The Ink Is On My Checks, My Rolex Is The Freshest...

After we watch, let us discuss:



I have a friend here in Denver who expresses his displeasure with something by decrying, "Oh my God, that just gave me a rash." And, if something like the thought of having to go to the mall to do some shopping on a Sunday afternoon gives him a rash, what we just witnessed gives me a form of diaper dermatitis, only, I don't have a diaper, and I've just crapped my pants.

Unbeknownst to most of the working world, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt (known in the teen-land as Speidi...now I think I might vomit) arose from the bowls of reality television in 2006 on a show I never saw called The Hills. Mrs. Montag-Pratt, unfortunately, was born in Crested Butte, Colorado in 1986. And what might even be more unfortunate than that she didn't stay where the good Lord made her. Mr. Pratt, on the other hand, was born under a bridge, a horrible experiment brought about when casting agent Matthew Steiner aspired to create a new breed of action hero by splicing the DNA found in "Marky" Mark Wahlburg's dead skin with the public hair of Ray Romano. What Mr. Steiner intended to create was a much more jovial action star, one who was free from the haunting burden behind many of Mr. Wahlburg's characters. What Mr. Steiner created, by adding too many Romano short and curlys, was a complete and utter douche bag. When these two degenerate strains on the gene pool found each other on one of TV's most idiotic moments, it was love at first spite — regardless of the detriment to society.

"Speidi" encapsulates yet another level of American cultural horror. I would assume, although I have yet to ask, that most high school students are fairly associated with this dynamic duo. The premiere of season 4 of The Hills took in 2.1 million viewers aged 12-34 and on June 2, MTV aired a very successful episode titled, "Speidi's Wedding Unveiled." The couple is tabloid royalty, and they're damned proud of it.

In an ongoing effort to enhance American culture while debunking the instant celebrity status to unabashed and untalented young men and women born with no moral compass, here is a list of 10 people (5 Montags and 5 Pratts) that would actually prove to be a benefit if the American public had ever heard of them. Print this out and spread it around, we may only hope to enlighten...

• Guy Montag — The main character in Ray Bradbury's classice 1953 novel, Fahrenheit 451, Montag makes his living honorably as a fireman burning books for the government until he begins to understand his role as a thought suppressor. If American teenagers knew this Montag, that might mean that A) they were reading and B) they could understand Bradbury's commentary on the destruction of American society through television and violence.
  
• Charles Pratt — An American entreprenuer and philanthropist, Pratt founded the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn in 1887. Among the first to understand the need for petrolium replacements for whale oil, he also was a leader in academic education and today the Pratt Institute is one of the leading arts colleges in the United States offering classes in architecture, fashion, illustration, interior design, digital arts and creatve writing.
• Louis A. Montag — In 1945, this Georgian began Atlanta's first independant financial advisory firm.
  
• Philip W. Pratt — In 1872, Pratt invented and patented the first automatic sprinkler system for fire prevention. Students everywhere who didn't study for their math exams rejoiced.
• Dr. Mildred Montag — From 1943-1948, this Montag served Adelphi College as the first director of the School of Nursing. She was a visionary nurse educator whose innovative research and teaching led to a wholesale expansion of the nursing profession and brought countless benefits to the health and well-being of generations to come.
  
• Charlie Pratt — An self-taught American Indian contemporary bronze sculptor of Cheyenne and Arapahoe descent.
• Bob Montag — As a player for the Atlanta Crackers in 1954, Montag hit what he claimed was the longest home run in baseball history. It landed in a coal car passing on the railroad tracks beyond the right field fence at Ponce de Leon park. A few days later, the train had gone to Nashville, Tennessee and back. The conductor asked Montag to autograph the ball, which by that time had traveled more than 500 miles.
• William Henry Pratt — You know him by his stage name, Boris Karloff. His role as The Monster in the 1931 film, Frankenstein, made Karloff (not Pratt) a household name. Karloff was also a charter member of the Screen Actors' Guild.
• Jacob Sammuel Pratt, III — Egged on by a dare in 1993, this Kentucky native once fit three Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers into his mouth at the same time, then chewed and swallowed without a beverage.
• Sara Beth Montag — The most flexible girl in her high school, Sara Beth Montag sang her favorite song, Rhianna's Disturbia, in front of a crowd of 72 during last year's Houston, Texas Livestock Show and Rodeo. She won a 3rd Place trophy and a $25 gift certificate to Gabby's Ribs and BBQ's Telephone Road location.
  

