What I really want to do is just lay my body down across the keyboard and post whatever comes of it; only then would you understand what it was like to be inside my head as Henry and I followed Jason down the hall and through the door to the Alternative Press offices.

I know a lot of people don’t really get it; maybe you feel underwhelmed about it at best, because really—why get so excited over a magazine?  But if you really knew me, you would know that this was my Make-A-Wish-Kid moment. Because in a world of car payments, rent, student loans and chaperoning preschool field trips, this is the one connection I have left to my youth. This is something to get excited about every month when I get the mail and find it amongst all the bills and political propaganda. (And Henry’s issues of Better Homes & Gardens.) And when you devour a magazine from front to back like I do, the names you read every month become as familiar as family; you start to value their opinions and it maybe makes you feel slightly less alone in a community of grown-up friends.

So maybe it makes sense to you now, and you can understand why I was practically riding Henry’s back through the doorway.

“I’m too nervous to walk in first,” I whispered to Henry. “I’m just going to stand behind you the whole time.” But Friday’s definition of “stand” had clearly changed to “to meld one’s body against the backside of another.”

The first thing I saw was the wall of framed AP covers. I had heard about this wall, how it will literally stop bands in their tracks when they walk into the office, but I had no idea it would make my breath catch in my throat. The first issues were there as well, the ones that (AP creator) Mike Shea put together by hand and for the first time in awhile, I felt that I could use the word “awesome” in its appropriate sense.  It was better than a museum. (For me, anyway. I’m sure Henry thought it was cool, but he’d probably have rather gone to a strip club or some Air Force memorial.) There was so much history on the walls, so many signatures and memorabilia, it was all I could do not to act like some jejune farm girl plucked straight from the corn fields of Iowa. I just wanted to touch everything and squeal like a rosy-cheeked girl who’s never watched porn.

Jason took us around and introduced us to people, all while making me sound way cooler than I actually am; there were times when I wanted to say, “Dude, I know who this is” but opted to smile politely in lieu of desecrating the office with my overt creepiness.

I remembered standing in line outside of the Grog Shop in 2009, waiting for the doors to open for Craig Owens’ solo show. I used to get Craig’s tweets sent to my phone back then, like a good little hyper-fangirl, and while I was standing out there, shivering, he sent a tweet saying that he was hanging out at the AP offices  before the show.

I was with Alisha that night, and I remember turning to her and saying all bitterly, “He’s so lucky.”

Almost exactly two years later, my Facebook status said something like, “Just sitting in Jason Pettigrew’s office, listening to The Cure. No biggie.”

When Jason told me a few weeks ago that he’d like to give me a tour of “where the magic happens,” my first thought was to wonder if I’d get to meet Mike Shea.

“I’ll cry,” I told Henry. “And then probably puke.” At the risk of sounding like a syncophatic psychopath, his is a name that I’ve known for a long time.

I did get to meet him, but I didn’t puke on his shoes or cry in his face. I felt I did a good job keeping it together even though what I really wanted to do was squeeze Henry’s hand harder than your typical woman in labor. I have so much respect for him. (Mike Shea, not Henry. Bitch, please.) Especially after the Oral History of AP was printed over the course of several issues and I saw how much adversity he overcame to keep the magazine alive. Because music is that important.

That’s the kind of person I want to know still exists in this world.

There were moments where I legitimately cried while reading the oral history, and I don’t care if the whole Internet knows.

I think “appreciation” is the best word to describe it.

Jason told him how long I’ve been subscribing, and Mike thanked me. But really what I wanted to do was thank him. I’m not even sure if I did, it was all such a blur. All I remember now is petting his dog and asking him if he wanted me to shut his door on the way out, then feeling my eyes burn a little with tears when we went back to Jason’s office.

I also remember Mike asking me, “So what are you listening to these days?” Without hesitation I blurted out, “Dance Gavin Dance,” much to Henry’s chagrin. Well, I’m not going to lie to the man.

I texted Barb and Andrea a bunch of over-capitalized jibberish to express my sheer mania. I suspect they were able to translate it appropriately. Seriously one of the coolest moments of my life; the whole afternoon was perfect. I didn’t even care that I got made fun of for liking the band Xiu Xiu, because I was in a building full of people who actually know who Xiu Xiu is.

As we walked out of the office a few hours later, my arms full of AP swag, Jason asked me if I was happy. How do you effectively convey that you feel like the happiest girl alive, without the aid of a confetti gun?

Happy Mother’s Day. My only plans are to watch D.R.U.G.S. videos all day and reminisce with Henry about how awesome Friday night was, at which point he’ll say, “It was alright.” But I know what that really means is, “I have a man-crush on Craig Owens and don’t want you to ruin it for me so I will continue to act emotionally disinterested every time we talk about the show.

”

Here’s hoping your kids don’t act like assholes today. Can’t make any promises for my own.

EDIT:

Me: All I want for Mother’s Day is for you to not be a jackass.
Chooch: No, never. I’ll never stop.
Me: :(
Chooch: Can’t I just buy you something instead?

