Hey idiot, why aren't you listening to the Hold Steady?

By Dan Nied

First of all, no I don’t think the new Nickelback is awesome. And why are you still singing the praises of Fred Durst? That guy hasn’t been relevant in years and hasn’t been good in, well, forever.

You say you like to rock, but you haven’t offered any tangible evidence to suggest you know the first thing about rocking. Yes, you like Weezer, but Weezer, while still great, hasn’t really rocked for a few albums now. Sad thing is, you just have no clue what you’re doing.

Because if you did, idiot, you’d be listening to the Hold Steady, or as I like to call them, the greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll band operating today.

Consider the Hold Steady a rocking starter kit. Pick up the new album “Heaven is Whenever” and you’ll know immediately that you like the hard-driving deluge of Tad Kubler’s guitar, and singer Craig Finn’s gritty vocals that suggest he’s been around the block a few times.

But then you’ll pick up on some of Finn’s lyrics and realize that this is the modern-day incarnation of Springsteen, Tom Waits and every other blue-collar, hard-scrabble musician inspired by hopeless stories.

If the “Weekenders” line “She said the theme of this party’s the Industrial Age... And you came in dressed like a train wreck” doesn’t instantly tell you a story, then maybe Nickelback really is for you.

And then you’ll check out a picture of the band and realize that, like Weezer, these are some hard-rocking dorks that just love making and performing music. Go ahead and check out this clip and you’ll see Finn experiencing more joy on stage than anyone in their mid-30s has a right to.

There is no glamor or pomp to this band. Their job, simply, is to rock, and they do it to perfection.

And that’s why you need to ditch your radio-inspired “rock” crap and get in touch with a truly organic brand of musical love known as The Hold Steady.

Note: "Hey Idiot" is part of a series I've been doing for The Man Faq, which is in no way a bad web site. In fact, you should probably check them out.

Image of Craig Finn from http://alloveralbany.com

My brief brush with Ernie's voice

By Dan Nied

I don’t have an Ernie Harwell story.

Don’t get me wrong, there were those summer nights I fell asleep with the radio on, hoping to hear Ernie melodically describe a Kirk Gibson homer to tie it up in the 8th. And there were the countless times before my 10th birthday that I wondered aloud how Ernie knew that the guy who caught that foul ball was from Wixom or Rochester Hills or Dearborn. And when my stepfather suggested that Ernie was simply making up the town, I sided with Ernie.

My memories of Ernie are the same as every kid who grew up in Detroit. But I can’t speak first-hand on his personality or his relations with fans.

So no, I will not write a eulogy on Ernie Harwell. I have nothing new to say.

But I will share one of my regrets in life. As a 16-year old I somehow scored a two-day gig spotting for the Seattle Mariners broadcasters when they were in town for a series against the Tigers. The work was easy, just reminding them who was on base, what the count was, who was throwing in the bullpen, etc. In the Tiger Stadium media room before the game, I plopped down $5 for dinner, and took a seat with my back to the room.

I was out of my element there. In my future were countless press boxes and media rooms. But this time, I was a virgin, afraid to make eye contact with anyone, lest I be tossed out of this secret club for some odd reason.

I was eating my meal when, suddenly, the sound boomed over me from about 15-feet behind. It was the sound of Ernie Harwell’s voice. And in a crowded, loud room, Ernie’s molasses inflection was all I heard.

My ears perked up and I sat upright in my seat. For a second I forgot where I was and wondered what Ernie Harwell was doing anywhere near me. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel worthy to be in the same place as Ernie. It was that I was shocked that this man who did so much to shape my youth was actually an existing, touchable figure that sat just a few feet away.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure someone hadn’t left a radio on. And sure enough, there he was holding court.

I thought hard about saying hello. Yearned for a chance to meet this man whose words constructed my impression of my heroes.

But as a nervous 16-year old already certain he was trespassing, I decided to play it covert and just drink in every bit of his conversation as a third party.

I wish now I had gone over to Ernie, if only to be the 1,000,000th fan to tell him how much he contributed to my love of baseball. I wish now that I had looked into his eyes. I value expressions of pure joy and I can’t imagine anyone experienced more joy in life than Ernie Harwell.

But I still feel privileged just to have heard his voice without the filter of radio waves. Ernie may have been discussing the pork loin they served that night or his daily exercise routine, I don’t really remember. But just a chance to hear that voice in real time, without interference, was enough to make the moment special.

Maybe, as I listened to Ernie talk, I was taken back a few short years to those nights that I wanted so badly to hear him exclaim a Tigers comeback. And maybe I fantasized about one day being the gentleman from Grosse Pointe who caught that foul ball.

Funny thing, when I went back to the media room the next night, Ernie wasn’t there. But I did sit at a table with Al Kaline, the Hall-of-Famer who played for the Tigers for 22 years and who happened to be the team’s television announcer from my youth. I listened to Kaline speak intelligently about baseball and give his scouting report on then-Tigers rookie Jeff Weaver (“He’s been our stopper lately,” Kaline said.).

And while that brush with Kaline certainly is memorable, it pales in comparison to simply hearing Ernie talk from a distance. Why? I never saw Kaline play. I never saw him when he was the best at something. And even though I watched Kaline on television more than I listened to Ernie on the radio, I always heard Ernie at his best.

Now, a day after Ernie’s death at age 92, I think back to the favorite Tigers of my youth. I understand that Alan Trammell could not be Alan Trammell, and Kirk Gibson could not be Kirk Gibson -- at least not in the superhuman ways I saw them -- without Ernie.