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Just Trust Me

So I wasn't the first person to hear about Boulder-band 3Oh!3. By the time I arrived in the bubble town just northwest of Denver, the duo of Nathaniel Motte and Sean Foreman had been around for a few months and the buzz, albeit small, was growing. My friend dragged me to their first show at RailJam in the parking lot across the street from Half Fast Subs on Boulder's campus ghetto, the Hill. I'd imagine there were 50 or so people in the parking lot, but when 3Oh!3 came roaring out on stage in their wolf t-shirts dancing to their almost ridiculous music, the size of the audience didn't matter. Those kids exploded and I knew 3Oh!3 were going to be huge.

Now look at them. An MTV Spring Break appearance. A live performance on Jimmy Kimmel. The cover of Alternative Press (AP) not once, but twice in the past 6 months. Their single, "Don't Trust Me," is still killing it on the charts and has been remixed by Kid Cudi of "Day n' Night" fame. Word on the street (ok, so Twitter, but same thing) is that they've just recorded in the studio with Lil John. Yes, THAT Lil John. And no, the song has nothing to do with lollipops.

For those of you who know my past employment history (and we're only going back two years folks, so keep up) you've probably heard the story. In 2007 as an intern at a local magazine, I had pitched an article about 3Oh!3 to my editors, who, initially, loved the story idea. Two white boys from Boulder who are poised to be the next big thing in hip-hop/electronic music. I told my editor that I had exclusive access. I had met these dudes before (briefly, and they still couldn't pick me out of a line up) and they were from my Boulder hood. I had friends who knew friends who knew these dudes. I had dated a girl whose brother used to hang with them in High School. Sure they'd talk to me...

I was told to proceed with the story, and I did, in effect land one heck of a interview. We met in a park close to both of their houses in Boulder, Motte showing up early and Foreman rolling in a little late on his girlfriend's pink scooter. We spent the afternoon in the rain, talking shop, just a few months prior to Photofinish Records lighting their already massive fuse. I wrote what I thought to be a very good article. The editor who assigned it to me loved it. It was rewritten three times and ready to go. We had artwork. We had a publishing date in Januaray. Then a new editor strolled in December and said they story was too young. "Not our demographic," he said to us and killed the story completely.

I have always wanted to publish my 2007 article. I think it should be read by anyone who has any interest in the band and their persona. I tried in vain to pitch it to numerous publications, but unfortunately, by the time the article was blown out of the water, everyone and Helen Keller knew about these two white boys from Boulder, Colorado. "We've already got a 3Oh!3 article in the works," was my response from everyone.

So, here it is, for any 3Oh!3 fan out there who wants another article on their beloved band. But please understand, this was written in 2007, not yesterday, so if it seems a tad dated, you'll know why.

Holler 'Till You Pass Out - The Article

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Redefining an Area Code - 3Oh!3 and the Creation of a Cult Phenomenon

A gangly, pale-faced twenty-something paces with anticipation backstage at Denver’s Fillmore Auditorium. Between plunging his hands in and out of his pockets, 3Oh!3’s Nathaniel Motte adjusts, and then readjusts, the white cotton towel that’s wrapped around his neck. In between fidgets, he has neurotically unscrewed the caps of around twenty bottles of water, making sure each is ready for the instant he or his bandmate might need to chug some refreshment. Sean Foreman, the other half of Boulder’s emerging rap sensation, stands silently against a dimly lit hallway, watching tonight’s opener, a wanna-be female rapper named Lanz, finish up her less-than-memorable set.

3Oh!3 appear a bit nervous. The Fillmore, when sold out, fills to a standing capacity of 3,600 people, and is a daunting venue for many a national touring act. Forget, for a moment, the crystalline chandeliers that hang over the hardwood floors, making the venue itself look almost palatial. Disregard the photo-booth near the bar that is flashing visages of hip-hop legends TuPac and the Notorious BIG. Nevermind that ninety percent of the crowd is there to see Snoop Doggy Dog, tonight’s headliner. Keep in mind however, that this is the first time Motte and Foreman have ever played the Fillmore, and that their usual crowd of tattooed twenty-somethings, who normally come out in supportive droves, are nowhere to be seen. Peppered throughout the urban crowd are tiny collections of teenagers who occasionally hold up 3Oh!3’s mock gang sign (which is created by pressing together the index fingers and thumbs of both hands, creating an “O”, and then splaying one’s remaining three fingers out on both hands), but tonight those packs are far and few between.