Yo! Henry and I peaced out of Pittsburgh this morning in favor of Cleveland. My friend Jason [see this post] invited us out to be his guests for the last night of the Alternative Press Spring Tour. Craig Owens’ new band D.R.U.G.S. is among the five bands on the line up, and if you know me or have maybe skimmed this lame blog, you know that Craig is in my Top 5 of all time favorite singers. His word are inked into my flesh, even.

So that alone has me beside myself.

But then Jason threw in lunch at Melt (more for your trivia card collection: grilled cheese is my most favorite food ever) and the chance to see “where the magic happens” at the AP office and now I know what Charlie felt like when he got the motherfucking golden ticket.

Last night, it was like trying to sleep through Christmas Eve. This morning, I was in such a spastic state that I could barely dress myself. I wound up putting on the same shirt I wore to work last night just to save myself from throwing clothes all over the floor like a girl dressing for her first date.

You have to understand that Alternative Press shaped who I am today: a music-obsessed scene mom. 80% of what I listen to was discovered in the pages of that magazine. The rest was mostly from west coast pen pals in the early ’90s and sheer serendipity.

Henry and I were in Cleveland in the mid-00s for the Curiosa Festival. I tried to get him to find the AP office for me then, because I just “wanted to admire it from afar.” He refused, thought it was weird I guess, although I did finagle him to find the intersection of E99 & St. Clair, an homage to Bone Thugs n Harmony. We almost broke up because of that, in the heart of Cleveland’s ghetto, and I have it all on tape.

This is way longer than I intended and now I’ve added motion sickness to my already nervous stomach. But now you’ll know what I’ll be doing today: having dreams come true and probably puking.

I went through a ridiculous 80s phase in 1999-2000 which commanded me to buy every obscure collection of audio relics that I could find. (I miss the days of Mommy’s American Express card.) I scoured the Internet for all the underground gems, stuff that would never be played on your local pop station’s Flashback Friday. None of that Toni Basil ear-diarrhea, 99 annoying balloons and fuck your walk on sunshine while you’re at it. I really only liked the new wave, goth and synthpop 80s souvenirs. One of the CDs I bought had Cock Robin’s “When Your Heart is Weak” on it and it immediately went on one of the millions of mix tapes that littered the innards of my Eagle Talon. I used to sing this song with such exaggerated relish that my boyfriend at the time—Jeff— eventually banned it from being played in his presence.

My favorite part is when he says he’s going to come without warning. ORLY? I prefer it when my men blow a little trumpet to announce the arrival of their ejaculate, so I consider this to be a threat.

I thought this was the greatest song of all time. Then I saw the video and realized that this is also the greatest VIDEO OF ALL TIME. Yeah, I said it Kanye.

So now I have this sick fantasy of recreating it, which has really made me apply extra pressure on Henry because how great would it be to recreate this AT OUR WEDDING RECEPTION?

I made him watch it the other day while I stifled my laughter into his shoulder. He made it through 30 seconds before his eyes looked elsewhere.

And that’s when the biggest, brightest light bulb to date flicked on in my brain and I shouted, “No, fuck recreating it at the reception. This should BE OUR ACTUAL WEDDING.”

He looked at me dumbly. My inner sense of reality also looked at me dumbly. Don’t worry, I’ll work out the logistics. All you need to know is that by the end of the reenactment, Henry and I will be husband and wife. (For real, not the band husband&wife.)

Henry already has the flaming dorkiness of the singer down pat, and I’m sure I could figure out a way to pop up in front of the camera with a smoldering look that doesn’t at all look like the universal expression for constipation. I can already hit a ball of twine with the best of them, so I don’t have to worry about that part. And whoever I choose to be the drummer should consider himself one lucky motherfucker. That’s the BEST PART!

This song is about two minutes too long. He gets a little carried away at the end, so you can just imagine what it sounded like coming from me. (Jeff always maintained that I sounded like Pee Wee when I sang the “mmm-hmmms” at the end. Which is a great honor.)

This is my current desktop background on my computer at work, so that every time someone walks past, they will ask, “Oh, who is that fine ginger?” and I will at that point have a chance to yell, “OMG THAT IS JONNY CRAIG” and then proceed to say as many words about him as I possibly can before said co-worker peaces out of the conversation without so much as an, “Oh sorry, I think Grandma Cleavage has some lingerie she needs me to help her knit.”

Because even though he is the douchiest, gingeriest singer in the scene, he is still my favorite and I want to be talking about him all of the time. Last week, I made Barb listen to one of his Emarosa songs.

(Poor Barb. She has to hear me mouth off about this guy prettty much all of the time.)

So far, only one person has asked. He was whatever word is lower than “unimpressed,” I’m sure.

Over on the Instagram app, I participate in this fun little weekly photo assignment called “Homework.” The last assignment’s theme was “Home,” something that makes you feel at home, reminds you of home, etc.

I only had to think about it for .87 seconds before choosing two photos from Warped Tour.

That one day every summer is literally where I leave my heart.

Just thinking about July 22 (this year’s Pittsburgh date! I’ve had my ticket since December!) makes me feel giddy, light, warm in the aorta. I can’t explain it, but on no other day do I ever feel like I’m 100% me.

Warped Tour is home to me. (Fitting that my home, my heaven is Henry’s Hell.)

