Honest Intentions With Buzzcocks

I have every intention to add to this blog on a regular basis but my contributions will completely depend on the ability of music, films, and books to thrill me (which, I admit, will happen often if I delve into the dependable) or completely and utterly disturb me in a 'my soul now hurts' kind of way. There are drawbacks to either situation: A.) I can end up immersing myself in what I've always loved and no one (myself mainly because I do not expect flocks of internet voices to latch onto my ramblings) wants to continually read about how much I adore Morrissey's trilling or Nick Cave's hips or B.) I end up writing painfully long blogs starting with, "Why did I pay to see this?" (Sex and the City 2, for example).

If a few people do manage to enjoy whatever I produce through this, I hope to make this an exchange of sorts. I'll push my interests off on faceless dozens and I truly hope the pushing is returned.

I would like to have the perfect start but to be honest, I cannot possibly choose the perfect topic because there are far too many considerations to be made. So, I'm beginning by talking about the amazing time I had at the Buzzcocks (see photo and Amazon.com link) show at the House of Blues last night in San Diego.

I adore live music. I'm that girl in the front with her hand spread on her chest because she loves feeling the music thrumming beneath her skin. However, I'm not much of a thrasher. I love experiencing the thrashers, don't get me wrong, but I don't like feeling unstable on my feet and I find that's pretty much a requirement of proper thrashing. Thrashing or no, I want to be front row. Saying that, it's amazing when a kind gent somehow reads my mind and decides to act as my own personal body guard. Such a man appeared at my back last night. It was because of him that I chose not to relocate to join my friends center stage. I was perfectly content to be parked in front of the bass player with my protector keeping a good three foot cushion behind me (I suppose the man just liked the look of my face or my uncoordinated wiggling dancing style). I didn't catch his name and sadly I lost track of him towards the end of the show so I was not able to grip him in a hug, sweat be damned. The show had all the regular attributes of any rock show:

that fierce bitch who flings her fist out behind her to nick anyone who dares get near her (begging to be jumped in an alley), pretending like you're not completely smitten with the devastatingly attractive boy with the horrifyingly sexy pinup girlfriend who makes you feel like a slug, beer somehow getting spilled all the way down your back and thighs, thrilling eye contact with band members, popping your shoulder out of place while reaching for a hand to hold (mission accomplished), begging for something/anything from the stage once the show is over and maybe getting something (setlist acquired), ears ringing because you forgot to bring your ear plugs (wondering if it is ever really an accident because a large part of you, the winning part, wants to experience every single thing), those miserable looking couples who read the book on looking alternative (right before burning it in denial of ever having known of it's existence) who make you wonder why they can't just smile and quit pretending like they aren't having a great time, being felt up by men and women without ever knowing which acts are intentional, and sometimes your friend ends up missing the show because she's passed out in your car from one muscle relaxer.

And none of that has anything to do with the band playing. So, on to the actual band. If you don't know who Buzzcocks are, shame on you. They belong with the likes of the Sex Pistols (they actually formed in 1976 because of a Sex Pistols show) and the Clash. If you like punk than pick up one of their records and try to get "Promises" out of your head, I dare you.

Speaking of "Promises," check it out! Don't judge the old video! I like the old ones.