 This isn’t the usual 3Oh!3 crowd. There are too many questioning faces and perplexed looks. Most of the Snoop obsessed audience has no idea what they’re about to experience. However, for those handful of kids who paid $35 to support their favorite local band, the opening notes of “Dance With Me” stir them into a frenzy. By the third song, 3Oh!3’s watershed anthem “Chokechain”, a mosh pit opens up on the left hand side of the stage. A moon-faced kid catches an elbow to his face and is sent sprawling. By the time security breaks up the action, Motte and Foreman look settled in and at almost at home.

BIGGER THAN BOULDER

We’ve planned to meet at Beach Park in Boulder, on the rainy Labor Day before 3Oh!3’s Fillmore performance. Motte explains that Foreman is running a bit late, but assures me that he should be here in the next few minutes. As Motte and I make small talk, Foreman rolls up on a scooter, quickly honking the horn acknowledging that he, in fact, sees us. Motte encourages him to drive up over the curb and into the park, and for a brief moment, it looks as if he may be considering it. Instead, Foreman flips a u-turn, and properly parks across the street. The look on my face must say it all: I’m a bit disappointed that he doesn’t rev that four-stroke engine, hop the curb, and start doing doughnuts. “He’d get in trouble,” Motte says in response. “It’s his girlfriend’s.”


 Over the past year, Foreman’s face has seen numerous styles of facial hair, but today he’s fully bearded, looking like the love child of Jeanine Garofalo and Grizzly Adams. Around his neck he’s wearing a compass that Motte quickly questions. “It’s so I don’t get lost,” says Foreman, which is perplexing because he’s lived in Boulder all his life. I’m about to ask what he means when Foreman holds it up just long enough for me to realize that the compass itself is broken. Like the origin of the band and it’s members, the medallion is completely tongue in cheek.


 Nathaniel Motte and Sean Foreman are obvious friends. The duo first caught wind of each other as high schoolers in Boulder where they both honed their skills in the area’s underground hip-hop scene. They didn’t actually meet until 4 years ago, when a fortunate union of fate and science found them both in a physics class at CU. They started collaborating immediately, writing songs in Foreman’s cat fur infested basement where Motte would set up his turntables and Foreman would freestyle over the eclectic beats. The two began to work together more often, coming up with “Say Dem Up” and “Neatfreak 47”, two staples of their current live act. “Nat produces all of the beats and I write the lyrics,” explains Foreman, “but it’s organic. If I don’t like something I’ll let Nat know, although, I’m usually wrong.”


 Since those basement days, the band’s genre bending sound has evolved into an almost unclassifiable fusion of rap, punk, and electronica. The music spills from a single turntable Motte sets up just offstage as the duo performs choreographed dance moves, taking up quite a bit of the sprawling Fillmore stage. Motte shakes so violently that at times he looks like an epileptic head banging at a Metallica concert. Foreman, on the other side of the stage, stops, drops to the ground, and begins to breakdance. Their energy is so infectious that by “Holler Till You Pass Out”, the band’s last song, there is a noticeable bounce to the crowd that wasn’t there before. Motte, noticing the change, jumps from the stage and stands up on the security fence, holding his microphone out to an audience that eagerly raps along. Half-an-hour ago Motte and Foreman looked intimidated by their surroundings, novices in the presence of hip-hop stardom, but as Motte hovers over the crowd they have just won over, 3Oh!3 look like rock stars.

BREAKING BIG

The Denver music scene today is reminiscent of Austin, Texas in the mid 90’s; a period that saw the emergence of the ever influential Spoon and the long overdue national recognition of the Butthole Surfers. As the self-proclaimed “Music Capital of the World” began to dry up in the early part of 2001, a result of .com millionaires buying up music venues and turning them into low overhead college bars, industry executives began looking elsewhere for new talent. Local Denver acts such as Born In The Flood, Nathan and Stephen, The Flobots, and The life there is... are beginning to turn corporate heads, but none as fast as 3Oh!3. The frenzy that surrounds their local shows is impossible to ignore. Since they first appeared in 2006, they’ve sold out the Fox Theater in Boulder the last three times they’ve headlined, and the duo now draw an average of six to seven hundred people at each venue they play. “At this point, there really is no telling how far they’ll go. They control their own destiny,” says Mike Barsch of Soda Jerk Productions, who has booked 10 shows for the band. “Personally, I think they put on one hell of a concert.”
 “It’s flattering,” says Foreman of the immediate success the band has seen. “It started as a basement creation, a sort of Frankenstein-ian monster. We never had any aspirations when we made those first couple of tracks together.”