Audience participation: Where’s YOUR home?

How can I not like a band from Canberra, Australia? It’s where I met the Cure, after all.

Chooch and I have had at least 87 dance parties to this song over the last three days.

Today, we were jumping/dancing to this (and Dance Gavin Dance, of course) and simultaneously caused each other to have pee drops. Nothing says GREAT PARTY than having to change your underwear.

It is definitely spring time, that’s for sure.

Go get stoked on this song.

Henry and I will often find ourselves up late on weekends, flipping through music channels, but I almost always have him stop on VH1 Soul to pacify my inner yo-girl. For as much screamo, hardcore, post-hardcore, goth, emo, indie rock, etc. etc. I listen to, my roots actually lie in r&b. I am always down for a good motown joint; some old school Anita Baker; or my 1990’s favorite, El DeBarge. My favorite r&b singer of the last decade is hands down Trey Songz. When I first heard “Can’t Help But Wait” in 2007, I was pretty much like, “El DeBarge who?” That song accompanied me on many cemetery suicide-jogs, prompting me to wail to Henry, “WHY DON’T YOU EVER CALL ME A STAR?!!?”

Not to mention Trey Songz is fucking hot. Every time I see his video for “Can’t Be Friends,” I will literally collapse onto Henry and squeal, “HE IS SO PRETTY I CAN’T STAND IT.” (Trey, not Henry.) The song is unbearably sad to me, like barbed wire strangulating my already-broken heart, but I must have watched this video 87,878,787 times over the last few months, because HE IS SO PRETTY I CAN’T STAND IT.

I’ve listened to this song over and over. One time, I left it on repeat almost all day (it was actually on a torturous playlist with a whole whopping two other love songs) until Henry snapped and turned it off. (I feel like this happened on Thanksgiving Day when he was already stressed-out in the kitchen.) I’ve always been excellent at playing out songs. There was one New Year’s Eve in high school when I listened to the same Howard Hewett single on repeat, crying over some dumb boy, and I really thought my friend Christy was never going to talk to me again, she was so fucking annoyed.

(Fifteen years later, and I’m still Queen of Overkill. In fact, the same Dance Gavin Dance album has been perpetually spinning in my bedroom for a week now. Henry gets to be lulled to sleep every night by Jonny Craig’s sex-lungs and Jon Mess’s redrum screaming. LUCKY HENRY AMIRITE?)

“Can’t Be Friends” has that same Howard Hewett-sadomasochistic effect on me.

Oh, the things I could say about this song.

If I ever can pull myself out of this emotional concentration camp I’ve thrown myself in, I will be writing about last week’s Soul Skate. This will hopefully happen later today.

But until then, I will just be floating around the house listlessly, with imaginary slit-wrists thanks to Jonny Craig. Fuck you, Jonny Craig.

(I know, this shit is annoying.

Now try being Henry and having to live with it. The 2:28 mark made me collapse into his arms yesterday and he was like, “WTF is wrong with you, sixteen-year-old?” and I was wailing, “IT IS STABBING ME IN THE HEART OW OW OW!

” Sometimes it’s easier to listen to the same song over and over rather than deal with reality, I guess.

)

I had waited so long for this night. Henry and I were both sick and he tried various ways to use this as his out, but his cries of “I have a fever!” fell on finger-plugged ears. And after the vehicular imblowlio en route to the show, it was pretty much all downhill for Henry.

Arriving at the Altar Bar around 6:30, we went straight upstairs to the bar where a prime location against the railing was secured, directly facing the stage, and Henry would only allow me to have one drink. (Perhaps this was because of the sixteen times I mentioned my urge to fight someone on the way to the show.) There was no way I was standing on the floor for this show. I’m too old, bones too brittle to become some fucked up casualty of a testosterone-steeped nightmare pit. And ain’t no way I’m relying on that big doof named Henry to have my back.

I liked our spot upstairs just fine.

Especially since it was right next to the steps and I got to watch a post-detox Jonny Craig get denied by the bouncer because he didn’t have on a wristband. I laughed way harder than necessary and then immediately tweeted about it, even though it wasn’t a big deal at all. Especially when he came back less than a minute later, wrist properly encircled with a 21+ paper bracelet.

My dislike for him is so fiery that I will grasp on to any pathetic chance to ridicule him, like any other good twelve-year-old would. The first time I spotted him that night, my stomach clenched up and I had all these latent desires to spit in his face for being such a dick, for making me subconsciously care about him and then worry myself to sleep every night when he was shipped away to detox, like he’s my fucking son, my fucking responsibility. He is not any of those things. But still, beneath the layers of rotting resentment and decayed disgust, I have this stupid, pudgy, soft mound of love for the fucking kid. Because he is Jonny Craig goddammit; fan-swindling, heroin-binging aside, he makes the music that soundtracks my stupid life, from the pinnacle of the Christina Chronicles to now.

Jonny spent most of the night situated at the bar right behind us and I was acutely aware of his presence the entire time. At one point, Henry girlishly spazzed because, “OMG Jonny touched my arm, sort of!” Henry acts like he hates all music affiliated with Jonny Craig, but deep down he’s been choreographing our wedding dance to one of his songs, I just know it. I JUST KNOW IT. He also wishes he had a tiny diamond embedded beneath his eye, just like Jonny.

