This Breakfast Club Makes Me Want to Puke

I saw this new JC Penny commercial four times last night, and each time I just about hurled up my dinner. This ad disturbs me on so many levels I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll just dive right in:

1. Memo to corporate America: Please stop co-opting my childhood to sell your stupid crap.

It’s already bad enough that I can hardly listen to The Who without seeing scenes from CSI: Whatever in my head (nothing like some bad David Caruso acting to ruin a rousing “Won’t Get Fooled Again”). But now JC Penny has to go and destroy one of my favorite movies of all time–The Breakfast Club–in an attempt to sell back-to-school clothes. And, yes–I’m not so naive that I don’t realize that the artists are culpable here as well–The Who’s songs don’t just magically appear over the credits of a TV show, and I’m assuming that some licensing agreement was made in order to recreate scenes from The Breakfast Club (although, the scenes aren’t recreated exactly as they are in the movie and for my money, the whole thing falls under the definition of a parody, thus making this train wreck absolutely legal regardless of permissions).

But while parody is one thing (I love it when shows like Family Guy make fun of ’80s institutions, because it’s like a little wink, wink, nudge, nudge to their audience. Plus, it’s usually hysterical), taking iconic songs and films from the past and using them to market a TV show or sell clothes always seems a little…well…gross to me somehow. In fact, I’m usually less inclined to watch whatever show or buy whatever product because I’m just rubbed so completely the wrong way.

So if somebody decides to start using “Hungry Like the Wolf” to sell popcorn, then I guess I’m fucked because two of my favorite things will be ruined for me.

2. Just who the hell is the audience for this thing anyway?

When the time came to buy fall clothes in my house, my mom and I (and later, once I started working, just me) would go to the mall and we’d just veer wherever I found clothes that suited whatever I thought was cool at the time (and then she’d say, “You’re not planning on buying that, are you?” or “I am not buying that for you.” And then we’d fight and then I’d end up with clothes I totally hated and people would laugh at me. But I digress.). But regardless of who was actually purchasing the clothes, the point here is that I was the consumer–I was the one making the decisions about what stores to enter and what clothes to look at, at least initially.

And as today’s teens have more money than ever (whether earned or given to them by their parents), they have awesome power as consumers. So why did JC Penny choose to ape a movie that was released before any of them were born (and let’s just have a moment of silence over the fact that The Breakfast Club was first released nearly twenty-five years ago. Sigh.)? While I know that the film has endured in the pop culture cannon, would most tweens and teens get the reference (and I know some particularly savvy kids probably would, but what about the kids who are ingesting a daily diet of Hannah Montana or Lil’ Wayne or Fall Out Boy or the Jonas Brothers or whatever travesty is coming down the pike these days. Would they get it?)? And even if they get it, will it make them want to rush headlong into a JC Penny for some cool threads?

I thought that perhaps the target audience for the ad was maybe the parents of the kids rather than the kids themselves (and let’s have another moment of silence to observe the fact that people my age are actually old enough to have kids in high school). But again, while the parents may control the purse strings, the kids are the ones who are actually yanking the purse strings around the mall. And I could be misremembering things here, but I don’t recall my mother and I ever entering a particular store on the strength of a commercial that mimicked scenes from Rebel Without a Cause  or Tammy.

So, um, yeah–the audience thing baffles me.

3. And don’t even get me started on the kids in this commercial. Oh, wait…here I go…

The point of The Breakfast Club was that regardless of whatever high school stereotype we exemplified on the outside–the brain, the jock, the princess, the criminal, or the basket case–we were all dealing with the same emotional black holes on the inside. I always thought that the message was why the film became such a classic. I mean, what teenager can’t relate to that sentiment? And I know that personally, thinking about the film helped me get through those rough patches in high school when I thought that the popular kids couldn’t possibly understand anything that my friends and I were about–I’d think back on the movie and try to remember that deep down, we were all just human beings of about the same age, trying to deal with the same shit in our own ways.

Um, so thanks, JC Penny, for ruining the message of the film for me. As you can see if you watch the clip, not only are the kids in this Breakfast Cluster-Fuck the same on the inside, they’re the same on the outside, too, all of them looking like the preppy spawn of princess Claire Standish and jock Andrew Clark. The girl who gets to recreate the iconic Allison (the basket case) scene of her pouring pixie stix onto a sandwich made of bread and Cap’n Crunch is wearing a pink dress. A pink dress, for the love of all that’s holy. Somewhere, Ally Sheedy is probably crying. I know I am, anyway. And nowhere in this ad does there appear to be a nerdy Brian or a rebellious Bender (and no, young man who thrusts your fist in the air as you are leaving the school at the end of the commercial–you are no John Bender).  All of these kids are as nicely-dressed (of course–it’s a clothing ad) and freshly-scrubbed as your local church youth group. John Bender wouldn’t have hesitated to put a cigarette out on one of their foreheads.

So JC Penny takes a film with a moving message about getting beyond typical teenage alienation and twists that into “Buy our clothes, and you’ll look cool just like these kids.” Barf.