“People give us a lot of static for having a younger fan base,” says Motte. “But these are the kids that show up and buy two t-shirts and a CD, then rip them apart going nuts, sweating, and dancing up in the front. It’s great to be supported by an audience like that, regardless of what anyone says.”


The impact the band has had on the Colorado scene has been staggering. Sarah Finger, booking agent for The Fox recalls the band’s first gig in 2006 when, an hour before the concert the theater had only sold 6 tickets. “We were all a little worried,” says Finger. But as door time crept closer, the ticket office found themselves swarmed with kids, and suddenly more than three-hundred tickets were gone. “That big of a walk-up doesn’t happen very often,” explains Finger. “I think my mouth was wide open in astonishment the whole night.”


 The typical 3Oh!3 crowd is a difficult one to categorize, something the band is very proud of. A majority of the audience is the emo “scene kid”, clad in skin tight jeans, and hair mussed in such a way to make it look as if it didn’t take some serious time to style. Then there’s a handful of people just like me, the Boulder music aficionado, the college graduate, the guy who has never outgrown his love of hip-hop or the underground local music scene. We rally together, the scenester and myself, to pay homage to two minds who are creating a style of music that has never been heard before. Together, we bounce to Motte’s beats, and scream rap Foreman’s lyrics, trying desperately to hold onto a band we know is too important to keep secret for long.
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Beat It

A new acquaintance, R, asked me this morning if I had heard about the passing of Michael Jackson. Of course I had. It was bigger than Iran. But then R asked me if I was sad about the whole thing. If I was having emotional feelings toward a man I had never met. For a second, I pondered. How did I feel about the passing of the King of Pop?

"Honestly," I replied. "I didn't really think about it."

That wasn't entirely true, so first, let me apologize to R for being so short. I did think about MJ's passing. I actually thought about it a lot. But not in the way one would imagine. In all honesty, the first thing I thought about when I heard of Jackson's passing...was...my mother.

I thought back to 1982. I thought about Albuquerque, New Mexico and our little house on the hill. I thought about a power outage while watching Entertainment Tonight on our 13inch screen while eating macaroni and cheese that we cooked with our gas stove. I remember mom cranking up a battery powered tape player and popping Thriller in. "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" blared. We danced throughout the candlelit house, oblivious to the storm that had taken down our power lines. It is one of my fondest memories. So, R, if you asked me again if I had emotional feelings toward the King of Pop's death yesterday I suppose you could say yes. But they are not feelings of remorse or devastation. I wasn't excited about the next Michael Jackson album, nor, had he been a transformative part of my youth (a la Kurt Cobain). But he was a memory, many memories actually, of my love for my mother.

I feel for MJ. I do. I feel for many stars of both the stage and screen who for them, the burden of fame became just too much to bear. From Chris Farley and Jim Morrison, to yes, even Lindsay Lohan, the bitch that is American popular culture has no attention span. Like the burst of a handful of Pop Rocks, American fame is fleeting. It uses those in the limelight without remorse. And then, when Robert Downey, Jr. turns to the needle, or Brittany is so fucking high she's showing her vagina to the force-fed gluttonous paparazzi, we laugh. We ridicule. We despise.

The Michael Jackson I knew growing up had long-since become an American joke. A horribly in-debt, pill-popping, plastic-surgery-addled, boy-loving, son-dangling, washed-up ex musician whose last hit, 1991's "Black or White," has become a metaphor for his freakish appearance. I can't feel sorry for the passing of a man who gave so much to the world, only to have his very essence ridiculed on every news outlet. From CNN and NBC to schoolyard jokes and Saturday Night Live, the man formerly known as the King of Pop had become a side-show. He most assuredly knew what a farce his life had become. I cannot feel sorry for that man.

Instead, I believe in my heart that the Michael Jackson we knew and loved, the Michael Jackson who had our heads bopping at a year old to, "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough," is still alive. When "Billie Jean" rocks at your 4th of July party, when "Rock With You" spins at your local bar, when "The Girl Is Mine," makes you fondly remember that first kiss in elementary school, Michael Jackson is alive and well in our hearts and in our minds.

This is the first in a (hopefully) daily effort to bring you an honest approach to Pop Culture news. The flash of E! News, the dirt-stained lapels of TMZ, the potty-mouthed hypocritical Perez Hilton...it all disgusts me. Yesterday, the passing of a legend reminded me of why I do what I do. Why I think my voice matters. It's because, once, long ago, art meant something. It wasn't manufactured and disposable. It was what connected our memories of the passing years and carries, for me, much more than the price of admission. Read more!