Music Makers

Perhaps this all traces back to my stubborn belief that the people around me are just as entertaining as anything on TV; that I laugh just as hard, if not harder, to our conversations as any comedian has made me laugh; that I would be just as eager to read an email from a friend than anything in the newspaper; and that I know musicians just as capable at their craft as anything on the radio, but I have suddenly found myself going to more shows as of late than I ever have previously.

It was after the last time I paid $60 to go to a show of a national act that I realized that I could have seen 12 local shows at $5 each and then decided that would be the last time that I would ever spend that much for a performance of any kind (perhaps Tom Waits excluded—perhaps). And while I’ve always held a preference for albums over shows (the finished product versus the process, though knowing of obvious exceptions to my so-called rule), local acts have to start somewhere.

As such, I’ve seen three of my now favorite local bands—all with friends or family in them—over the course of five or six shows (including the great free shows after the Square at Mohawk) over the last few weeks and I probably had 12 times the fun of any large venue show and was more intimately involved in each of the shows. I even bought one band’s Cd—worth every half nickel (or “bees” as they used to be called because they had pictures of bees on them)—and also plan on buying the other two bands‘ albums, as well as a few other local bands, as soon as I get the chance (and the change).

This isn’t being said out of some elitist form of liking bands “you haven’t heard of,” nor is it said with some sort of delusional belief that Buffalo houses the best local scene the world over. But with new albums being almost $20 and concerts being twice as much—speaking strictly economic terms only—who needs them? This is about being personally involved in what is around us as much as possible. The world is in my backyard and in a world of 6.5 billion of us (all in my backyard?) overrun with thinking machines we cannot stop, there’s a good chance that even in a city the relatively small size of Buffalo that there are more than enough capable musicians—or any sort of art for that matter—to keep us inspired and appreciative of music.

It’s not that I’m closing my life off from any sort of national acts: I get to hear new albums via friends all the time and know which ones I like. But when it comes down to it I would rather play a game of pickup football than go to a Bills game; I would rather hear my friends’ jokes than pay to hear a comedian’s, and would rather listen to my friends’ band over paying $60 to see a more than likely already rich act get richer. Even if the quality is slightly (or in the case of my football playing, largely) less, it still matters because more personal.

And yet 30 million people watch American Idol every time that it is on (could you imagine if that could be turned into an army with a useful cause what a force it would be to reckon with?); Lindsay, Paris and Britney are watched with such salivating interest; the radio constantly buzzes in the background of offices and cars all day long; and reality is escaped from by watching reality TV.

But must we all, in our own unique talents, compete against—or worse, surrender to—the elite geniuses (or as may be more the case today: the elite idiots) of the world over on a daily basis?