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jambar

BandBattle 4000

Attention YSU students: do you have plans this Saturday between noon and 4PM? It’s possible that during this time period you will be recovering from Youngstown nightlife. And if you don’t have stab wounds, perhaps you will be recovering from Boardman nightlife, which is as close you can get to a simulation of actual humanity without being hassled by the goggles and thick cables that come with virtual reality. But you’ll still feel just as empty, and perhaps suicidal if you start thinking of the movie “The Lawnmower Man.”

No matter what your Friday night may bring, sober up, apply gauze and lotion to any affected areas, and drive or scooter yourself to the First Annual YSU Battle of the Bands. Note: this is unrelated to last year’s Battle of the Bandoliers, where 7 men died of musket-related tragedies.

So why do I bring up this event in print? Rest assured, it’s not because I am out of topics to write about. In fact, this very article is pre-empting a hilarious essay on women and their attitudes about the state of toilet seats (up or down, am I right). I feel that – in the interest of self-promotion – I must draw attention to the YSU Battle of the Bands. Why? Inexplicably, I was asked to be a judge this event. Obviously the people in charge have no idea the musical issues I’m most concerned about involve whether the guy who sings really high and the guy who sings really low in doo-wop groups get along. And now that this topic has entered your mind, I doubt if you’ll ever sleep again.

But since I have been deemed a “celebrity” “judge,” (both words must be in separate quotations for obvious reasons) I feel it is important to outline just what I’ll be looking for when I pass judgment on the Band Battle. Don’t take this advice lightly; there are fabulous prizes to be won, and if I am angered, I will secretly shame you in print in a way only I can understand. Would you like to join the ranks of hundreds who have already suffered this fate? They don’t know it, but they got SO burned.

First, let’s talk bribes. The grand prize for this event is 1500 dollars in Guitar Center Funbucks, which I honestly have no use for. While I do play guitar, it’s the kind of hobby where I remove the instrument from the case every six months and experience five minutes of frustration before I put it away for another six months. Take this time now to create your own sex joke. Are you done? Good.

What I’m trying to say is that all bribes of store credit will be scoffed at, as they should be in any advanced capitalist society. However, the second prize - recording and production of two songs courtesy of Mind Rocket Recording – is some I am interested in. Very interested. You see, I have a little project that I’ve been thinking about for quite some time: to bring back the art of the song parody and to unseat “Weird” Al Yankovic from his plush and impossibly wacky throne. Using his method, I figure it takes about five minutes of solid writing to create an album; and two songs will be no sweat for someone who naturally thinks of ways songs can be better by changing the lyrics to food-related subjects.

The issue of performance is a natural - if overlooked – element of Band Battle Satisfaction. Bribery can only get you so far; only a good song can ensure success. Here’s a question: Does your song rhyme rain with pain, girl with world, or hero with zero? Please change these lines to avoid being scored a zero, and optionally stop playing music and take up a field that you can use the most of your creativity in, like being a Subway sandwich artist. You may find that the distribution of mayonnaise gives a greater rush than any stage could provide!

After lyrics, the most important element of a song is just how catchy it is. This is why millions of people still know the Macarena, even if they only know it phonetically and spend the rest of their lives in therapy, trying desperately to not remember this song. Your song should be so catchy that, even at the most dramatic and intense moments of my life, I’ll still be repeating at least the chorus in my brain. The tragic death of a loved one, the birth of my first child, the subsequent mysterious disappearance of my first child; during all of these events I should be tapping my foot and humming something that you probably wrote while on the toilet.

And while I sit here and write my own song, a parody of Justin Timberlake’s hit entitled “SexyBlack(Angus Steak)”, I think I’ve made all of this pretty clear: I can make or break you. It’s true that I lack the expensive black t-shirts and smarmy accent of Simon Cowell, but there’s one thing I’m not lacking - the ability to be a power-hungry madman with no remorse. Also, Paula Abdul won’t return my calls.