We had to endure four other bands before Dance Gavin Dance, which was a slow torture. Not that I disliked any of them, but it seemed especially cruel on this night when I was sick and internally combusted with anticipation.

Quick run-down of the openers:

• Just Like Vinyl: They didn’t even need to announce that they’re from Seattle. It was pretty obvious. They brought with them some brand of modern grunge, I guess you could call it, though Henry pointed out that each one of them seemed to be playing a different genre. “It’s like if Blake started a garage band,” Henry scoffed. I can’t say I disliked it, it kept me interested and it was definitely not what I was expecting, considering the other bands on the tour. They kind of helped clear my sinuses momentarily, so I was into it. “We’re completely DIY,” the singer yelled into the mic. “We have no label, no management—-” “No kidding,” Henry mumbled. He really wasn’t impressed. Funny how he got all giggly when the singer was standing near us later on in the night.

• Close to Home: Pretty much my new favorite band, but mostly because I am now secretly (and psychotically) betrothed to the singer. HE IS COMPLETELY MY TYPE. I made sure to remind Henry of that constantly throughout their set and every time he walked past us after that, I squeezed Henry’s bicep and sighed dreamily. He wasn’t very impressed with them either, but that’s mostly because of his insane jealousy.

• In Fear & Faith: Not my first time seeing them, and while I love their music, they just don’t enrapture me when I see them live. I was really bothered by the singer’s attire, which I guess is a good sign that I’m getting kind of old. I’ve yet to see a man who looks good in burgundy pants. I would have been screwed if I was I was trying to find a date in the ’70s I guess.

• Iwrestledabearonce: With the exception of DGD, they were my favorite of the night. They brought so much energy and as a female, how can I not love a band that has a chick screamer. Siphon some elements from the Locust and MSI, pump it into a broad with perky boobs and exploding ‘nodes, cap it off with a sonic cowboy hat and that is what you get when Iwrestledabearonce are raping your ear drums. And if you would have seen the look on Henry’s face throughout their set, that’s exactly what he looked like: a big stupid rape victim. I’m not sure if he ever hated his life more than during that half hour, and I think he even mentioned that it rivaled the nine years he spent with his ex as far as weener-tucking is concerned. I would be lying if I tried to say that I didn’t cry at least once during their set. It was also the first time of the night that the kids below us looked alive. Some hippie fuck that Henry hated all night long got thrown out during their set, so surely that will provide some positive connotations.

All night, I was blessed with normal people next to me. But after Iwrestledabearonce, the people next to me were replaced with some Screech-looking motherfucker, his equally-nerdy bro and a drunk girl who was definitely out of their league until she started talking and I realized she had very little going for her aside from a decent body and average face.

I guess it was my payback, since Henry had to endure the hawk-ish screechings of Iwrestledabearonce. This bitch was the equivalent of my aural hell, with her pinched-nose falsetto voice that was definitely half past normal speaking voice, more toward 12-year-old Fran Drescher whine. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t drone out her nasal panderings about who her friends are cheating on and how she blew her chance to talk to Jonny earlier in the night.

“I’m kind of obsessed with him!” she screamed over her plastic cup of booze to these dorky boys panting in her presence. “I heard he has a serious girlfriend and I respect that, but I think I’d have a shot!” she slurred, grazing her pointy elbow against my arm as she reached for her straw.

And I laughed so hard. Bitch, if you’re at the BAR, you’re already too old for Jonny Craig. Don’t you know he has a predilection for underage scene girls?

She left to use the bathroom and her two guys immediately started talking about how annoying she is.

Finally, Dance Gavin Dance came out and that stopped the dumb bitch from talking. Granted, it was replaced with shrill screaming but she seemed to get tired after a little while so most of the set she was pretty quiet.

I’m not sure how much I breathed during their set. I kept catching myself holding my breath and wiping away tears, because I had waited so long for this moment that up until a few months ago I was sure was never going to happen. I’ve seen them twice in their post-Jonny Craig carnation and I can appreciate the music they made without him, but it wasn’t the same for me. It lacked that raw emotion and didn’t really move me like the original Dance Gavin Dance did. And the return of Jon Mess was icing on the cake. The camaraderie and chemistry he and Jonny have on stage together is infectious and I couldn’t stop smiling. Every time they hugged each other in between songs, I almost felt inspired to hug Henry, but that’s toeing the PDA line for me. However, there were moments where I was so overwhelmed, had so many emotions caught in my throat, that I’d place my head on Henry’s arm and sigh heavily.

“Lemon Meringue Tie” was played and my heart ached so badly, like hot bourbon swished over a toothache. That was the first song I ever heard by them, on my way home from seeing a Xiu Xiu show in Cincinnati with Christina, so many years ago now that it seems almost like a memory from someone else’s life; things are just so different now without Christina, without a true best friend. But for a few minutes, I was taken back to a really great time in my life.

And when Jonny sang “I don’t know why, I don’t know why I fight for you this way” the entire place erupted. My entire heart erupted.

