffers bought houses on Madison Street and, under somewhat terrifying conditions, tried to rehab them. We drank in Hartford bars. We partied in Hartford apartments. We got arrested by Hartford police. Andy Kreig's New Year's Eve party in Frog Hollow was terrifying! Do you know how many Courant reporters and editors live in Hartford now? Very few.
...You see, suburbs are, also, really, really boring. That's why people like to live there. That's why it's really big news when anything dire happens there.

And this one just seems to make sense, to me at least. Why, for instance, is the Washington Post OK with David Broder and Tony Kornheiser, two of their biggest names, taking buyouts? Apply this to another industry: "Hey, the Cavs are in trouble this year — let's buyout LeBron's contract to spend money making viral web videos for the Cavaliers Web site!"
But there's probably a reason I'm not running a newspaper (other than having no desire to take up what is surely a completely thankless and tiresome job):

3. KEEPING THE ABOVE IN MIND, LOCK UP A FEW FRANCHISE PLAYERS. I will never understand the newspaper industry's love of buyouts. You lose good people that way -- people you might have been able to keep. The Courant still has a few dozen people who are so good that they can maintain the paper's brand name. They're smarter and more skilled than any comparable group you could assemble from local TV, radio, other papers and blogs. But that's getting to be a closer and closer call every time the paper downsizes. There are now people that the Courant really cannot afford to give up. You gotta have that strike force of smart, aggressive, skilled, knowledgeable, workaholic blue chippers. You almost can't afford to lose even one of them in this round of cuts.

The Internets Have Spies in This Watermelon

After the interview with aforementioned watermelon-smashing comedian yesterday (which went phenomenally. See below.), I got a call from his publicist. She said, "Hey, I wanted to ask you something. I found this on the internet yesterday..." Then she proceeded to read the entirety of the previous blog post back to me, putting particular emphasis on the part where I copy and pasted her e-mail into the blog.
"Is this you? There's no name on it."

Uh-oh. I came clean and said that indeed that rambling belonged to me. Then I hemmed and hawed for a minute, blubbering something about it being a "private blog" that's not really public (which is the definition of "private" of course. College!) They have one of those internet scrubber services that finds any mention of Mr. SmashPants (I'm not using his name so I don't get fingered again). I quickly changed the subject to ask to get on the guest list for the show. This is why I love moonlighting as an entertainment journalist: it's a vacation from the rigid (and warranted) ethics of the newsdesk, where I've turned down everything from lunches to cake to free comedy passes to skybox access to five free Chipotle burritos (I almost cracked on that one. Would five burritos have been worth my journalistic soul? That depends on whether they were out of guacomole).

Anyway, the interivew with Gallacres was tremendous. We spent the first 10 minutes talking about nothing that had anything to do with comedy, watermelons, Hilton Head or the 1980s. Did you know that subatomic particles can be an alternate energy source? Neither did I. But I know someone who does. And he wants you to know all about it.