As it’s July, I’m assuming I’ll have to either endure this insult of a commercial until late August or early September or stop watching TV altogether, and as option #2 isn’t likely, I guess I’ll just have to let this ad stoke my anger. And I haven’t even touched on the awful remake of Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget About Me” by “pop-punk” outfit New Found Glory (“Pop-punk.” Bleh. I’m still waiting for the day Johnny Rotten blows snot on the New Found Glorys and Avril Lavignes of the world and they run away crying). Nor have I touched on the fact that the Shermer High School in the ad doesn’t look like the Shermer High School in the movie (which was actually two different suburban Chicago high schools in the original film, because as Jay reminds us in Dogma, “There is no Shermer, Illinois.”). There’s just not enough space in one blog posting to go off in detail on everything that offends me about this commercial.

But at least they tried to get the old-school Illinois licesnse plates right. So boo-yah to you, JCP, for making the effort.

What You Don’t Get for Your Ninety-Nine Cents…

Jill Sobule (of the old-school “I Kissed a Girl” fame) has a point in this recent Huffington Post blog entry: what’s missing when you download a song/album from iTunes or some other music service is all that cool information you would normally get if you bought the CD and read the booklet. Who played drums on Track 5? Whom would the artist like to thank? Little tidbits like that just aren’t there in most cases (although I hasten to add that many artists have now made digital booklets available for download, but you usually have to buy the whole album in order to get those).

From an artists’ standpoint, I can see why Sobule and others miss the booklet–that’s where the credit lies. All the studio musicians and lesser-known band members’ work, while still shining in the sound of the song itself, doesn’t get any recognition in the fixed form of a text. And how many fans are going to be interested and thoughtful enough to do the research to find out who played what on which song?

Well, me, actually–although I’d rather someone save me the trouble. I’m one of those dorky people who sits down and reads the entire CD booklet when she buys a new CD because I want to know everything I can (Did you know that Dave Grohl plays drums on Pete Yorn’s “For Us” from the disc Nightcrawler? Do you even know who Pete Yorn is? Because if you don’t, you should). As a recent immigrant to iTunes, I hadn’t even realized I was missing studio credits and liner notes because most of what I was downloading were “replacement CDs”–works by artists I’d bought years ago when albums were still on cassette. It’s only lately when I’ve downloaded a full CD that was released a few years ago that I’m only just now getting around to purchasing (now that I can do so with a click of a mouse, considering I live in a town with one small record store), that I’ve started to realize what Sobule bemoans in her blog.

Maybe it’s only music trivia dorks like me who miss the booklet, and maybe it’s folks like me who will eventually help to keep the physical CD alive. I only hope that more artists catch on to the digital booklet phenomenon. Because some of us actually do care that Dave Matthews’ solo album was recorded at Stone Gossard’s studio in Seattle and to whom Radiohead dedicated In Rainbows.

Get Well Soon, Leroi Moore

What with all the celebrity babies being born and summer blockbuster movies being released, some stories end up as not even a blip on the entertainment radar. But to millions of us, the following actually matters:

DMB saxophonist Leroi Moore was readmitted to the University of Virginia Health System due to complications stemming from his injuries in a June 30 ATV accident on his farm (for a complete list of updates on his condition, scroll down the “Front Page News” section on The Official Dave Matthews Band Website). Sources close to the band have confirmed that Leroi suffered broken ribs and a punctured lung. Bela Fleck saxophonist Jeff Coffin has been filling in for Leroi during subsequent dates on DMB’s current summer tour.

While the band has yet to give any indication as to the current severity of Roi’s condition, the fact that he was recovering at home and then had to be readmitted to the hospital certainly doesn’t sound good (although the band hasn’t cancelled any dates, so I take that as a sign that Roi’s condition isn’t life-threatening). I join with the rest of the DMB fan community in wishing Roi all the best in his recovery.

This may sound stupid to some people, but as the Dave Matthews Band has gotten me through some rough patches in my life, I feel a little as though one of my own family members is in pain. So as a tribute to Roi here’s a link to a vid of the band doing one of my favorite songs–”Loving Wings”–which is a true Roi showcase. He comes in at about the 4:00 mark to tear some shit up.

Get well soon, Leroi!

Check Out Nom de Style

As I feel it’s my obligation to spread the joy of hearing a great new band, I give you Nom de Style:

www.myspace.com/nomdestyle

Full disclosure: Kyle Martin is my brother-in-law. And as he’s helped me pimp my writing on several occasions, I feel that the only appropriate sisterly thing to do would be to return a pimping solid.

So if you plan on being in the Quad Cities, IL/IA area any time in the near future, look them up. Or, if you’re willing to pay their travel expenses, I’m sure they’d be happy to play wherever you want them to.

Yes, Virginia–You Really Did See The Police Live

Today marks the first anniversary of a day that completely changed my life.