“Backwards Pumpkin Song,” are you kidding me? The Screech kid next to me was like, “OMG I can’t believe they’re playing this!” and I almost wanted to knuckle-bump him because OMG I COULDN’T BELIEVE THEY WERE PLAYING THIS EITHER!

I’m about to start crying just from reliving this.

If E was administered aurally, and was called Dance Gavin Dance, I’d probably have more kids than the Duggans right now.

“Don’t they make you want to have sex?” I yelled in Henry’s ear.

His answer was a mixture of raw pain, boredom and disbelief.  “Nope. Not at all.”

Their encore was “And Then I Told Them I Invented Times New Roman,” during the entirety of which I let myself cry freely. It’s just so anthemic to me.

***

As we walked to the car after the show, I rambled on and on about all the times I’d sit at the computer and watch live performances of that song on YouTube, thinking that I would never get to see it for real, and that I couldn’t believe I had just seen and heard it in person that night. Henry looked at me, then did a double take when he realized that I was legitimately sobbing and not just pretending which I guess is what he initially assumed. My face was soaked with tears.

It’s amazing how someone can fuck up as much as Jonny, yet his fans are so forgiving, time and time again. No matter where he was on the stage, the crowd shuffled after him, a sea of arms outstretched, ebbing and flowing beneath a brilliant full-faced moon. The kid has some kind of charisma, and apparently enough of it to cancel out his douche factor, because anytime I see him on stage I find that my heart is softening like Ben and Jerry’s in August and I’m falling in love all over again.

It’s sadomasochism. Because I know he’s going to fuck up again, do something stupid to make me lose that respect which makes it so hard for me to continue appreciating someone’s music. But then he’s going to sing some fucking siren song and pull me right back into the thick of it with needles and hooks in my skin. And it feels so fucking good.

I can’t tell you how many times I have sat in front of my computer, watching this video, wishing I had the chance to see Dance Gavin Dance during the Jonny Craig/Jon Mess era, trying to accept the fact that it was never going to happen since Jonny was kicked out.

But then last night my dream came true.

I was so happy that I cried. SO HAPPY THAT I CRIED.

I have so much to say about last night, but right now, I’m just going to watch this video another 87 times.

I can’t stop smiling.

Henry is sick now. And when Henry is sick, it’s all, “Just leave me alone! I need to rest!” and then he barricades himself in the bedroom and leaves the rest of us incompetent beings to stumble repeatedly into the wall like dying wind-up toys.

He came home from work early yesterday with preconceived notions of “resting,” but too bad I was having major blog issues (it was basically BROKEN-DOWN).

“Get down here and fix this!” I yelled up to him. “You can rest when you’re done.” And I said it in such a way that sent ice-cold claws grating down his back, so even though he acted all haughty when he stomped down the stairs, it was obvious that his manhood was cowering underneath his feverish flesh.

It’s sort of better now, back to its original jacked-up state, at least. My blog, not Henry. Last I bothered to check, he was still a suffering mess of chills and aches.

He better get stoked though, because tonight is the Dance Gavin Dance show, which I had scheduled off work for two months in advance. He was nasally complaining about this yesterday, because not only is he sick, but he absolutely abhors Dance Gavin Dance.

“This is so unfair how you do this to me,” he bitched in a way that immediately lopped two inches off his dick measurement.

“I’m going to wait until you’re sick and then make you go see someone you hate.”

“Go ahead,” I taunted, knowing this threat will never come to fruition because it involves spending money which Henry doesn’t enjoy doing unless it’s on bottles of Mountain Dew, computer parts and socks.

“Katy Perry!” he yelled, practically clapping his hands in delight. “I’m making you go see Katy Perry.

Front row seats.”

I couldn’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of this. Erin Rachelle Kelly at a Katy Perry “concert.”

“That’s fine,” I played along. “I’ll start a fight and get kicked out.”

“Ooh, Katy Perry and PINK!” Henry went on, dreaming up some stupid scenario in his stupid head. “A night of positivity.” (I’m constantly ranting about how I hate Pink because she’s so fucking positive. Just what women need, more anthems.)

My luck, they’ll probably be on tour together this summer and Henry will win tickets from whatever pathetic radio station he guiltily listens to when I’m not in the car with him.

We were on our way to take family photos in Mingo Park when Blake told me.

“Craig was kicked out of Chiodos,” he said from the backseat.

I laughed.

“No seriously, my friend Gavin just read it on MySpace.”

“No,” I said with firm disbelief, but I doubted my tone, like a wife being told her husband is cheating with the 17-year-old nanny.

It was hard to imagine a Chiodos without their charismatic singer, but I’ve had since September 24th, 2009 to prepare for what was to come. Chiodos have since acquired a new singer, Brandon Bolmer, and released a new album (Illuminaudio, which I reviewed here with all the emotion of a girl being stood up for prom). Craig has moved on to front and release an album with a veritable super group of sorts, Destroy Rebuild Until God Shows (D.R.U.G.S.). Both parties have seemingly moved on (“seemingly” being the operative word), so I knew I should, too, yet I kept finding reasons to avoid seeing this neo-Chiodos every time they rolled into Pittsburgh since that fateful fall.

“Oh, they’re with The Used. I just saw The Used last month.” (Weak.)

