Live Music Public Service Announcement: Don’t Ask for a Recording

Yesterday I shared video of a live performance of my song “Hipster Girl Next Door” with an extended, absurd, frequently sloppy medley of songs tossed on at the end(s).  It was great fun, even though I mixed up the lyrics to my own song!

Before the gig, regular reader and contributor Ponty asked if I’d be recording the performance.  Ponty lives in Merry Olde England, so obviously could not make it to the performance here in these United States.  I was happy to oblige my Anglo-Saxon friend, but I must explain a somewhat unfortunate, visceral reaction I had initially upon reading the request (disclaimer:  Ponty, I am not upset at you.  —TPP).

hate it when people ask me “will the performance be recorded?” (with the exception of Ponty, who, again, lives in England, or Audre, neither of whom I would ever expect to travel to hear me play sloppy cover songs in a coffee shop).  I imagine if you ask most small-time indie musicians, they’ll confess to the same sentiment.  For me, it boils down to two things:

1.) You’re clearly indicating that you have no intention of even attempting to make it out to hear me play live.

2.) You’re asking me to perform extra work to record a video of a performance you have no interest in attending, and you’re probably not going to watch the video anyway.

Again, there are exceptions:  people who live abroad/far away (Ponty, Audre, readers of this blog more than thirty minutes away), parents of school children for school performances (parents want recordings for grandparents and family members who live far away, or because work won’t allow them to attend a performance), and the like.

But it kills me when locals ask for a recording.

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TBT: Deportemal

The unintended theme this week has been back on immigration, particularly the kind that swamps small communities and results from one-sided tolerance.  Since I’ve already uncorked that bottle, I figured I’d like the wine flow with this week’s TBT feature.

This piece, dating back to late May of this year, was a full-throated screed against the manifold injustices of illegal immigration.  Few topics make my blood boil more:  the flagrant violation of the rule of law, the entitled attitude (“we have it tough, so we have a right to be here”), the two-tier system of justice—all are make my stomach turn.

So, here’s my prescription to cure our ills:  a healthy dose of “Deportemal“:

I have little patience for illegal immigrants.  Their illegality encourages ethnic cloistering.  Their very presence constitutes a persistent state of lawlessness, which seems to breed further criminality.

Then there’s the matter of the vast gulf between mainstream American culture and the virtually premodern peasant cultures from which most illegal migrants come.  Child rape is serious problem among men of certain Latin American cultures, as a recent piece from The Blaze demonstrates.  A twenty-year old illegal immigrant impregnated an eleven-year old.

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