On July 14, 2007, I saw The Police live at Churchill Downs in Louisville, KY (that’s The Police as in the band and not the po-po, for anyone who’s confused).

I’ll be the first person to admit that I’m a little overdramatic when it comes to music, and live music in particular. Many people have had to live through my “this concert changed my life” stories. But in the case of this particular live show, I’m totally not bullshitting that this concert changed my life (and I’m usually not bullshitting regardless) because it righted one of the great wrongs of my childhood.

When the The Police’s Synchonicity tour came to St. Louis, I was twelve years old and had never been to a concert before (unless one counts seeing Tanya Tucker at Six Flags when I was six. And I don’t). The Police had ascended to the level of My Favorite Band on the strength of “Every Breath You Take,” which was not only a great song but also featured a video in which Sting looked so hot he managed to single-handedly trigger my entrance into puberty. Seriously. I pinpoint the moment at which Sting looks directly into the camera, the light switches from one side of his face to the other, and he pleads “Oh, can’t you seeeeee/You belong to meeeeee” as the instant I started down the road to becoming a woman. Honest to God.

So not seeing Sting live (oh, and Stewart and Andy, too) was simply not an option as far as I was concerned. By the time the St. Louis show was announced, I was well on my way to wearing out my cassette copy of Synchronicity and had purchased and was regularly listening to the rest of their back catalogue. I was fired up and ready to go.

All that stood in my way were my parents.

The arguments came in waves. You’re too young to go to a concert, they said. And, no, we don’t want to take you, they said. Too loud, too awful, they said. And, yes, we realize that you love them, they said, but the answer is simply no.

And then came the remark that was supposed to make me feel better–”The next time they tour, you’ll be older. You can go then.”

Well, we all know how that ended up.

After the demise of The Police, I comforted myself with Sting’s solo projects and concert tours, mixed in with a light dusting of Stewart Copeland’s and Andy Summers’ post-Police ventures (and just in case anyone thinks I’m slighting them, let me recommend two Stewart Copeland bands–Animal Logic and Oysterhead. And Andy’s One Train Later is not just one of the best rock memoirs I’ve ever read–it’s one of the best memoirs I’ve ever read, period.). Ironically, most of the times I’ve seen Sting live I’ve been with my dad, who decided that the music wasn’t so bad after all. And Sting has a penchant for taking off his shirt in concert, so I always left shows satisfied and happy on several levels. 

But, still, a void existed in my heart. I had missed my shot at seeing The Police live. And over the years, despite hundreds of other decidedly crappier bands getting back together and doing the reunion tour thing (seriously–how many times is a band like Poison allowed to get back together before people stop caring?), the members of The Police indicated in interview after interview that a redux was unlikely.

But then, last year, magic happened. First, the boys gave us that moment of togetherness at the Grammys (and then they left, subjecting viewers to nearly three non-stop hours of Mary J. Blige and Justin Timberlake). Then the reunion tour was announced, followed closely by my announcement to my husband that I didn’t care if we had to take out another mortgage on our newly-purchased house and sell every vital organ we had between us, we were going to see The Police. And as he has great affection for both our house and our vital organs, he agreed.

So one year ago tonight, we sat seventh row left at the second concert ever at Churchill Downs. When people ask me what it felt like to see Sting, Stewart, and Andy walk out on stage together after so many years, I liken the experience to having grown up to find out that Santa Claus really does exist. All those years, you’d let yourself be convinced that he was just a myth, just a sweet silly memory from your childhood, and then, suddenly, you’re in your (ahem!) late thirties and there he is, big as life, standing right in front of you when you never thought he would be.

But The Police were better than Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all rolled into one. Halfway through the opening song, “Message in a Bottle,” I was totally overcome and got tears in my eyes. I shit you not.

The show was a parade of hits, which I expected, having heard tapes of previous shows. So the setlist didn’t change my life, and I didn’t get to hear some of the album cuts I might have back in 1983 or earlier. But the setlist wasn’t the point. The point was finally getting to watch The Police–Sting, Stewart, and Andy–plow through those songs. Together. The point was dancing and smiling and screaming along to every last word. The point was meeting a guy who drove all over the Midwest to see them three times in one week back in 1983. The point was that, while he didn’t take his shirt off, Sting walked over in front of my section and blew me a kiss (yes, me–and apparently every other woman sitting in my section, if what I read on The Police fan boards in the following days was true).

So, in the end, the concert was every bit as wonderful as I’d hoped the Synchronicity show would have been when I was twelve (and possibly better, seeing as how now I’m old enough to drink beer). And when it was over, as much as I wanted to run to a computer to buy tickets to another show in order to live it all again, I restrained myself (I refer you to the mentions of my husband and our new home above for at least two reasons why I exercised restraint). While I could certainly have gone to every remaining show on the reunion tour and been perfectly happy, I also knew I could be perfectly happy with just one–just that one perfect show. That one perfect show that went back and erased years of moping around, filled with gloom and doom that I’d blown my only shot to see my favorite band. That one perfect show that made the twelve year old inside of me very, very happy.