“Yeah, but it’s a week night. I’d have to call off work and I don’t have PTO yet.” (Lame.)

But then Chiodos announced their tour with Emarosa and the Pittsburgh date happened to be on a Sunday night in February. There were no excuses. I had to get this over with.

Then the D.R.U.G.S. album was released, so I had been listening to that pretty much ad nauseum in the days preceding the Chiodos show. Overwrought with guilt because of this, I began to cry in the car.

“You’re allowed to like both bands, you know,” Henry said, knowing exactly why I was crying. “It’s not cheating.” I’ll keep that in mind when I start seeing other people.

In a weepy little girl whine, I cried, “But it just feels so wrong! Craig belongs with Chiodos! THINGS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!”

***

Watching Chiodos that night in February at the Rex Theater proved that. I was already perplexed, a little off-balance even, after watching Emarosa take the stage beforehand without Jonny Craig, (a scenario which I only had a few hours to prepare for). Now I was watching another of my favorite bands with some impostor at the helm. And that guilt came back, because I was there to give Brandon a chance. I loved the new album, so why was my heart leaking poison into my veins? Why was I acting like one of those pernicious, fickle scene kids who turned their backs on Chiodos the moment Craig was gone? I was better than that, I was there for the music, not politics.

At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself.

I tried to fixate on Bradley lurching about like a crazed Frankenstein’s monster behind his keyboard, and the perpetually shoeless Jason in his spot stage-right, hoping that this would bring me some comfort and familiarity, but it wasn’t the same now that they were flanking some other guy at center stage.  I kept turning around and making sad eyes at Henry, who shrugged and gave me sympathetic smiles.

And the crowd! Smallest crowd of any Chiodos show I have ever been to. Scene girls were ominously scant at this Owens-less Chiodos show. Although I did see one that looked like Snookie.

And then they would play old songs, like “Baby, You Wouldn’t Last a Minute On the Creek,” and my chest hurt like it was being wrenched open by screamo dwarves and flooded with the memories of the last six years. Memories of being pregnant and listening to “Baby…”,  of the first time I saw Chiodos with Christina at Taste of Chaos, of Chiodos asking Chooch to be their mascot in Columbus. Warped Tour. Mr. Small’s. The Basement. Club Zoo. So many memories they’ve turkey-basted into my heart over these last short six years.

I didn’t want Brandon singing those songs. I didn’t want to hear him sing the words on my arm, words that aren’t his.

It was like walking in on your mom having sex with her ceramics instructor. You can’t undo it, you can’t unsee it, you can’t unHEAR it, and you know nothing will ever be the same again. But you’re torn, because part of you likes the ceramic instructor. She helped you make that shitty jack o’lantern when you were in fifth grade, after all.

Shitty jack o’lantern be damned, it filled me with aggression, this intense desire to start a fight. I set my sights on the fat screamer from the shitty local band that opened the show, but Henry kept giving me chastising head shakes.

“But I hate that fucker!” I yelled.

“Stop,” Henry kept calmly saying, until eventually, I did. Mostly because I was afraid he wouldn’t buy me a hoodie after the show if I kept acting out. And also because that screamer-fuck could have potentially killed me with one swift plow-drive.

I’ll be fair, Brandon did kill it up there with Chiodos. He’s got a fierce, solid voice and was just on. I’ll continue to support them, I still love every track on Illuminaudio, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to feel like a cavity being drilled every time he sings one of Craig’s songs.

It was pouring down rain when we left the Rex that night, and I inadvertently stepped in a shin-deep puddle, which seemed eerily apropos.

***

For the next week and a half, I experienced a post-show depression worse even than what past Warped Tours have inflicted upon me. I felt somewhat traumatized, like an orphan being taunted with the promise of adoption only to have her face coated with laugh-induced spittle. “We shouldn’t have gone,” I said over and over to Henry. “We just shouldn’t have gone at all.” I moped around listlessly for days, sliming everything I touched with my malaise.

I’ve had since September 24th, 2009 to prepare myself for this. But I guess it wasn’t enough time.

If you find that you’re getting a little mucky trying to find the pearls hidden in the midst of stale throwaway tracks, then just keep sitting there because I’ve found some nacreous delights for you.

Captain Midnite’s debut EP “Purple Heart Vendetta” delivers five tracks akin to a stroll through Epcot: Diverse, memorable and most refreshingly foreign to anything you’re going to hear on your local alternative stations. Captain Midnite blends together a precise formula of hip hop and electro beats, post-hardcore stylings, a dash of Gothic-tinged vocal pandering that recall a neo-Voltaire in a less toe-tapping mood (“Coldly Tuned,” “Garnett”). Top it off with appropriately-timed screams packed with an aching ferocity that would make Vic Fuente’s (Pierce the Veil) heart swell with the pride of a pimp watching his prized whore give her first Congressional blowjob, and you have one aural recipe daring Warped Tour to take a swig.

Every last beat and dark lyric of revenge and tattered hearts come directly from the brain and fingertips of Joe Symanski, the crackerjack behind Captain Midnite’s sonic sundry. Joe was awesome and agreed to sit down and be interrogated by me. (I’m assuming he was sitting. He might have been squatting. I couldn’t see him all the way from Pittsburgh.)

1. In today’s scene, rarely do you run across a band labeling themselves as just “alternative” or “rock” or “metal.” People want the music they love to be stuffed into specific packaging and lately these gift boxes don’t seem complete unless they have the “-core” tag dangling from them as well; we’re seeing everything from metalcore to noodlecore to christcore. Each song on your EP varies so much, I imagine it must be near impossible to pigeon-hole yourself into one genre. How do you respond when asked to slap a label on your music?

I’m fine with whatever tag people want to throw on my music because it is all about how they want to interpret it. You’re right, the music I make ranges from Post-Hardcore to Hip-Hop to Alternative Rock to Pop to Electro. So people can make what they want of it, but I just throw together what sounds right to me at the time. It helps having been a beat maker for so long working with so many different styles. I am able to understand pretty much every genre out there and how that particular music works or doesn’t work. Having been featured in Alternative Press recently (AP) has been a blessing too because it has helped people that love that “style” of Purple Heart Vendetta start to follow my work.

2. How would your best friend describe you?

A relaxed person with a dark sense of humor and intelligent swagggggg ;)

3. You’ve performed with your other group The Let Go, but have you had the chance to take the stage as Captain Midnite? And since every instrument on the record is played by you, quite incredibly, do you perform (or plan to perform) as a solo artist or employ a band to take on the road with you?

I’ve performed a few times with my solo stuff and my favorite time was with my buddy Nima drumming. My plan is to continue to do the solo music but also start a full band on top of that. In my upcoming shows I’ll have a band with me playing guitar/drums/bass and I’ll be singing and playing keyboard and maybe some guitar.

4. More pressing than the chicken/egg question, what came first: making your own music or producing hip hop beats?

Making beats for hip-hop artists came first before anything. It was what I was feeling at the time when I was 16 and so I stuck with just that for a while and I’ve now found a kind of music I like to make on my own as well with me singing. I’ll continue to do my work with hip hop artists, and my group The Let Go, and continue to release music with Kyle Lucas as well. I don’t mind working between genres at all. It’s actually super fun. Kyle Lucas and my new hip-hop EP “The Sky Is Falling And I’m Fine” is almost finished up and I’m so pumped about it!

I think it crazy how much better we have both gotten since “I Brought Dead Flowers to a FUNeral.” And I love our record “…Dead Flowers” so it’s a good feeling to feel like we outdid that one!

5. Best show you’ve ever attended, the sort that makes your heart seize up and gives you a major post-show hangover?

I went on a road-trip with my girlfriend about a year ago down to San Diego and we ended up catching back-to-back night Pierce The Veil shows in their hometown. One show was full electric, the other was all acoustic. I’d never seen anything like it. Seeing a band with that much passion, love for music and love for their fans in their hometown was absolutely incredible. I’ll never forget it. Plus Vic is one of the most phenomenal live vocalists out there, so it’s hard to lose with someone like that on your team!

6. What would you be doing if making music wasn’t an option?

I’d probably be either involved in film or graphic design. I’m just a very artsy person, but I like to think I am also very grounded. It’s important for artists to not forget about real life sometimes. Can’t always have your head in the clouds.

7. I feel that what a person listens to often says a lot about them, so I ask everyone from co-workers to hobos under the pier. Here is the obligatory “What are your favorite bands?” question.

Well, Pierce The Veil as I said before. And I love Thrice and Brand New. I have to throw Sade in there because technically she has a band and everything. She might be my favorite artist period. Her harmonies are not human. So beautiful. And I know Cee Lo Green isn’t a band, but I could never deny how much his music inspires me. It is insane. Also, lately I’ve been really into the new Chiodos record with their new singer and also the new Destroy Rebuild Until God Shows with the old Chiodos singer. Funny how those two albums I think are the best albums I think Chiodos has done and also Craig Owens (DRUGS) has done. Annnnd I can’t leave out Bring Me The Horizon because they are so awesome to see live. Energy like no other.

8. Warped Tour is pretty much the zenith of today’s alternative music scene but there seems to be a perpetual debate about it.

What does Warped Tour mean to you, as a fan and an artist?

I think the reason Warped is able to stay so huge is because of like you said; them incorporating many different genres. If it were just straight punk bands playing it wouldn’t do nearly as well. Kids like these hybrid and pop bands more and more these days. Artists can’t complain about it. Either deal with it or adapt.

9. I’m a sucker for male/female collabs, like the Lights cameo on the latest Bring Me the Horizon album. If you were given the chance to work with any female singer of your choice, who would it be?

The Lights feature on BMTH’s album WAS EARTH-SHATTERING! If I were to work with any female singer it would be Sade as stated before. I think it’s even more awesome that she is like 30 years older than me! I couldn’t picture a more beautiful collaboration than that, I would feel beyond blessed.

10. What does Captain Midnite have planned for the future?

A lot more shows this upcoming summer. I got a free song coming out this Wednesday March 16th called “Gateway Love” coming out with my buddy Grumps, so snag that! I’m working on a follow up EP to Purple Heart Vendetta at the moment too, but before that is dropped I’m going to drop some singles and some free DLs!

And now I leave you with some essential links where Captain Midnite can be found:

Facebook

Twitter

Grab a Free Song!

Purple Heart Vendetta on iTunes (I bought it after only hearing one song. You won’t regret it. When have I ever lied to you? I mean, other than that one time.)

Imagine finding out two of your favorite bands are going on tour together. You run around the house screaming for a little bit, and then you buy tickets and feel really good about that for the rest of the day. Then you look forward to that night for weeks. No need to even put it in your calendar – that date is seared into your brain.

Imagine waking up the morning of the show, letting consciousness fully immerse you, and then realizing that the show is tonight. Your heart does that roller-coaster flip-flop and you kind of can’t stop smiling. You realize you’re feeling a little under the weather, your throat hurts and it’s the kind of day you’d spend laying on the couch, but no way are you missing motherfucking Chiodos and Emarosa. No fucking way.

Now, imagine being en route to the show. You’re maybe a mile into the drive when you start scrolling through Twitter (don’t worry – you’re the passenger). You’re flicking through the timeline at warped speed, mostly out of habit, mostly because it’s the same old shit. But then your eyes latch on to four simple words and no way, no how can they un-see what they just saw. It’s instant scarification to the retinas, worse than the Tazmanian Devil tattoo on your mom’s tit.

Jonny goes to Rehab.

Four simple words, but you know. You know with every fibre in your being that this is referencing Jonny Craig, the singer of Emarosa. So you click the link that the Absolute Punk twitter account provided, and sure enough, you quickly learn that that motherfucker has been shipped off, not exactly to rehab, but to detox. But then you think, “Maybe this is a joke. Maybe this is Jonny fucking with everyone.

Maybe they got it all wrong.” But then you continue to read and see that the source is the reputable Alternative Press, and even though you’re reading this out loud to your boyfriend and laughing, there is bitterness entwined with it and your heart has been left crushed, festering and pecked by crows on the road a half mile behind you.

Part of you is glad you learned this ahead of time, that your anticipation of seeing one of your favorite singers is snuffed out now, in the car; you’ll have time to get over it, to sort through your emotions, to make sense of it. Except that even though he is your favorite singer, you hate his guts, so you spend all night ranting and punching your boyfriend in the stomach because you are so angry that he’s just another talented scumbag who cares more about the fucking high than his career, his band or his fans. So angry are you that you can’t stop shaking and yelling, “OH MY GOD I HATE HIM SO BAD!” and then doing that cold laughter thing that scares your boyfriend because he just knows that one day that laugh will be accompanied by the brandishing of a bloodied machete. And you realize you’re being selfish, that you should be happy he’s getting help, but you paid money to hear his fucking honey-dunked voice, because that’s YOUR crack. And imagine that you’re a parent now, and you work an evening shift, so the opportunities to go to shows have become few and far between, but when one arises you snatch it out of the air and hug it close to your chest. You have a right to be selfish. Because you know he’s not sorry. You check his twitter and see that all he’s doing is complaining that it’s cold in California, not apologizing to his band for being a fuck-up and leaving them in the lurch, or telling his fans that he’s sorry for letting them down. His latest shenanigans are one giant shit that he stood up to admire before flushing. And everyone he hurt in the process is the toilet bowl.

And then you realize that there might not be a “next time.” This notion is a detonator for your ire and you kick the wall. You’re pissed because this is typical Jonny Craig. Unreliable, inconsistent, a loose cannon. And perhaps that’s part of his appeal. You follow his career because he’s a sideshow, a trainwreck. You love to hate him.

But you love to love his music.

Imagine a few weeks ago, reading some fan’s account of buying a Macbook from Jonny and then never receiving it. And then seeing more scorned fans coming out of the woodwork in droves, saying that they too were scammed, most to the tune of $800. You don’t really believe this, even though Jonny is a ginger douchebag who you sometimes dream of punching in his circus peanut dick, he’s not that stupid to scam his fans on TWITTER, right?

Well, apparently this was all true and the final straw for his record label, who shipped him off to California over the weekend to enter a detox facility and is now reimbursing everyone he robbed. He didn’t do this on his own accord – he was forced to get clean. So he’ll be in the place for as long as it takes to get the heroin and crack (awesome) cleaned out of his system and then he’ll be released into a world where he doesn’t know how to function, so he’ll find new ways to score the hard shit and the cycle will start all over again, because he doesn’t want to get clean, his record label wants him to get clean. And then you know what? You start to think about worst case scenarios. You think about this dumb fuck with the golden voice throwing it all away, holing up in some crack house, pulling out his teeth and fucking dying. And then you start to cry, even though you hate him, because all he is at this point is another example of wasted talent. That’s when you realize that the anger spewing from your pores is just a flimsy mask for what you’re really feeling: heartbreak.

In spite of the maelstrom of emotions chewing an ulcer into your gut, you go to this show, and when Emarosa takes the stage with a fill-in singer (Tilian Pearson, formerly of Tides of Man), you respect that they’re still there, and you ignore the proverbial egg on their faces because they don’t deserve this. And you applaud for them harder than you ever have before.

Please get your shit together, Jonny.